Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (3 page)

Tucker intercedes before Declan can answer me. “Autumn, I wanted to make sure Fraser apologized for last night.” Declan levels a glare at Tucker and I can’t help but smile. Even though this guy is a horny jackass, it seems we share a mutual distain for my ex. The two men exchange a look and the sharp dimples in Tucker’s cheeks disappear. “Anyway, Fraser, don’t you have something to say to Miss McShane?”

I can tell by how those green eyes are narrowed at Tucker that this won’t be a sincere apology. With a small shake of his head, Declan faces me. His thumbs are hooked into the low waistband of his shorts and his expression is relaxed, if not annoyed.

“I’m meant to say I’m sorry for maulin’ you last night and I shouldn’t have been so rude.” Irish expat. The coaching staff is fond of recruiting from Europe. For a second, I’m reminded of the faint brogue my father never bothered to lose, but then Declan’s smirk returns as he takes a step closer and I find myself with unexpected,
  non-familial thoughts. “Also, I was an arsehole, but in my defense, I was pie-eyed as shite.” Tucker slaps the back of his head and Declan’s left eye twitches. “That is to say, I’m sorry, miss. Won’t happen again.”

I sit back on my desk and watch Declan for a moment. I like how he fidgets as I watch him. He pulls on the hem of his loose t-shirt and scuffles his tennis shoes against the floor, leaving black marks in his wake.

“You’re new here?” I ask, curious.

“Nah, born and raised in bleeding Texas. What do you think?” Again, Tucker slaps the back of his head and Declan’s shoulders tense.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ve heard your apology.” I wave my hand, annoyed by his flippant excuse and reach for my bag. In my peripheral, I see Tucker whispering in Declan’s ear, though their arguing isn’t remotely quiet.

Declan steps forward, jerking off Tucker’s nudge on his shoulder. “Look, are you gonna go tell that president lady about last night because that would really fuck us over for the season and—” Tucker attempts another head slap, but Declan deflects him, faces him. “Captain or no, do that again and I’ll fecking end you.”

They stand nose to nose, chests puffed like a couple of grade school bullies. Testosterone overkill is an epidemic on this campus, but it’s far too early for grand displays of futile chest pounding.

 
I step between them, my palms pushing on both those firm chests and I blink, hurrying to clear many inappropriate thoughts at the sensation of these hard muscles under my fingers. “Okay, enough with the alpha male crap.” My neck warms when Declan pulls my hand off his chest. “I get it. You were a drunken jackass and it’s not even a little okay what you did. Seriously, what were you thinking?”

He finally looks down at me and the anger that wrinkled his forehead and lined his mouth a moment ago, disappears. For the first time, Declan seems remorseful. His gaze flicks from the floor, to my eyes and then back down again. “I wasn’t. I’m not normally like that.”

I relax. “If Winchell finds out that could screw up our chances at regionals. We can’t have that. Just so we’re clear: you can’t go around attacking unsuspecting women.”

The apologetic, awkward expression vanishes from his features and his cheeks round with the smirk pulling his mouth. Declan stands so close to me now that I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. “And the suspecting ones?”
 

“No,” I say, stepping back until I bump into Tucker. “Not unless they want you to.”

“Like that then?” The grin on his face is near lecherous.

Undeterred, I stick up my chin. “Yes, it’s exactly like that.”

“So, McShane, are you unsuspecting?” The smirk again and then he flicks out his tongue to moisten his bottom lip.

“Knock it off,” Tucker says, reaching around me to grab Declan by the collar.

The tattooed Irishman jerks out of Tucker’s grip and storms out of the room. The tension around me diminishes and I lift my bag off the desk, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry about him,” Tucker says. “He’s a little rough around the edges.”

“Just a bit.”

He follows me into the lobby then opens the door for me, but I move to the closed one at my left and walk out. Tucker sighs as I walk out into the courtyard in front of Nolan Hall.

“I forgot how stubborn you are,” he says.

I start to walk away and my leg cramps, forcing the limp to resurface. Tucker is at my side and I know he’s watching me struggle. I’m not happy that I can’t manage to avoid looking like a helpless idiot in front of him. When he touches my hand, I flinch, unaccustomed to his uninvited touch after all this time. Fleetingly, I’m surprised that the familiar warmth, the bruising compulsion to let him touch me is missing.
 

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear about the accident until a few weeks ago. I was going to call you, maybe stop by, but I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“You should follow your gut, Tucker.”

“Autumn, please. I want to talk to you. There’s a lot of things we left unsaid.”

I take a step back, adding to the distance between us. “I said everything I needed to the night you left me.”

He exhales, making his cheeks round and his eyes raise up as though he’s trying to take a moment to cool his frustration. His eyes soften and his voice is warm, gentle. “Why are you still so pissed off? I was doing it for us, you know.”

An unexpected laugh leaves my throat. I’m surprised that he’d attempt lying. I know him intimately and he seems to have forgotten that I remember quite well what a selfish bastard he can be. “Tucker, you never did anything for anyone but yourself. I doubt that’s changed.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I really don’t need a lecture on what is fair.” To emphasize my point, I wince as my legs shift.

Tucker has always been single minded. He doesn’t like to lose. He doesn’t like being wrong and last year, he thought I was the perfect girl for him. And I was. Naive. Timid. Stubborn and intensely oblivious that my boyfriend treated me like a prized possession. But that girl is gone. Having your life ripped apart, being forced into the quiet seclusion of an empty home does nothing but impact change.

 “Listen, I know I’m the last person you want to help you, but I want to handle this situation with Fraser.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

Tucker takes my bag off my shoulder and carries it for me. I'm annoyed with that, but it's good to have the weight off with my leg acting up. We walk down the courtyard together, but I’m careful to avoid his touch. “He’s a punk" Tucker reiterates with a sneer. "You know that apology wasn’t sincere.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“He needs to learn humility.” I arch my eyebrows at Tucker thinking Declan Fraser isn’t the only one who has lessons to learn.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not the one going around campus attacking girls.”

“He was drunk, Tucker and I handled it.” The memory of Declan wailing on the ground cupping himself makes me grin.

“I still think he could use some punishment.”

Tucker called me stubborn, but he really has no room to talk. If I ignore him, he’ll just keep showing up, keep badgering me about making sure Declan is properly punished. It’s likely he thinks playing champion for me will get him back in my good graces.

Resigned to his insistent nature I try to think of something that would appease Tucker’s need to show Declan his place. Finally, the memory of a conversation I had with Sayo last week provides a solution. “Sigma Tau Delta never gets enough volunteers for the book sale.”

“The one at the library?”

“Yeah.” I nod my head in the direction of the courtyard and Tucker follows me. “Sayo is the faculty adviser. She was telling me last week how they had over a thousand books to organize and sort for the book sale and not enough bodies to get through them all.”

“Does that require a lot of annoying grunt work?”

“I guess. Should be lots of heavy lifting, crawling around on the floor moving boxes. Very unglamorous work. I got bullied into it because Sayo pulled the best friend card.” We pass Greek Row and head toward the coffee shop when I feel Tucker’s fingers touch against my knuckles. I pull my hand away and cross my arms.

“Good.” He stops walking and peers over my head when someone calls his name. He waves then turns his attention back to me. “I’ll send Declan after practice tomorrow.”

“No, it’s a weekend job. I’ll be there Saturday morning. Seven o’clock.”

The pale space above his nose creases and he lifts his right side of his mouth, grinning. “Isn’t that a little extreme for best friend guilt?”

“You’d think so, but no. I owe her.”

I don’t disclose all the things my best friend has done for me, especially during the past five months. I’ve heard it said that you can measure a true friend by their behavior during tragedy. The wreck, my mom, my injuries, Sayo faced them all with me. I honestly can’t imagine what I’d do without her.

“Hey listen, can I buy you a coffee?”

A slow, already annoyed breath releases between my teeth. This hasn’t been the best day so far and it’s not even lunchtime. He knows better than to push me when I’m angry, yet he continues. He steps closer to me. He’s so tall that I have to stretch my neck to look up at him. We’re a bit too close for a casual conversation and I hate that he’s ignoring all the “stay away” signals I keep giving him.

“Don’t,” I say, stepping back from him, but he still doesn’t keep away.

A small breeze disturbs the leaves on the ground and flips my ginger hair across my face. He lets his finger slide across my cheek before he tucks the flyaways behind my ear and I jerk back. “Autumn…”

“You can’t do that, Tucker.”

“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.” He takes a breath as he scans my face. “I’ve missed you. Missed those millions of freckles, those grey eyes—” He tries reaching for me again, fingers nearing my face, but I move my chin down and myself out of his reach.

I say a small prayer of thanks as my cell rings and Winchell’s smiling face appears on the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”

He reaches for me, but I manage to avoid his touch, eager to be away from him. I walk ahead, toward the coffee shop but stop short when he comes behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I really am. You don’t have to tell me how badly I screwed up, but I missed you. Can’t we—can’t we be friends?” he asks.

Friends? There was a time when he was more than my friend, when he was my world. There was a time when I hung onto every word he spoke, when I watched endlessly as he practiced the game we both loved. He was happy then, out on the pitch in his element. We’d leave the match and go back to my apartment and celebrate or sulk, depending on Cavanagh’s performance, naked, laughing, touching, discovering the intimate curves of each other’s bodies. He’d been my friend first, then my lover and then his selfishness took him away from me. He left as though nothing we’d been to each other mattered. He walked away and didn’t look back.

My phone keeps ringing and I hit the accept button before I twist away from him and his pathetic little frown. “I don’t think so, Tucker. Not now we can’t.” 

Three

Second glass of wine. I need to slow down but Ava Winchell is one ahead of me and I believe keeping up with her is only polite.

“So? Tucker’s back?” The smile on her face stretches and I know she is fishing.

“What about him, you horny old biddy?”

She laughs at that, but doesn’t deny my accusation. “I’m just asking. It’s been a while, right?”

“You’re keeping score, Ava? Jeez.”

She takes another sip of wine and rests against her chair, relaxed. “Do me a favor. Let me live vicariously?” She looks around the restaurant, checks to see if anyone is eavesdropping on our conversation before she speaks. “Mr. Winchell has been in New York a long time.”

I choke on my wine. “You’re worse than Sayo. She’s forever trying to match make.”

“Not interested?” Ava sits back and holds her wineglass in one hand as she relaxes against the armrest.

Either I am uncomfortable by her invasive questions or my subconscious is forgetting what it felt like to have my heart ripped out of my chest. I manage a smile at the thought of how good Tucker looked today, but I don’t tell my godmother the truth. Ava never knew the details. I hadn’t been eager to share my humiliation with her. Him being back must make her think I’m willing to pick up where we left off.
 

“No time.”

“Oh, honey, if you don’t have time for that, then what’s the point? You have to live a little.”

“Chocolate. Chocolate is the point.”

She lifts her glass in a toast and we both take another drink. Ava Winchell was my mother’s oldest and closest friend. They’d gone to college together, pledged the same sorority and when the accident happened, Ava took it upon herself to meddle into my private life. It doesn’t bother me. She is a sweet, intelligent woman and had been a great friend to my mother. She understands the loss. Ava knows what it is to have a good day, to hear great news and race to the phone, eager to share, then the abrupt emptiness at the reminder that Mom isn’t there to answer the call. It’s a stinging, brilliant pain that has only deepened as the days meander along.

Ava and my mother shared a bond that I can recognize. My friendship with Sayo, Mollie and Layla is years long but I don’t know what it’s like to love someone for as long as they did. Still, the recognition of that bond flirts in my understanding. When Mom died, it was Ava who held me in the hospital. It was Ava who chose her coffin, her dress. It was Ava that offered up the foster of motherly love I’ve needed this past few months.

Having a relationship with the university President also didn’t hurt my application for assistantship. A little nepotism isn’t all that bad.

When she polishes off her wine and motions the waiter for another, I know something is wrong. Ava only drinks this much when she has bad news. Or when she is pissed at me.

She is fidgeting—pulling on her the sleeves of her red, tailored jacket and straightening the long, black braids that fall across her forehead. Ava’s skin is like caramel, reflects the gorgeous Caribbean features on her heart-shaped face. She wears black-rimmed glasses and a gold beaded necklace from Ghana. Presently, those beads are being twisted between her long fingers. I won’t ask her what the problem is. I know she’ll tell me when she is ready. I smile when she gawks at the waiter’s ass as he bends over to pour her wine. Her husband has been gone a while. She drinks from the fresh glass, gulps down half of it and I sit up straight. This isn’t going to be good.

“Autumn, honey, I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

“Okay. Do you have enough liquid courage yet?”

She nods, then starts drumming her red nails against the table. I’ve never seen her so nervous. I take her hand and hold it. “Ava, are you sick?”

“No, no, nothing like that, sugar.” She waves her hands as though she is psyching herself up to speak. One deep breath and then she steadies her eyes right into mine. “There’s no easy way to say this and let me add a caveat; you have every right to be angry, so don’t think you’re going to hurt my feelings by yelling.”

“O—okay. What is it?” My heart pumps a little faster than normal as I wait for the bomb to drop.

“I got a phone call this afternoon.”

“Oh God, Ava, is it about the rugby team?”

The somber expression on her face converts into confusion. “What about the rugby team? What have they done now?”

“Nothing. It’s…what’s going on? What phone call?”

“Autumn, Joe Brady called me today.”

There is a small second where the name doesn’t immediately register, just a blink of ignorance because Joe hasn’t been a consideration for so long, but an instant later I feel a small simmer of anger crest. My hand grips into a tight fist when I squeeze the napkin into my palm.

“Joe Brady?” She nods then begins running her top teeth over her bottom lip, a nervous, agitated gesture. “Joe Brady called you?” Another nod. “Today?” And another. “Why in God’s name is my father calling you, Ava? What the hell did he want?” 

“He’s in town.”

For a moment a great swell of my percolating anger mixes with irrational fear. I scan the restaurant. There are couples and families surrounding us, dishes and flatware clinking, menus upright, but no sign of him. I look past Ava toward the bar, but only see girls downing pink drinks and a group of boys screaming at a game on the widescreen.

“Is he—?”

“Autumn,” Ava begins, pulling my hand across the table. “I wouldn’t do that to you. He called to let me know he just made it into town two days ago and asked if I would give him your number. I refused, naturally.”

“What the hell is he doing in Cavanagh?”

“I don’t know, honey. He did mention hearing of the accident and I do believe his first concern was your well-being.”

“Well, he’s five months late, isn’t he? In fact, he’s eight years and five months late.”
  The waiter walks past and I wave for the check. Ava is staring at me, her eyes narrowed with concern. It is instantly difficult to breathe, which only pisses me off. I will not let all the anxiety filter into my chest. Joe isn’t worthy of that. I grab my wineglass and down the contents, annoyed that I can’t make my hand stop shaking.

“Are you alright?” She moves next to me, holds my hand. “I think this reaction is why he contacted me first. He didn’t want to upset you and he knew that I’d know where you’d be.”

“He wouldn’t have had to contact you if he’d actually kept in touch with me after he left us.” She nods, a silent agreement. I pull my hand away from her and take the check, but Ava slides the plastic folder toward her.

“What would you like me to say if he calls again?”

“You could start with ‘Why did you abandon your wife and child?’”

Ava pulls out her credit card and pushes the bill toward the edge of the table. “I think that’s a question you should ask.”

My vision blurs, my eyes unblinking. Fourteen. I haven’t seen him since I was a fourteen year-old kid. That night, I woke up to him sitting on the foot of my bed crying. He smelled of whiskey and his eyes were swollen and then there was a rush of apologies and incomprehensible phrases that all sounded like goodbye. He gave me no explanation for his sadness. He just held me while I drifted in and out of sleep. Then, he shuddered and whispered, “I hope one day you’ll forgive me,” before he shut my door. In the morning, he was gone and my mother was sleeping on the sofa with a crumbled Kleenex fisted in her hand. Joe Brady is a coward. A worthless coward.

“I don’t want to see him, Ava. If he calls again, tell that bastard to stay the hell away from me.”
 

My godmother’s lip print is stained on my cheek. Wiping the color off is impossible. It is thick, expensive I’m sure, and doesn’t budge regardless of the efforts I make against it. The cool night breeze floats against my face and despite the unsettling news from earlier, I smile when the delicious scent of the bakery on the corner invades my senses. Cavanagh is safe, that’s true of most small towns, and I enjoy being able to walk from my apartment to campus and into the quaint easy bustle of downtown without worrying about being attacked. The rugby pitch, apparently, isn’t as safe.

My reflection is fractured, disjointed in Donoghue’s Hardware store window and the handkerchief from my bag is warm next to my skin. Distracted by the task of scrubbing my cheek clean, I don’t notice the form behind me until he speaks.

“You tattled, did you?”

Cavanagh is safe, but I’m not an unprepared idiot. My hand is around the mace in my pocket and extended outward before I see Declan standing in front of me. He stretches his long fingers in surrender, but his face is deadpan, curious. When I lower the mace, Declan slips his fists into the pockets of the thin, brown jacket. I know an argument is brewing. My impression of him in my classroom earlier today is likely correct: smug, condescending, vulgar. He stretches his mouth into a firm line and he glares at me as though I am a stubborn spot on the top of his boot. I’m not in the mood for him, for his annoying little grumbles so I shake my head and walk away, but typical of every insufferably stubborn man I’ve ever known, he follows me.

“Not going to deny it?”

Ava’s news about my father has my nerves on edge. I’m anxious that I’ll turn the corner and see him waiting for me. I really don’t need Declan to add to my bad mood by picking a fight with me. He pulls on my elbow and spins me around and the small thread of patience I held breaks completely. I hope that my angry expression is vicious enough to make him realize just how stupid it would be to piss me off.

“I am not the girl and this is so not the night. Back off.”

He lifts one dark eyebrow underneath his shaggy hair and seems mildly impressed, but a second later, a bored grimace appears to accentuate the dimple in his cheek. “You were with the president.”

“And?”

His cheeks have taken on a pink hue, as though he’s either very annoyed or slightly drunk. “Did you not say you didn’t want anyone in a mess?”

“I did.”

“So what did you say to Winchell? Did you tell her about last night?”

I shouldn’t be surprised by his self-serving attitude. It’s been my experience that most men are solely focused on things that concern them and them alone. I release some of my anger, eager to put this bullying Irishman in his place.

“You know, it must be lonely living in a world that revolves solely around you.”

He smirks again. I’m starting to believe this guy has one superior, arrogant expression. “Insult me all you like, McShane, I’m not fussed.”

The casual use of my surname bothers me. It seems that hearing my first from his lips would require an exertion he can’t be bothered to manage. “Clearly you are. If you aren’t, why are you bugging me?”

“Just trying to see how deep the well of shite is I’m in.”

I walk away, folding my arms across my chest to keep off the chill in the air. Naturally, he follows at my side.  “Get over yourself, Declan. Dr. Winchell is a family friend. We were just having dinner.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that, am I?”

What an unbelievable prick. “I really don’t give a shit what you believe.”

I don’t want to give this jackass the satisfaction of knowing he irks me, but I can’t stand on the sidewalk arguing with him all night. I also can’t hold back the litany of filthy oaths I muttered under my breath.

“What else am I to believe then? You and nancy boy Tucker are doing your best to piss me off.”

“Oh and how are we accomplishing that very easy task?”

Once again he stops me. He holds onto my arm longer than it takes to make me pause. His grip is snug and I feel a flush run over my chest, up my neck.

“A book sale?”

I shake my arm free from his hold. “He thinks you could stand to be taken down a peg or two.”

“A what?”

“It’s an expression. Tucker didn’t buy your apology. Neither did I. Working on the book sale will help you learn humility.”

He arches his neck into a frustrated twist. “It’ll piss me off. And I don’t give a shite what Tucker thinks I need. I’m not here to kiss arse. I’m here to play.”
 

“All that playing you’re doing is what got you into trouble in the first place, isn’t it? Besides, Tucker said—”