Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (36 page)

Sayo would not let Sam keep her from McKinney’s. It is our place, she said, a second home that is as familiar to each of us as the library and the falls. That they are no longer a couple would not keep her from seeking the pub’s comfort. And so we sit in the back, listening to the crowd as they scream at the television, watching the match. Mollie is not with us. Her marine asked that she give him the full rugby experience so they are at the match. Layla is here, but has been fighting her way to the bathroom for twenty minutes.

I told them both about Heather. I told them how easy it was for me to see the attachment the blonde has to Declan. In the back of my mind, the phantom voice returns; a voice that sorts out my confusion. It’s my mother’s voice, that rich, smooth tone of her words brushing against my subconscious, telling me Declan is a good man. Telling me that my father would have not raised him any other way.

But when you have been gutted; when you have lived a life at arm’s length, keeping yourself guarded and secure from the endings you know love brings, it is very hard to listen to reason. It is harder still to imagine that someone could love you, could want you when you don’t feel worthy of it. Declan may have not slept with Heather, but he sought her comfort. That seems, somehow, still intimate. It cuts a bit deeper.

“And it’s Fraser with the try,” I hear the announcer say. My eyes slip over the crowd, then back to Sayo across the table. I don’t return her smile. I’m not even sure of the score. My mind is elsewhere, locked in the deep confusion of the epic drama my life has become.

It always ends. I told Declan that weeks ago. I should have kept that mantra playing in my head on our date, every second I let him touch me. He got too close. He infected my heart. I didn’t want to be the girl I was last year. I still don’t. But I was, I had been.

Layla appears from the crowd, slamming down next to me. She is out of breath and smiling. “That skinny little bitch,” she says.

“Who?” Sayo asks.

“Freakin’ Heather.” She moves her shoulders, as though her answer is the most reasonable thing. My head turns, trying to place the girl in question, not sure if I could handle another confrontation. “I heard her, in the bathroom just now, talking on the phone. She’s gossiping about you,” she says, moving her chin at me. “Spreading shit that you and Declan are related and fucking each other.”

I’m not surprised. Not remotely worried. I stopped caring what people said behind my back when Joe left us and I became the source of rude middle school gossip. “She’s half right. Or, she was.” The straw wrapper twists around my finger and I don’t meet my friends’ eyes. “But why should she care? She got the last of him today.”

“Are you stupid?” Layla says. Normally, I love how frank, how honest she is. Normally, I don’t get offended by her sometimes callous way of talking.

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

In my peripheral sight I see Sayo smile. Layla stretches back against the seat, her legs knocking against mine. “Yeah, well, when a guy begs on his hands and knees and screams to the top of his lungs how much he loves you; when that same guy kicks out the girl who saw you on the porch, reaching for the key, who acts like she’s been freshly screwed by your man just to piss you off, and you still don’t believe him when he says he didn’t touch her? Yeah, you’re an idiot, Autumn.” She pulls my arm so that I can’t look anywhere other than her face. “I love you, I do. You’re one of my best friends in life, but shit, Autumn, you’re so worried about being left, being hurt that you are making up excuses not to be with someone you are very clearly crazy about.” She releases me, but I cannot relax. “Heather is a manipulative asshole, and she was fucking with you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m a nosey bitch and heard her telling whatever fembot she was talking to on the phone about how she tried seducing Declan, but he was hung up on his stepsister.”

My eyes burn and I’m sure I look ridiculous, my mouth bobbing open like a guppy. “How…why would she…” my cell ringing interrupts whatever idiotic excuse I was about to offer my friend. When I see Joe’s face smiling up at me, I instantly answer, disregarding how Sayo and Layla giggle between each other.

“Joe? Are you okay?”

He is panting and I climb over Layla, uncaring about the stares I get as I jump from the booth. “It’s Deco, love. I think he’s planning to leave, to transfer away from Cavanagh.”

My heart is a thundering beat, cracking against my ribs. “What?”

“I’ve never seen him like he was last night, love. He left for the match this morning with a bag. I tried phoning you, but the bleeding nurses came in and drugged me up. Did you lot have another row?”

My back hits the paneled wall and I stretch my neck, watching the brown ceiling and assortment of memorabilia tacked above. “He told me I ripped his heart out.”

My father is silent, but I hear his exhale, a rough noise that tells me he’s upset. “This is all my fault.”

“No, Da, it’s mine. I’ve been so stubborn. I’m an idiot.” I don’t disclose how stupid I feel, how I should have seen Heather’s little act for what it was. God knows I’ve been goaded before, the signs were all there. “Why do you think he’s leaving?”

“He mentioned something about visiting Cameron. Meant to leave straight after the match.”

“He’s leaving you? You’re not even out of the hospital yet.”

“He’s still angry with me, love. I don’t think he’s thinking clearly.” I hadn't thought about how Declan's anger might not be reserved solely for me. When Joe speaks again, I catch the desperation in his voice, the way his accent is elevated, anxious. “You still have half hour before the match ends. You can catch him before he leaves, can’t you now?”

Could I do that? Run after him? Beg him to stay? Would I forget my concerns, my worry, the betrayal? Just as an image of me acting ridiculous, storming the pitch to leap against Declan’s chest comes to me, I see Heather marching through the pub. She has a determined, focused expression on her face and I don’t even stop to think. I’m tired of overthinking, of shirking away from what I want for fear that it will all end in disaster.

Declan is mine. It’s time everyone knew it.

“Yeah,” I say to Joe as I watch Heather stop next to a booth right by the door. “I think I can do that.”

Heather lingers at the booth, twirls her hair around her finger like an idiot. Decision made, I march across the pub. She turns at my approach and the fake smile on her face falters.

“What do you want?” she says.

I begin to answer her, to return the warning she gave me that day on the pitch, but then she moves to the side, away from the person sitting in the booth. Tucker. He is drunk. The empty bottles and cups crowding in front of him are proof of that.

I smile at Heather, grab her arm to rustle her into the booth next to my ex.

“You two are perfect for each other.”

“You don’t know—” Tucker begins, but I silence him with a wave of my hand.

“I know plenty.” I pull out some cash from my back pocket, there already for the drinks I’d planned to drown in when I first called Sayo and Layla to meet me here. “I know Heather wants someone to take care of her because she’s an insipid little twit not smart enough to realize that she is capable of taking care of herself.” When Heather sits up, an insult on her tongue, my friends approach, arms crossed as if daring her to say a word against me.

Tucker’s head bobs and sways as he tries to focus on my face. “Sweetness…”

 
“Save it,” I say. “I know something else, Tucker. I know you need someone to boss around, to control. That isn’t me anymore, but Heather here, she seems willing.” I drop the money on the wet table. “Have a few drinks on me. You two deserve each other.” I begin to walk away, eager to hurry to the pitch, but can’t manage to make my feet stop before I face Heather. “If you ever so much as talk to Declan again, I will gauge out your beady little eyes with my nails.” She flinches back when I get in her face. “Declan’s mine. Stay the hell away from him.”

There is bedlam on the pitch. Players scatter in a tussle, scrambling for the ball. The crowd around me doesn’t bother to stay in the stands. The scoreboard tells me that we are winning, that there is not enough time for Cameron to eke out a save no matter how hard they try. The match is done, but for the running of the clock.

I don’t care if it is or not. I have something to do. Someone to claim.

I weave past drunken spectators, move around kids jumping up and down, kick a loud, large rooster out of my way until I have a clear view of the pitch, of the squads. I can’t find Declan among them. The bodies are too large, move too quickly. Red jerseys brawl against green, knock heads, throw fists, but in the middle of the scramble, on the other end of the pitch, I catch a glimpse of him. Declan struggles back, pulls Donovan away from a much larger Cameron player. His face is bruised, bloody, as though he’s fought a battle and not played a simple match.

The scrum meets and he disappears beneath forms, some that are wider, some smaller, than his own. My legs don’t hesitate to run along the sidelines, don’t pause once as the squads assemble, attack, run, throw, chase the ball.

The scramble of large bodies make me dizzy, but I squint, try to find Declan amid the chaos of legs and limbs, run to catch up when I see him diving for a catch. He is smiling, elated as he touches the ball to the ground, but then he sees me and stops as I approach. The noise around us goes mute. Neither of us pay attention to the match, to Mullens screaming for Declan to get back on the field or hear the running of feet already set for a tackle. The air around me swirls as I walk onto the pitch. Players zoom by me so closely that the wind of their passing blows my hair around my face and
  Declan’s eyes widen, fear crumbles his features. I manage to glimpse to the side as the official’s whistle sounds, as I hear Sayo screaming out my name in warning, and suddenly six large chests are barreling toward me. At the last second Declan leaps, grabs me around the waist and pulls me away, until we are safely on the sidelines.

“Are you bleeding mad? You could have been killed.” Sweat beads on his face, mixes with grass, dirt and thin tracks of dried blood. He looks beautiful. My chest constricts, tightens as I reach for him, touch his face and his worry shifts, wrinkles across his forehead. “What are you doing, McShane?”

“Taking what’s mine.”

“What?”

His face comes down easily, met firm between my hands, but his eyes grow rounder before they close behind our kiss. It’s like breathing for the first time after a dive. It’s the sweet release of calm, of licking air filling your burning lungs. And it is mine, completely mine. All around us there are wolf whistles from the crowd, screams of disappointment from Mullens, from the referee, but they are blocked out. In this space there is only the two of us touching, relishing the effortless joining of our bodies.  “Autumn…”

“I love you, Declan.”

His arms tighten around me, from shock, maybe fear that I don’t mean what I say. But then he isn’t smiling and I worry, that I am too late.

“Declan, get your ass back on the pitch,” Mullens screams and Declan runs backwards, nods once to me and then he is in the match. There are only minutes left and we’ve already won, but I step back, barely notice when my friends converge around me.

“What did he say?” Sayo asks.

I can’t speak. Words assemble on the back of my tongue, but I am unable to make them leave my mouth. My attention is on the pitch, on Declan running next to Donovan as his friend weaves through the attacking Cameron squad.

He didn’t say anything. I told him I loved him and he only stared at me blankly. Am I too late? Is his anger too recent, too full? I feel Sayo grab my hand when the final whistle sounds just as Donovan touches the ball between the uprights. It’s over. We are victorious, which should make me scream with joy. But I can’t move, can’t join Mollie and her marine as they jump up and down, or Sayo and Layla as they clap along with the crowd.

Then, Declan approaches. He offers me one glance, brief, without any real emotion. Then he jerks his chin once and walks away, pausing just behind the stands to nod me forward. “Aren’t you going to celebrate with the squad?”

“The devil take the squad, McShane.”

Declan doesn’t speak the whole way back to my apartment. He’s still dressed in his kit, grass and dirt sticking on his jersey, and he walks straight ahead, resolute. He doesn’t watch me or touch me and I can’t understand what he’s thinking or why I’m consumed with worry.

It isn’t until we reach my building and he steps aside for me to unlock my door that he finally glances at me. He doesn’t appear happy, but then, he doesn’t seem angry either. Before my keys are free of my fingers, the door snaps shut and Declan twists me around, slams my back against the wall. His hands are everywhere, groping, pressing me against his chest, pulling me closer and closer before he attacks my mouth. There is a gritty, desperate shake to his movements, the rough grip of each touch tells me he wants me, that being close to me, claiming me, is his only consideration at the moment.

He remains silent, still focused. Loud, fretful moans lift from my throat as Declan kisses me, as his fingers cup my ass, thumb against my breast.
  “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” I say, between heavy pants and his constant trail of kisses.

“I am talking,” he grumbles into my ear. Then he jerks my hips to his body, emphasizing the pulsing, hard erection straining against his shorts. “This is me talking.”

We scatter across the room, I push, he pulls, our bodies never less than an inch apart, clamoring for each other's desperate touch, determined to never end this grapple of hands, of mouths. He stops us in the hallway, pins me to the wall, freeing me from my coat, licking up my neck as my shirt falls to floor. And I want him to continue that hot path of breath on my skin, against my breasts as he holds them, pinches them in his fingers. I shake, moan loud and Declan pauses, stares down at me with dark, narrowed eyes and I don’t need him to say a word, not with that look.

My jeans loosen with the slow movement of his fingers, his stare not shifting from my face. He doesn’t blink, barely breathes as I hear the zipper lower, as his fingers slip inside to cup my core, to grip around my ass and pull me against him. His mouth on my neck, across my lips is searing. He is demanding, funneling all his emotion, all his anger into the kiss and I love the sensations he works over me. One kiss, and I know I am at his mercy, helpless, eager to be.

“I didn’t want to be in love with anyone, McShane. I didn’t want to care about you.” He bends forward, kisses me and it is gentle, easy, a dichotomy to the heat of his kiss, to the pressure building against my clit. “I didn’t want you making me smile, making me think I could have something so fecking good for me.” When I pull away from his intended kiss, he sets me right, moves his thumb to rub against my nipple and I forget to breathe. “I don’t like being weak.” My mind is muddled by too much sensation, an overload of confusion and stimulation, and sweet, desperate need for him. “You make me weak. I should hate you for that. I don’t. What I hate is when you’re not with me.” Another kiss and his thumb leaves my breasts to slide across my bottom lip. 

“Declan,” I say.

He ignores me. “When I see you close enough to touch, knowing I can’t reach out, feel you, I can’t breathe, can’t think. And now, I don’t care about being so fecking weak, wanting you, loving you…I don’t care about needing you.” One kiss on my forehead, then another on my chin. “If that makes me weak, then so be it, if it means you love me too.”

Declan’s next kiss is deep, a calculated maneuver to show me the same weakness he claims I give him and my legs buckle as his tongue sweeps against mine. I feel the loss of his hands on me when he lifts me up, when he seems to have calmed enough to grab my legs and wrap them around his waist. But his attention is still on me, on making me whimper, on kissing me thoroughly so that I don’t notice that we are moving, that he has thrown me on my bed, that he hovers over me.

I am anxious for more, try to work his jersey over his head, but he rears back, stills my fingers in his hands. “Did you mean it, then? You love me?”

My quick nod doesn’t satisfy him. He needs the words, he needs me to mean them and so I appease him, slip my fingers over his features to smooth out the worry there. “I don’t mind being weak either. I don’t care if there’s an ending. I love you.” I pull his face down, settle his lips inches from mine. “I’m stupid in love with you.”

And then, we fit together with the quick dislodging of our clothes, and the swift movement of skin against skin. We are consumed, caught up in this play, with no mind for anything but the sweet thrust of our meeting, with the heat that warms our faces as we touch.

Later, sated together and clean from a shower, my fingers fan through Declan’s hair as he lays his cheek against my stomach, rubs his hands over my thighs. He doesn’t seem able to stop touching me. I am incapable of worry, of thinking about tomorrow. It will come on its own.

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen to you,” I say, thinking of Declan’s anger yesterday at Joe’s house.

His hold on my thigh tightens and Declan places a kiss above my knee. “It’s in the past, McShane. It’s best we let it go.” He stretches his neck to glance at me. “I understand why you did it. I didn’t like it and it hurt like a bugger, but I understand.”

I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say that I was angry too, that I was hurt too, but Declan’s right. There simply isn’t a need to rehash what happened. I’ve released the past, buried it deep. Instead of mentioning my brief abandonment again, I think about one of Declan’s confessions.  “You really never told anyone you loved them?”

He sighs and the breath tickles against my leg. “Well, there was Katy Donovan, but I was seventeen and had never shagged anyone before. I’m sure she knew I didn’t mean it.” I smile, laugh at his admission and let him reach up, snuggle next to me on the pillow. “I’ve never meant it before you, love.” Declan shakes his head, caught by something that moves his shoulder.

“What?”

“Joe told me when it finally happened, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” He pulls me close. “He wasn’t wrong.” I’m not sure what he means. My mother and I had never talked much about finding "the one" and I think Declan senses my confusion. “That first day, when we were stuck in the basement?” I nod. “I knew I was in trouble. I thought it was just because you were having an attack and I felt bad for you, but then I kissed you and, well, I was lost after that.”

“I’d have thought you’d have felt that way at Fubar’s.”

“Nah, that night I was pie-eyed, just like you, but the next morning when you came out of your room prancing about in your knickers, I knew I was in love, well, more than lust anyway.”
 

He had been so good to me that next morning, understanding when I said I didn’t want anything but friendship. I suppose he knew better, had a better sense of what I was trying to run away from. Still, would he have left Cavanagh? Could I have really pushed him that far away?

“Why were you thinking of Cameron?”

Declan sits up and by the way his lips part, hang open, I get that he has no clue what I’m talking about. “How do you mean?”

“Da said you’d packed a bag, that you mentioned visiting Cameron. He thought you were wanting to transfer.”

When he stretches away from me, sitting against the pillow, I realize what a meddlesome little shit my father is. I want to be angry about Joe’s lie, I want to pick up the phone and fuss at him, but then Declan’s shoulders shake again, this time with laughter, and he pulls me against his chest, easing my annoyance. “God love, Joe, that sneaky arsehole.”