Especially someone as proud and tough as Claire.
Ever since I woke up, I’ve been doing some thinking. Claire asking about my sister and her farm was bothering me, and as we worked to clear limbs, I realized I’m needing to let my guilt go about the farm. Need to believe in my sister, I do. Believe she knows what she’s doing. And that if she ever needs me to lend a hand, she’ll know to reach out.
I pour trail mix into a bowl and settle on the couch. God, it hurts to just not help, but I’m needing to do this. For myself and my sister.
But thinking is not the same as doing, now is it? I pull up flights for Denver and use the money I would have sent Siobhan for Claire’s flight, as well as one from there to Sarasota, date of return flexible. Typing in my card number makes guilt flood me anew that I’m using the money earmarked for the farm. Which—fuck—confirms I’m in the right of it. Confirms I wasn’t helping Siobhan for the right reasons.
The confirmation screen pops up when the bedroom door opens.
“I’ve good news,” I say, closing my laptop.
She looks at me with her eyebrows up.
“Airport’s been cleared for flights.”
“Oh. That’s…great.” She’s not looking all that happy.
Thinking it’s worry for her mam and how she’ll get there, I point to the laptop. “Got you a flight to Denver, yeah.” Jaysus. That felt good to say.
“You…wait, what?”
Tension crackles in the air, and I let my hand drop. “To go visit your mam? Didn’t you say she’s in hospital in Denver?”
She marches into the living room. “You bought me a ticket to Denver?”
“Yeah, sure. What else would I be doing? I figured you’ll be wanting to leave as soon as you can, so I booked the first flight.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “What the hell? Why would you do that?”
I wince and fall back against the couch. Bollocks. I should’ve thought this through. If she’s too proud to admit she’s short of cash, she’ll not be wanting to accept something she sees as charity.
I wave a no-big-deal. “Just thought I’d help out a little. A gift, yeah.”
“A gift?” Her voice rises on the end.
Shite. I’m making a right hash of things and sounding as if I’m paying her as a thank-you for the sex. Shut yer gob, Conor.
She quick-steps to the kitchen in a huff, stops, and marches over to the window and stares out. She rounds on me looking cheesed off enough to skin me alive. Anger blares from her eyes. Her chest is heaving as if she’s trying to catch her breath. “You have no right to control my life and what I will and won’t do.”
Fuck—what? “Control your life?” I leap off the couch. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. I told you last night I didn’t want to go, and you just ignore that?”
Jaysus, she’s lost her head, and this is a right bags now. This is why I’m no bloody good at relationships. Too many minefields, and I’m too dense to scout them out. “Yeah, you said you’d think about it, and I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“That maybe you…” Fuck. I’ll just have to say it, because I’m already in deep. “I was thinking you might be hedging on going because you couldn’t afford the price of it.”
She looks up at the ceiling. “Jesus.”
Now I’m pissed off. I was trying to help, and it fucking backfires on me. Part of me can see there’s obviously a different reason she’s not wanting to go other than money. But that part is swamped by feeling utterly gobsmacked.
Claire
I’m standing here shaking as memories cascade over me, one after another. Memories of all the times my mom or ex-boyfriend tried to control me, completely overriding my wishes. Why did I think this time would be different? I open myself up, make myself vulnerable, and it’s like boom—everyone thinks I’m a doormat or that I haven’t spoken or that I don’t know my own mind.
“You have no room to talk, Conor. You won’t even be honest with yourself about why you work so hard to help your sister.”
He takes a step back. “Yeah, I’m realizing that. It’s why I bought you a ticket.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I’m using the money I would have sent her, yeah.”
“So now you’re just transferring your superhero-save-the-day attention to me? I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help.”
A pained look crosses his face, and part of me cringes, because I know he’s all about helping, but I’m worried about my walls crumbling for him.
“Yeah, sure, but…” He scrapes his hand through his hair and pulls.
“You’re just transferring. Don’t you see? You help her out of some guilt you feel for leaving the farm, leaving Ireland. What do you feel guilty about with me, huh?”
His hands come down, his brow furrowing and his gaze narrowing. “What the bleeding hell? You’ve got a maggoting idea there, you have.”
“I know you feel guilt about your family farm. It comes off you in waves whenever you talk about it.”
“You might have the right of that, but I’m not helping you out of some flaming sense of guilt. You’re out there.”
I clamp my lips shut. Maybe I have crossed a line, but I feel hemmed in. Can’t he see he’s trying to micromanage me like he does his sister?
“Thank you, Conor, but I can manage fine on my own.” I can’t follow that with Always have, which does feel like the next natural line, but that’s part of the problem. I haven’t. And I got really sick.
I slip into my room and pull up my cell. The next flight available to Sarasota isn’t until 8:27 that night. Ugh. A little message icon shows that I have an email. I pull it up, and it’s from Delta, with the itinerary shared with me from Conor when he booked the ticket for Denver.
He pokes his head in, his face grim. His duffel bag’s over his shoulder. “I’m taking off, yeah. I’ll see you in Sarasota, Claire.” His voice is flat, devoid of all his playful charm. He looks as if he can’t wait to leave.
“You’re leaving?”
“My flight’s in two hours.”
“Gah. They must have filled that plane. The next one to Sarasota isn’t until tonight.”
He just looks at me and nods. And without another word, he pulls his head back and shuts the door.
As soon as I hear the outer door shut too, and I know I’m fully alone, a weird ache squeezes my chest. What the hell? Am I already missing him? Already missing the connection we briefly shared?
But that doesn’t matter. While it’s hard finding the right person that I’m attracted to, I can’t be with someone who’ll steamroll right over me.
My throat tightens as I slip off the bed and wander into the living room and see the evidence that yes, we hung out here and had a fantastic time, but that time is gone. He’s gone. This was just a side road away from our regular lives.
We had fun, but it’s over.
It’ll be awkward at the league get-togethers, but we can be mature about it. I pace the room, excess energy coursing through me. When I see the bathroom door, I stiffen and step haltingly there as a need to purge hits me.