Breakaway (39 page)

“He’s on a different level than I am now.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “That’s rubbish.”

“Don’t tell me he hasn’t had women like this fallin’ at his feet for years.”

“Look, Er: the man’s not a priest. I’m sure he had a few good tumbles while you two were split. But that’s all they were: tumbles. All he’s ever wanted was you. He told me that. Even when you were apart, he thought about you endlessly. He knew he fucked up. It just took him a while to admit it to himself.

“Fix it,” Jake urged. “In your gut, you know he’s not lyin’. Don’t let some crazy notion you’ve got in your head wreck it all. Go talk to him.”

“Right, so we agree: from here on out, nothin’ but trust.”

Erin twined her fingers tighter through Rory’s. “Agreed.”

She’d felt a right twit going back to him, having to apologize for her assumption that the minute he saw a sophisticated, available woman, he’d jump at the chance. More than her lack of trust, which was insulting to him, it showed how immature she could still be, and how inadequate she still felt, despite proclaiming otherwise. She knew part of it had to do with those last few years, but it was wrong to blame it all on him.

“I can’t believe how hot it is tonight.”

They were lying on a blanket beneath a canvas of stars that looked freshly painted: the sky was as black as spilled ink, the stars sharp and bright as fine crystal.
Soaking it all in
, Erin thought.
There are couples all over Ireland doing what we are tonight, relishing the solitude and beauty, the perfect atmosphere it creates for unhurried talk and ease.

She was bursting to tell him the good news. Rory was on his back, his fingers laced behind his head, gazing skyward peacefully.

“Rory, I’ve got some important news.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Yeah?”

“I’ve gotten an internship offer at the Guggenheim in New York. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s a start.”

Rory broke into a delighted grin. “I’m so proud of you. You were afraid to do it, but you took the leap anyway. Not everyone has the bollocks to do that, love.”

“I know. But there’s nothing in life that says just because you worked your arse off, things are going to go your way.”

“No, there isn’t. That’s called justice, and unfortunately, it doesn’t always seem to exist.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “But justice or not, I promise you our lives will be good. I promise.”

“Rainbows and unicorns all around, is it?” Erin teased.

“Only in the baby’s room.”

Erin’s eyes filled up quickly. “To hear you say that…”

“We always said we wanted kids.”

“We did. I’m just glad you’ve not changed your mind.”

“The only thing I’ve changed my mind about is being a self-absorbed prick.”

Erin turned onto her back, her gaze skipping from star to star as she held Rory’s hand tightly. “Tell me again about New York. About the flat.”

“It’s a bit small, but we can get a bigger one. It’s high up enough that we won’t hear the noise on the street, and we’ve got gorgeous views of the city. It’s also close to a subway stop.”

“An underground stop, you mean.”

“Right. I’ve got a few pieces of furniture…you’ll probably hate them. But we can worry about all that later.”

Erin’s stomach was flipping. She thought carefully. “I’ve been doing some thinking about the wedding.”

Rory pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at her excitedly. “Yeah?”

“About when to have it. What do you think about over Christmas?”

Rory deflated. “We talked about this. I don’t know what
my schedule is going to be like. We don’t play on Christmas, but I don’t know how much time off I’ll have.”

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care if we’re only here for three days. I want to get married over Christmas, in the town where everyone has known us most of our lives. It’s what I’ve always dreamed. I don’t care when we have a honeymoon.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” Rory said easily, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I think that’s doable, even if it means flying in on Christmas Eve and flying out on Boxing Day.”

Erin hopped to her feet and threw both arms around his neck, giving him a powerful kiss. “It’s going to be wonderful.”

“It’s going to be Father Bill marrying us,” Rory said with a groan.

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Erin repeated. “Just wait and see.”

“Christ, he’s a natural. I don’t know why it didn’t dawn on me sooner that he’d be goddamn great at all this PR shit. Irish! You’ve all got the gift of gab, right?”

Erin smiled weakly and returned to watching the same thing the Blades head of PR, Lou Capesi, was: Rory talking to Hugh Grant. She was glad she wasn’t with him right now; she’d be so nervous her drink would be shaking in her hand. Still, watching him with the handsome actor rankled a bit: technically, she and Rory were supposed to be at the London-held party together. But it wasn’t exactly working out that way. One minute they’d be together, and then the next someone would “need” Rory for something, or Rory would excuse himself “for just a minute” as someone motioned him over. The minute would turn into two, three, many. Erin knew Rory: he was all about being a good sport and a team player. If someone needed a quote, or wanted to do a quick Q and A, or snap a photo, he had no problem accommodating them.

The Blades, as well as the league, had called and asked him to come to this charity party in London to help raise
the league’s stature in the UK, and to help promote the upcoming exhibition games. Erin wasn’t happy, even though he’d insisted on bringing her with him and arranging a few guided, private tours for her of the Tate and Tate Modern. The problem was that Rory always went above and beyond because he loved it: the attention, the hobnobbing, the “it-ness” of it. He looked so happy, so vibrant and alive. He was in his element, and she was way out of hers.

He wasn’t totally neglecting her. Whenever someone came over to them whom she didn’t know (which was pretty much everyone), Rory would proudly introduce her and try to get a pleasant conversation started. Sometimes it worked. But very often it didn’t, the other person ignoring Erin completely as he or she drew Rory into deep conversation about sports or Manhattan. And once Rory was drawn in deep, forget it.

“You havin’ a good time?” Lou asked.

“I am,” Erin answered.

Lou frowned. “No, you’re not. Can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know how you feel. I hate these fuckin’ parties. There a necessary evil, though. I didn’t want to come here, but the league insisted someone be here to push Rory into the right conversations. As if he needs much pushing.” He drained his martini glass. “That soccer player Rory looks like, Beckham?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s over there if you want to meet him.” Lou indiscreetly pointed at Becks where he stood across the VIP tent. “You ever hear him talk? He sounds like a mouse. I mean, yeah, the guy is a great athlete, right? And the women love him. But it’s hard to give him his full due when he sounds like Mickey.”

Erin pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh out loud.

“And his wife?
Madonn’
, someone needs to order that woman a pizza. So thin you can see her ass bones? It just ain’t right.”

This time Erin did laugh, and the sound, miraculously,
caught Rory’s ear. He said something to Man United’s Wayne Rooney, and then he was back with her and Lou.

“Christ. Sorry about that.”

Lou scowled. “About what? Did you talk to Simon Cowell about donating to the Blades Children’s Fund?”

“For chrissakes, Lou, it was the first time I met the guy. Besides, I’d really like to spend a little more time talking to Erin, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Lou said brusquely. “You’re great at this shit, and if there’s one thing the NHL needs, it’s players who are great at this shit. They all seem to love you, Rory. I don’t care who tugs on your sleeve: if they’re famous and not dangerous, talk to them. Talk to everybody. You get it? Erin, blame me for all this, not him. Okay? Now I gotta find something real to eat, pronto. None of this finger food bullshit.”

Erin heard Rory curse Lou under his breath as he waddled away.

“Quite the character, eh?” Rory looked apologetic as he leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry about this. I knew it was going to be a big-deal party; I just didn’t know how big deal. I—
shit
.”

Erin looked around. “What?”

“See that guy over there beckoning us over? The one with the slicked-back hair and kind of rubbery face?” Erin nodded. “That’s Ken Taggart. He’s the chairman of the English National Ice Hockey League. I really should go talk to him.” He cocked his head hopefully. “Come with? It won’t be long.”

“No, you go. I’ll just be in the way.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Rory, go,” she said, which was the last thing she wanted.

Rory searched her face. “You sure?”

“Go. I’m tired. I’m just going back to the room. I’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be too late,” said Rory. “I promise.”

Christ, he’s a natural. Irish. You’ve all got the gift of gab.

Lou Capesi’s words reverberated in Erin’s head as she returned to the hotel room.
I must have been born in another country,
she thought,
because if there’s one thing I don’t possess, it’s the gift of gab. Never will, either.

She unzipped her dress and peeled off her Spanx, hoping that if her body were able to relax, her mind might follow. But it didn’t. She felt miserable at the party, watching Rory glide smoothly from clique to clique, bringing smiles to people’s faces, making them laugh. She knew it was all part of his job. She also knew that when he was exercising that part of his personality, she ceased to exist for him. She wasn’t like him—wasn’t like that—and she never would be. At first he’d say, “It’s okay,” but eventually he’d become annoyed, and then he’d flat-out start to feel she was holding him back, this silent albatross of a wife who was such a terribly shy bore at parties. She’d become a liability. There was no way she was going to let that happen.

She pulled on the clothes she’d arrived in, threw all her things together in a bag, and then, opening the safe in the room, took some money for herself. She left a note in the safe, telling him she’d pay him back. She wrote another and left it on the bed, telling him she loved him, but that he’d be better off without her. He mightn’t be able to see that now, but give it one season back in New York, and he would.