In Touch (Play On #1) (8 page)

“Sure… Let me tell Rory. He was going to give me lift.”

“Okay.”

“Right.”

But he didn’t move, nor did she. They both looked at each other, waiting to see what the other would do. He wanted to go. If nothing else, get out and do something in this godforsaken town. But he didn’t get it. He’d only been rude to her so far. He’d heard the old saying, “treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen,” but he had never put much stake into it. Probably because he was brought up better than that.

So why would she ask then? He hadn’t done anything that any other decent guy wouldn’t have done. He slapped his knee, reminding him that it was only business. She probably wanted to pick his brains about the oxycodone and convince him of her
alternative
methods. Bunch of shite, really.

He rose and grabbed his bag where he had discarded it by the door. “I’ll go see if I can find Rory, then.”

She had already started packing up the laptop into her satchel. She raised her gaze to him. “Okay, see you in five.”

Casual. Easy. Her body language whispered to him that the invite was nothing. He was new to the club and to the country, and she was being polite. Gillian wasn’t his type. She was…different. Sexy and different, but more than a little eccentric. She was the type of girl you had no idea what was coming.

Gillian drove a cream-colored station wagon with wood paneling. From the rearview mirror dangled a Blues pendant on a black leather strap. At one point, Padraig had stilled the pendulum locket with his hand, but she said nothing.

Peppy, synthesized music played in the background as they’d made their way from the sports complex. Del had told him she was straight out of college, another notch against her, but he could tell by her car that she struggled. Most Americans wouldn’t be caught dead in the piece of shit, but unlike most, she didn’t seem embarrassed.

They’d spoken little, but he’d taken the chance to steal glimpses when she was busy with traffic. She still wore her hoodie but had changed into a black skirt and a pair of black and white striped leg warmers, along with flat shoes. At least she wasn’t wearing those shite high-tops that she always did. In all his days, he had never associated with anyone like Gillian. She didn’t seem to fit with the athlete crowd. Like a sea crab that had chosen the wrong shell.

She parked her car in front of the Sail Inn, the same place he and Dell had visited a couple of days ago. He held the door for her when they entered and was rewarded with a smile. Her small dangling earrings swished back and forth. Like a fish to a lure, Padraig followed.

Gillian led them to the same high-top Padraig had chosen the other day with Del, and whatever they had agreed on before in Coach’s office, to Padraig, this was a date. The same middle-aged waitress offered them a menu each, then left them promptly after the usual niceties that Padraig ignored, anyway.

He pretended to examine a classic touch to pub dining in the make of a cardboard six-pack for beer that held the tomato sauce, mustard, salt, pepper, and other condiments, but snuck in glimpses of Gillian across the table. When she caught him staring, he cleared his throat and busied himself with the menu. There wasn’t much. The usual pub grub, but they had fish and chips. That would do.

The waitress stopped back at their table while Gillian was still studying the menu. “Are you ready to order?”

Padraig waited for Gillian to answer first. “I’ll have the cheese and veg quesadillas.”

“Anything to drink?”

Working her mouth back and forth, Gillian contemplated for what seemed longer than necessary to Padraig. She briefly met Padraig’s gaze before looking away. It was as if she was making a life-or-death decision.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” she said on a whoosh of breath.

“What kind? We have Cab Sav, Merlot…”

“Either of those is fine.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow. “Okay, and what about you, big guy?”

“Fish and chips, and I’ll have a pint of Blue Ribbon.”

When the waitress had gone, Padraig stretched his legs out to the side of the table. Gillian sat with hers clasped in front of her, only moving when the waitress set her drink down. They both reached for their glasses.

“Do you miss—”

“What made you—”

They had spoken at the same time so Padraig apologized. “Sorry, you go first.”

She asked about Ireland and seemed interested in his Irish childhood, how the culture and food differed, his private Catholic school, his sisters and brothers. Gillian kept asking questions about everything from their school uniforms to the strict Catholic instructors to the discos they went to when they were teenagers.

After their food arrived, she motioned at his hands. “See that? How come Americans don’t eat that way? You never set your fork and knife down.”

“You mean, why doesn’t the rest of the world swap utensils to cut their food?” Padraig smirked but Gillian wasn’t offended.

Instead, she shifted her fork to the left and picked up her knife in her right hand, like Padraig. “I’ll give it a go, but it might take me a bit. It’s very efficient.”

“Exactly. We can shovel it in better this way.” He made Gillian laugh, and he decided he preferred that over making her angry. Her smile transformed her face. She didn’t do it enough, Padraig reckoned. But the same had been said about him in the last year. Maybe she, too, struggled with some unknown.

Padraig began to relax. Perhaps she wasn’t going to interrogate him after all. Only once did their conversation lead to Padraig’s Irish rugby experience, but more about the rugby fanaticism in Cork County. The Munster fans sang the famous song “Fields of Athenry” at their rugby matches, which had been adapted and now sung at the international matches, too. He had mentioned how powerful the song was during a match, how the Irish voices could rally the team. Patriotism, like in the US, was massive in Ireland, and there wasn’t a prouder moment than when Padraig took the pitch for his country, the green, white, and orange flag proudly flying.

Every time he asked about her childhood, she waved it off and told him it was boring comparatively, just a normal American middle-class youth, and would redirect the conversation back to him.

“What I don’t understand is why some of the Irish names dropped the O. Like yours, O’Neale still has it, but lots of Americans have lost theirs over the years.”

“Not sure why the Irish dropped it when they moved here, but I can tell you a story from back home. The Irish are very proud of the O still on their name. Did you ever learn of the potato famine in Ireland?”

Gillian winced. She tucked the loose hairs behind her ears, nudging her earrings so they swung like a magician’s pendulum. Padraig was hypnotized. She seemed embarrassed when she replied, “A little? Unfortunately, we didn’t get a huge amount of world history in high school, but I’ve read
Angela’s Ashes
by Frank McCourt.”

They both laughed.

“Fair enough,” Padraig said. “Anyway, so you know that Ireland suffered during the Great Famine from 1845 to 1852.” To not embarrass Gillian, nor make him sound like he was spouting off, he added, “And the only reason I remember the years is because the nuns beat them into me.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah.” Well, not entirely. Padraig was no stranger to the crop, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Many argue this to be an overgeneralization, but there is a story told that during the famine in the mid-nineteenth century, some Protestant organizations offered soup to starving people on the condition they received Protestant-based religious instruction and dropped the O, Mc or Mac from their name. People who took the soup, and changed their religion in exchange for the food, were known as ‘soupers’ or ‘jumpers.’”

“God, I’d have taken the soup if it saved my family.”

“I’m sure many did just for that reason, but my family is still proud of the fact that we have our O”—he chuckled—“especially since parts of Cork were particularly affected in the famine.”

“Obviously that shows the strength and pride in your heritage.”

Padraig squirmed under her admiration, shifting in his seat.

“Do you still speak Gaelic?”

Padraig smiled at her effort. Not Gaelic. Their language was referred to as Irish or
Gaeilge
, but now wasn’t the time to correct her. “I don’t personally, but there are some places that speak it as their first language instead of English, like in Connemara in County Galway. And of course, we have telly that is in the Irish language.”

With her look of disappointment, Padraig added, “But we all have to learn it in school from day one.”

Her face brightened. “Oh yeah? Say something for me.”

Aw fuck, he should have known that was coming. He took a long drink of beer as he wracked his brain for a suitable phrase. Not something corny or crass. But that’s all he seemed to be able to remember at the moment, phrases that the boys would throw out at each other while they were drinking at the tournaments overseas.

Then it hit him. He looked her directly in the eye. “
A chuisle mo chroí
.”

“Hold on… How do you say it again?”

Padraig sounded it out for her. “Ah khush-le mo chree.”

She repeated it. “That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

Literally
pulse of my heart
, but Padraig asked instead, “Have you ever seen the movie
Million Dollar Baby
?”

“The boxing movie?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. They spelled it wrong in the film, but anyhow, if you ever get a chance to watch it, you’ll find your answer there.”

“I heard it was a tear-jerker.”

Padraig paused, his heart caught in his throat at the amazing woman in front of him. “Yeah, I might have spilled one or two.” He smiled to make her comfortable.

Gillian punched him playfully on the arm. “Aw, go on, ya big softie.”

They laughed.

Somehow, Gillian had drawn him in, in all her peculiarities. He wasn’t sure if it was the setting or that they’d removed themselves from their environment, but here, her brilliance was true. Kind and smiling, she had grace and style. And when he took the time to look, she was beautiful. And after the yoga today, he knew she had an amazing figure along with the package. Why she chose to hide it, he couldn’t imagine, but her indifference was refreshing. Titillating. Sexy in its own way.

After his second pint, a full belly, and great conversation, Padraig was buzzing. Maybe Gillian would like to go out again. She was a slow eater, daintily picking at her food. Using her utensils the Irish way had prolonged the meal, but Padraig didn’t mind. While she refolded her napkin and placed it on her plate, Padraig struggled to decide if he should ask her out again. Get the awkward moment out of the way before they got to the car.

But then the waitress returned to collect their plates, and the chance was gone. Gillian asked for the check and folded her hands on the table in front of her. Then she shoved them into her lap, only to raise one again to twirl a curl of hair around a finger.

He was about to save her by offering up more conversation, but she began, “I was wondering about the oxycodone you’re taking…”

Oh fuck, here it comes.

“Did you start on a larger dose and reduce down to what you are on now?”

Fuck!
She’d roped him in and soothed him like a babe in a cradle. Softened him with her smile and laugh. Subdued him with her wit and charm. He should have known. He
had
known. But then they’d been getting along so well. He’d really enjoyed himself. “Is that really why you asked me out for dinner?”

She had twisted her finger tight around the curl and was now yanking on the strand. “No! I mean, maybe a little, but mostly—”

The waitress cut her off when she laid the bill down in the middle of the table. Padraig was so mad he didn’t even offer. Feck it. She’d said she wanted to pay him back. Well, they were square now.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I just thought that maybe if you haven’t started to reduce the dosage—”

“Just stop,” Padraig interrupted, but she kept talking in her same calm tone as if they were continuing their lovely conversation from before.

“That you should. Your body will develop a tolerance, and you’ll actually need more.”

Padraig shoved the chair back and stood to leave. “This is none of your business. Why do you keep prying?”

“You’ll get headaches, dizziness, and most likely liver damage.”

“I’m outta here.” He had walked two paces when she finally raised her voice.

“Especially combined with alcohol.”

Some punters at the bar had swiveled in their stools to watch the commotion. Padraig pivoted and walked back to her chair where he bent and stuck his face in hers. He was so close he could count the freckles on her nose. “Why do you give a shit?”

God help her, she didn’t even blanch. Didn’t slink or move away, but held his gaze. “Coach asked me to—”

“Yeah, I got that before, but why do you give a shit about me and what I do?”

She said nothing. And right now, as he held her gaze, he was more disappointed than anything else. Why life had to be so complicated was beyond his comprehension. Why a meal with an interesting girl couldn’t be just that.

He turned and left. He’d walk home.