Unfixable (2 page)

Chapter Two

While I’m in the cab it begins to pour rain, then stops…and begins
again
in a matter of thirty minutes. I thought the weather in Chicago was volatile, but volatile doesn’t begin to describe the Irish weather. One minute I’m squinting through the sunshine, the next clouds are darkening the sky, turning it to nighttime in the middle of the day.

We wind down narrow cobblestone streets, slick from the intermittent downpours and pull to a stop outside the Claymore Inn, located on Baggot Street. Slightly off the beaten path, away from the touristy end of town. The inn is a gray, stone building, four stories high. Windows are painted a crisp white, flower boxes containing cheerful pink flowers attached at their base. A trio of Irish flags, white, orange, and green wave from the roof. The bottom floor has a dark wooden facade, a dramatic break from the floors above. A green awning with gold lettering extends from the entrance to the curb where my cab sits idling, the driver waiting for me to pay.

But the wallet is frozen in my hand.

Underneath the awning, leaning against the outside of the pub, is Shane. Somehow he’s beat the cab, and I have no idea how. We managed to avoid all traffic on the way. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t decipher. It’s a mixture of relief and pure, undiluted pissed-off-ness. I want to study that expression later. So I do what comes naturally. I yank my camera out of my messenger bag and snap a quick picture. And I was wrong. He hadn’t been pissed off before.

Now? Now, he’s good and pissed.

I step out of the cab and thank the driver, who has lifted my suitcase from the trunk for me. Making sure to school my features carefully, I swagger toward Shane. A truly dope swagger is a little trick I picked up from Ginger over the years, although she probably wasn’t even aware she’d passed it on. Your walk can mean everything. It lets whoever you’re walking toward know just what the hell they’re in for. Although my little vamoose at the airport has probably already tipped him off.

I suspect he’s waiting for me to ask how he made it back so quickly. So I don’t. “The weather in this country sucks ass,” I remark instead on my way into the pub.

He catches the door and follows me inside. “That stubborn pride is going to get you into trouble, tough girl,” he whispers gruffly in my ear.

Ignoring the shiver his voice sends down my spine, I wink at him. “Bring it on.”

With a snort, he leaves me standing in the entrance and ducks beneath a hatch leading behind the bar, joining a redheaded girl who looks flat-out panicked at the amount of customers staring at her expectantly from the other side the bar. I can’t hear her over the music and conversations crowding the room, but she appears to be rambling some sort of explanation to Shane. Clearly ignoring her, he takes a drink order and begins to pull pints of beer from a white handle.

Determinedly, I push Shane Claymore and his Hulk-sized attitude to the back of my mind and take in my surroundings. Claymore’s is small, clearly ancient, but immaculate. And popular. Every polished, wooden table is full with customers digging into their food between sips from pint glasses.

I know what a tourist looks like. In Chicago, they’re everywhere, slowing you down by crowding the sidewalks as they try to decipher oversize maps. I’m trying my best not to look like a tourist even though my suitcase might as well be a flashing neon sign that says
outsider
. Unlike the Temple Bar section of Dublin I read about on the flight, this is definitely where the locals come to eat lunch. Men dressed smartly in suits, female coworkers gossiping over their salads. At the bar, older gentlemen keep themselves company, watching horse races on overhead televisions.
Regulars
, Ginger would call them. A few of them send me curious glances that I return steadily.

Laughter, clinking silverware, chairs scraping, the bell dinging in the kitchen…all are unfamiliar sounds to me, but when combined, they are immediately welcoming. Instinctively, I know this isn’t the type of establishment my sister worked in to support us from age sixteen. The ones that sent her home to our crumbing two-bedroom house on the wrong side of Nashville smelling like cigarette smoke and despair. There is an air of acceptance here, as if anyone walking through the door could seamlessly mesh right into the tapestry of color and sound.

My thoughts surprise me. My modus operandi is usually to find the negative aspect of something first and ask questions…never. But I don’t have time to think on it for long, because a blinding, hundred-watt smile on female legs is jogging toward me. Jogging. My first instinct is to hold up a cross to ward her off, but I’m suddenly being
hugged.
When I say hugged, what I really mean is suffocated within an inch of my life. And if the hug-o-death doesn’t manage to knock me on my ass, the abundance of Tommy Girl perfume assaulting my senses will finish the job. Just when I’ve finally recovered from shock enough to attempt self-extrication, the unknown hugger beats me to it.

“It’s the photographer herself, then. I’m Faith Claymore. I bet you’re starving after pissing off my brother. It tends to work up an appetite.” Her musical brogue leaves the words hanging in their air as she pulls me toward a booth. I just manage to grab hold of my suitcase before I’m dragged forward. “What do you fancy? There’s cod and chips on the specials menu. I’d go with that since it’s the freshest.”

“I’m not hungry.” Which isn’t entirely true. I could probably choke down a Clydesdale right now if pressed, but I need to get my bearings. I can’t do that with this girl chirping questions at me and Shane staring twin blue daggers at me from behind the bar. For someone who obviously doesn’t want me around, he’s damn sure keeping tabs. “Maybe later.”

“Am I scaring you?” She laughs and even I have to admit, the sound is sweet and clean. Nothing behind it but genuine amusement. “I just wasn’t expecting the contest winner to be a girl so close to my age. From Chicago, are you? Are you fascinating, Willa? I’ll just bet you’re fascinating.”

“Nope. Duller than dirt.”

“Ah, go on.” She laughs again, eyes sparkling. They’re a touch lighter than Shane’s, yet infinitely different because of the innocence behind them. There is nothing innocent about Shane. Faith is pretty in a way that hasn’t fully matured yet. Although, with her fair skin and dimples, she’ll likely be blessed with youthful looks forever. Or cursed, depending on who you’re talking to. “Will you at least have tea?”

“Not unless by tea, you mean coffee.”

“Coffee.” She sighs. “That’s so American. Do you walk around your town with a huge cup full of the stuff? I bet you look like a movie star.”

“Only if the movie is
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
.”

She laughs, drawing attention in our direction.

“I think I’ll just head to my room, actually.”

“Of course. You must be knackered after your flight.” She takes hold of my arm again, and we enter a dim hallway at the back of the pub. It’s lined with three doors, two of them restrooms and one labeled
employees only
. At the other end is a narrow, rickety staircase. Faith stops us at the bottom and points at a plain wooden door visible from where we’re standing. “Now. Your room is right at the top of the stairs. I’d bring you up myself, but I’m in the middle of a shift and Shane’s already got his temper up. No reason to rile it any further.” She rubs a circle onto my back, and I try not to stiffen. “But no worries. I’ll be up later to give you the lay of the land.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, attempting a smile. Back in Chicago, I don’t have a lot of female friends. All right, none. When Evan would bring me around his childhood buddies, their girlfriends would include me, mostly out of curiosity than anything, but I could never quite get the conversational beats down. How to respond to a question without creating too much interest in my past in Nashville. The life I led before Ginger and I escaped to Chicago and she met—then married—the hot cop who lived across the hall. Keeping things light, making casual acquaintances, is a skill that tends to escape me. We were too busy surviving to learn skills like small talk.

“You’re welcome.” Faith smiles as if I’ve been acting completely normal this entire awkward introduction, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I didn’t do too badly this time around. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She starts to walk away but turns back and winks at me. “We’re going to be friends, Willa. There’s no help for you.”

…

I’ve showered off the layer of travel dust and thrown on faded jeans with a red thermal shirt. I’ve unpacked, if you can call dumping the contents of your suitcase into a drawer unpacking. My room is small and simply decorated. White lace everywhere. The curtains and bedspread are made of the stuff. Doilies spread carefully beneath clocks and a telephone. I’d never choose the decor for myself—I’m more of the year-round Christmas lights and murals type—but that’s kind of why I like it. As if maybe I needed to step outside my usual space to see beyond it. I want to do more of that.
Now
, if possible. Giving myself time to think will only set me back when I want to move forward.

It’s only early evening and looking out the window at Baggot Street, I’m desperate to get outside and immerse myself in anonymity. Dubliners walk past in groups, calling out to others across the street. Claymore’s is one of many pubs on the street and smokers congregate outside them all, their laughter reaching me through the glass. Below me, the music in the pub has grown steadily louder since five o’clock, as if the Irish equivalent of happy hour has started. Being so far from anything familiar feels like an aphrodisiac. I want to see unusual sights, taste different air, be unrecognized. I shoot a quick text to Ginger and her husband, Derek, letting them know I’ve arrived in one piece. Simultaneously, I receive one back from each of them saying, “Stay that way.”

God, I want to shake them to death I love them so much. Sometimes I think only having the ability to love a small number of people cranks up the intensity. I have no way of spreading it around, no one else to bestow it on, so it’s highly concentrated and fierce. It’s okay with Derek and Ginger, though, because they share my sickness. Derek, because he’s a homicide cop. Ginger, because she grew up trying to protect me. Love few, love hard. That’s us. My smile slips when Evan blasts through my conscious like a speeding train, honking and flashing his lights. This time it’s accompanied by a wave of pity I refuse to wallow in. Digesting the pain, I throw my messenger bag containing my Nikon, keys, and wallet over my shoulder and head out before I crawl under the white lace and forget why I came here.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I notice the door marked
employees only
is open slightly. This is where I should keep walking, but my annoying curiosity won’t let me, because just inside the door, sitting on an antique desk, I see a family photograph. I’ve never been part of one. My mother couldn’t even remember to feed me most of the time, so making arrangements to capture our likenesses would have been beyond her capabilities. While I’ve never understood the motivation to pose for such a picture—because, inevitably, you will hate your hairstyle within a year, but by then it’s nailed to a fucking wall for everyone to gawk at—they’ve always drawn me in.

Paging Willa’s shrink
. Yes, the curiosity probably comes from wanting to understand something I’ve never had, but that doesn’t make me any less curious. After casting one final glance at the pub entrance, I nudge the employees-only door open with one finger, as if the less I touch it, the less offensive an intrusion this will be. At first, my attention is captured by the smiling foursome, forever frozen in time, watching me invade their privacy. Faith and Shane, both a few years younger, stand front and center in the photo, smiling. The smile looks forced on Shane’s part, but not Faith. She looks positively elated to be participating in family picture day. Behind them stands a man and woman, the man unsmiling with his chin raised proudly, the woman looking as though she’d just forgotten she left something baking in the oven.

I can’t help but laugh in the dimness, wondering why in God’s name they’d chosen this particular shot to display in a frame. They are either the least photogenic family in Ireland, or they’d been heinously ripped off by their photographer. My gaze lingers on Shane a moment before shiny objects in the corner of the room catch my attention.

Trophies, at least a dozen of them, are stuffed haphazardly inside a giant cardboard box, but I can see gold figures of cars mounted on their tops. Interest piqued, I skirt past the desk and pull one out to inspect the inscription.

Second place: 2013 Formula 1 Malaysian Grand Prix, Shane Claymore.
I pull another one out.
Third place: 2013 Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix, Shane Claymore.

I can feel my eyebrows inching toward my hairline. Shane is a race-car driver? A successful one, apparently. It’s the last thing I expect, and I’m not often surprised.

“Well, that explains how he got here so freaking fast,” I mutter, then sift through the box to pull out a framed, black-and-white photograph. Shane is dressed in a white racing uniform, ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. He’s sitting on the hood of a race car, all casual grace, a trophy propped on his thigh. Whoever took the picture must have said something funny, because his smile looks spontaneous. Definitely not forced, like in the family photo. I try not to study it too closely, but it’s hard. His interesting lines, the depth lurking in his eyes. He is a photographer’s dream.

Now that I’ve admitted he is good-looking, I resolve never to think about his looks again. I firmly place the picture back in the box and turn to leave, a dozen thoughts skittering around in my noggin.

What is a race car driver doing bartending in a pub?

I have this thought a split second before I hear footsteps coming down the hallway.
Shit.
I can’t walk out because then someone will know for sure I was snooping. I turn in a circle and ram my hip into the desk.
Goddammitouch
. That’s going to leave a mark. I cringe when I realize my only option is to wait by the door and hope they pass so I can slip out unnoticed.