“Four walls and a roof, mostly,” she said. But when she walked inside, she realized there really wasn’t much more than that.
No, that wasn’t true. He had a sofa and a television and a small two-seater kitchen table, but that was pretty much it. The television was tuned to the local news, though it was muted, with closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A heavily made-up anchorwoman spoke animatedly into the camera about a crime in a neighboring community. A fluorescent bulb hung over the kitchen sink, casting the rest of the space into a maze of shadows. No pictures hung on the walls, no books anywhere, no knickknacks.
Irish noticed her looking around. “I told you there wasn’t much. I haven’t lived here long, so . . ”
She smiled. “It smells nice, though. Like apples and cinnamon. Baking?”
“Yeah, right.” He pulled mugs out of a cabinet and gave her a wry glance. “I literally plugged in an air freshener the minute I hung up the phone. How do you take your coffee? And keep in mind that I only have milk and maybe a few Splenda packets if you’re lucky.”
“Just milk is fine.” She eased into one of the chairs at the table. Almost immediately, something alive wound around her ankles, and she gasped.
A small, orange tabby cat looked up at her and meowed.
Irish looked over. “Snap your fingers at him if he’s bothering you. The cat’s on a hair trigger.”
“He’s not a bother.” She trailed her fingers along the back of the animal’s head and got a prrrrow in response. “What’s his name?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Cat.”
“Original.”
“I picked him up as a stray when I lived in Chicago.” Irish picked up the mugs and joined her at the table. “Never got around to naming him. He’s never seemed to mind.”
“You don’t strike me as a cat person.”
“I’m not. But sometimes life sends things our way for a reason.”
She mock gasped. “Did you get that off a fortune cookie?”
He smiled. “Funny.” He paused and wrapped his hands around his own mug. His expression went serious. “What’s up, Blondie?”
A hundred things. A thousand. But now that she was sitting here with a—with a what? A friend? It felt like such a foreign concept. But now that she was sitting here with an audience, she couldn’t find the words. “Nothing.”
“I don’t think you’d be here for nothing.” He paused and turned his mug in circles. Waiting.
Hannah stared into her coffee, inhaling the familiar scent.
She had no idea what she was doing here.
After a moment, she pushed the mug away. “I’m sorry, Irish. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
He put a hand over hers before she could stand up. “Hannah. Stop. You’re not a bother.”
She stared at his hand where it rested over hers. He had strong hands, warm yet rough from work. It didn’t feel like he was hitting on her. It felt . . . supportive.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. “It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it.”
So she did. All of it. Everything her father had said, even the bits about her mother leaving. Everything Michael had said, including the parts that didn’t make sense. Irish was a good listener, and he kept quiet while she talked. He stared at his coffee as if he was taking it all in.
By the time she finished, the cat was in his lap, and her coffee had gone cold.
“Wow,” he said. “It has been a long day.”
“I still can’t believe I woke up in the hospital with Michael this morning. That feels like it happened weeks ago.”
Irish didn’t say anything, but he was studying her.
“What?” she said. “If you have any thoughts, feel free to share them, because I’m not sure what to think anymore.”
He winced. “I don’t want to throw my hat in the ring with the rest of the men trying to control you, but it sounds like both your father and this Michael guy agree on one thing, and maybe you shouldn’t ignore it.”
“You mean staying away from him?”
Irish raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Don’t worry,” she said, scowling. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to be avoiding each other regardless.”
Irish tapped his fingers on the table and didn’t say anything.
“I can feel you thinking,” she said. “Come on, out with it.”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It sounds like you’re determined to show them you don’t need them. I don’t know about Michael, but I’m sure your dad knows what you’re capable of.”
She frowned. “I have a pretty good idea what he thinks I’m capable of.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
This felt painfully personal, but it was easier to share secrets in the shadowed darkness of Irish’s quiet apartment. Her voice dropped. “He’s never forgiven me for having James.”
“Do you really think that’s true?”
“I know it’s true. He practically didn’t speak to me for the entire time I was pregnant.” But now that she was saying that, she thought back to the exchange with her father at the police station.
You’re impossible to talk to.