In Another Life

Chapter 21

"What's the matter?"

The question immediately rouses you from your daydream, making you sit up and look at Amy with wide eyes. She's staring at you from across the table, hot coffee steaming in her hands, and you wonder how long she's been trying to get your attention. You clear your throat,

"Nothing," you reassure her with a small smile.

"Doesn't seem like nothing," she replies, "you look concerned."

Your gaze wanders around the hotel room, unable to look her in the eye. You can't tell her what you were really thinking about, so you make a flippant comment about work and bring the chipped, white coffee cup sitting in front of you to your lips. Amy must've made it for you. The liquid is too hot, but you drink it anyway and it makes your tongue raw. She looks at you with a furrowed brow, but accepts your excuse with a small nod. You try and change the subject, but Amy gets there before you and her new choice of conversation is equally as uncomfortable as the last,

"Brendan is nice, isn't he?" She says, casually flipping through the newspaper beside her.

Your heart jumps into your throat. You wonder for one paranoid moment if Amy knows that you were thinking about the Irish man; if she could read your innermost thoughts and was forced her to confront them herself. She looks up from her paper and smiles at you, diffusing your paranoia,

"Suppose," you say with a shrug, fingers clenched onto your cup as you take another sip, "he's OK."

You imagine the feel of him against you, heavy and solid, hands on every part of your body. The memory feels like a noose around your neck, haunting you. He's OK? He's more than OK. He's everything.

"Cheryl is hilarious," Amy continues, unaware of your discomfort, "why did you never tell me you had friends here?"

The question seems innocent and filled with genuine curiosity. She looks at you with bright, pale eyes and cocks her head to one side.

"They're not my friends," you reply, "just some people I've met a couple of times."

She frowns,

"Well they seemed to know you well," she says, "Cheryl said you used to go into their pub all the time."

You can feel your defences rising, growing with each question your wife throws at you. You try to keep yourself calm, but you feel flustered under her continued scrutiny. Why can't she just let it go?

"I did, yeah," you say, "but I just sat by meself, didn't I? I was just a customer to them."

She shrugs,

"It didn't look that way to me," she says, "Brendan seemed fond of you."

You let out a sigh and roll your eyes, but inside your heart is beating against your chest. Fond of you? The idea is laughable. The man can barely stand you at the moment, and yet he was still able to convince everyone at that table last night that he was your best friend. You can't help but admire his ability to skilfully manipulate everybody in his path, including his sister and your wife.

"You seemed to like him, anyway," you mumble, and it comes out sounding bitter, "your jaw practically hit the floor when you saw him."

"What?" She looks at you with genuine surprise.

"Oh he's so handsome," you mimic, "you were all over him!"

Amy laughs and puts her paper down, peering at you with a wide grin on her face,

"Oh my God, you can't be serious!" She says.

"What?" You grunt, barely able to contain your annoyance.

"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before," she grins, "that's hilarious."

"Shut up," you grumble.

"Are you?" She asks.

"Am I what?" You snap, setting your cup down fiercely on the glass tabletop.

"Jealous," She says, "are you jealous?"

"No!" You respond.

"All right, all right," she says, raising her coffee cup to her lips to hide her smile.

You feel the hairs on your arms prickle as you peer at Amy through lowered lashes. You wonder what she would say if she knew that the reason for your jealousy had nothing to do with her and more to do with the man she seems so fond of.

Your thoughts are soon disrupted as Pauline climbs onto the seat beside you, in front of her bowl of Cornflakes, and begins munching on the golden cereal. You can't stop staring at her, can't look at her anymore without wondering what Brendan's child would look like now. Your heart aches when you think of her. Niamh.

Once again, as if reading your mind, Amy says,

"Still, it's awful what happened to him, isn't it?"

"Hm?" You shake your head from your thoughts.

"Brendan," she clarifies, "You know, what Cheryl told us about his daughter."

Once again you look at Pauline; her tiny, soft cheeks and fragile body so small and delicate that even the softest of touches might break her. You imagine having to watch on as her body is lowered to the ground. The thought of burying someone you love so much -of watching on helplessly as they die right before your eyes- does not bare thinking about.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

"Tragic," you respond, unable to form any other words.

"I don't know if I could cope," she says, "it would just be so-"

"I'm going to head to work now," you stand abruptly, cutting off her words before she can finish, "I won't be back late."

"Oh, uh-" She fumbles with her newspaper, then folds it closed on the table as she watches your brusque movements, "OK. Well, I was thinking we could go out tonight if you're not back too late."

You pause as you reach the door, then turn to face her. She smiles at you from the table, lightly thumbing the neck of her crimson cardigan,

"I'm not sure what time I'll be back," you say, "but yeah, sure, if it's not too late."

You watch as Amy nods, trying to hide the slight downturn of her lips with an even wider smile. She turns back around in her chair after giving you a chaste goodbye, and on your way out the door you can't help but feel like your wife knows that them coming to Dublin was not what she expected it to be. She thought you would both be spending more time together, having fun, but the reality has not been quite so rose-tinted.

When you close the room door behind you, you lean back against the dark, wooden grain and exhale a sigh. You feel exhausted and you don't know if you will ever feel well again as the pressure of your double life weighs heavier on your shoulders with each passing day.

Xoxoxo

You make it out of work earlier than you expected to.

You walk out of the office building and onto the street, glancing down at your watch just as the time reads 5.45 pm . You still have enough time to go back to the hotel, get ready and go out to dinner with your wife and child. For a moment you entertain the thought, but your body doesn't listen as your feet continue to take you in another destination.

The sun is setting in the sky and the streets are shadowed as you make your way through them, steps becoming even more firm and determined as you pick up the speed. You have something you need to do and your feet can't keep up with the pace of your racing mind.

You decided it while you were in your office, mulling over useless files while Darren prattled on in your ear about how thankful you should be that he saved your ass at the meeting yesterday. Apparently the American associate loved your presentation, even if the little guy was a bit scatter-brained. You didn't appreciate the comment, buy you figured it could have been a lot worse. However, you couldn't even concentrate on Darren's words because all you kept thinking about was that name in your head- Niamh. You couldn't shake it even when you tried, desperately tried to forget about what Cheryl had told you. That's when you knew that you had to talk to him about it.

It went beyond any other need in your body and when you left the office that day, you knew what you had to do.

You feel a vibration in your pocket as you walk and when you pull out your black, slimline phone the name Amy appears on the screen in bright, taunting letters. You stop and look around, afraid that her eyes are on you every minute of the day, and you tap your index finger on the side of the case as you bite your lip in thought. You don't want to speak to her, because listening to her forlorn voice on the other end of the line as you tell her you can't go out tonight would only break your resolve. You can't afford that. You have things you need to do, so you reject the call and keep walking.

When you finally arrive at the pub an eerie calmness overwhelms you. Your heartbeat is steady in your chest, pumping blood through your body at a controlled speed, You can hear the familiar, low hum of the patrons inside the pub and you feel slightly relieved that it's not too busy. This way, if the Irishman kicks you out, there won't be too many people there to witness it.

You walk inside and immediately you bump into Cheryl, who is just about to step out the door. You freeze. You peer up and down her tall body, dressed in bright blues and yellows with a red flower clipped into her hair.

"Oh, hello!" She smiles, flashing bright white teeth, "how are you, love?"

You watch as she fumbles with her purse, pulling out keys and a small vanity mirror from the depths of her bag.

"Good," you reply, though you're not convinced you are, "you going somewhere?"

"I'm just heading around to Nate's, " she smiles, then proudly adds, "Nate's my boyfriend."

"Oh," you grin, "hot date, then?"

"You know it," she giggles, "see you later, babe."

As she turns to walk out the door, you wonder if the Irishman is going to be looking after the pub tonight. For a moment you worry that he won't have time to talk if he's in the middle of manning the counter, but -as if reading your thoughts- Cheryl stops in the doorway and slowly turns back to face you. You stare at her with wide eyes as she smiles softly,

"Is there anything I can help you with, love?" She asks, "You seem a little lost."

You pause for a moment, contemplate whether or not to ask her, but you don't want to waste time looking for him. You need to speak to him immediately, whether it flairs his sister's suspicions or not. You realize you're becoming more reckless, less controlled over the situation, and you're playing with fire by being so obvious...but you don't care.

"Yeah, maybe," you say, nervously scratching your head, "is Brendan about anywhere?"

"Hm," she twists her lips in thought, then shrugs, "sorry love, he left a few hours ago and I haven't seen him since."

Your shoulders drop and you try to keep the disappointment from your face.

"That's all right," you smile softly, trying to hide your disappointment.

"I don't know where he goes to," she says, "sometimes it's like he just disappears off the face of the earth!"

You nod along as the blonde continues to ramble about Brendan's disappearing act, trying to figure out where on Earth he might possibly go. You remember the blonde talking about it the last time you were in Dublin, how her brother disappeared for hours and nobody knew where he went to. You try and think of where he might be, where he might go to sit in thought for a few hours...he could be anywhere.

Suddenly, realization strikes you. You peer up at Cheryl, who is still talking, and you immediately move past her through the open doors and out into the streets. You hear her call after you, but you ignore her cries. You know where he is...so you go to him.

Xoxoox

You stand behind the tall, crooked gates and peer into the grassland with wide eyes. The sun is setting in the sky, casting shadows over the criss-cross of gravestones like haunting spectres. You glance up at the sign posted in front of the gated entrance and bite your lip as you read the words St. Augustine Cemetery. A fine rust has gathered over it, wearing away the words until they're barely visible anymore. You can tell it's an old graveyard. Even the layout of the stones is erratic and haphazard, like crooked teeth, and the grounds look unkempt. It gives you chills.

You slowly walk over to the entryway and unhook the latch to the entrance gate. You can't help but wonder why the grounds are not more protected, but you soon dismiss the thought when you take in the quiet, barrenness of the place. Silence surrounds you and the sound is oppressive to your ears. Not even the birds seem to chirp in this place.

You slowly walk around the graveyard and try to spot the tall, familiar shape, but you find yourself chasing shadows through the cemetery. Your whole body is on edge as you walk towards the small, stone church in the middle of the graveyard and try to figure out where he could be. You were so sure he would be here, so positive, but as you walk past the church towards the back of the graveyard you begin to wonder if your assumption was correct...

That's when you spot him.

He's standing on a small incline where several graves are placed, each with a worn gravestone to mark the spot. For a moment you simply stare at him, breath caught in your throat, as he peers down at the only grave where the stone is not worn, but eerily untouched. Not old enough to be dissolved by time. Niamh's grave.

The sun shines down through the trees surrounding the graveyard and hits the spot where he's standing. You marvel at the sight, which is breathtaking in its sadness, and you find yourself swept away in his grief. Once again he's dressed in dark clothes, as if in a permanent state of mourning, and all you can see is his profile from the position you're standing in.

When you feel that you've spied upon his solitude enough, you begin to walk towards him. If he hears you coming he hides it well, because he does not turn to look at you, even when you're standing beside him and your arms are practically touching. You look down upon his daughter's grave, read the words imprinted on the headstone and try to stop yourself from showing any emotion,

Died young...beloved daughter...deeply missed...

You close your eyes tight, then slowly turn your head to look at him.

His face is still, uncreased, as if he doesn't have the energy to fight you anymore. You wonder if he's letting you stay out of some sort of lasting respect for his daughter, and when you see his cheek twitch you realize that is exactly what he's doing. You wonder if he's going to say anything, break the silence, and just when you feel like he's not going to say a word the sound of his voice makes you jump,

"How did you know?" He asks.

You wonder if he's asking how you knew where he was, or how you knew about his daughter. You marvel at how steady and calm his voice is, as if he'd been expecting you all along.

"Your sister told me," you reply simply, truthfully, "last night in the pub. She thought you were upset, so she told me what happened to...what happened."

He inhales deep, a long hiss, and looks to the sky as if begging the Lord to give him patience.

"Cheryl told you," he nods, letting the information sink in, "right. OK. Good."

You can tell by his demeanour that this news is anything but good.

"Don't be mad at her," you say gently.

At that moment he turns his head and looks at you for the first time since you arrived. You meet his gaze, try to let him know that you will not be scared away so easily this time. He cocks his head, and just when you think he's going to start screaming at you, he slowly turns his attention back to the grave.

"It wasn't any of her business to tell you," he finally replies, then adds, "it's none of your business either."

His expression is weary and his hooded eyes are barely able to stay open as he speaks to you. You've never seen him look like this, so vulnerable. You feel like you've taken advantage of him by coming here and interrupting his moment of peace.

"Do you want me to go?" You finally ask, when you feel like your presence is unwelcome.

"What's the point?" He shakes his head, then laughs mirthlessly, "we're just going to keep running into each other, ain't we? It won't be over."

You remain silent, unable to come up with an answer that would make him happy. As time passes in silence the shadows of the graveyard become darker, until the sky above weaves in pale shades of oranges and pinks.

"Does Cheryl know you come here?" You ask, though you remember her telling you that Brendan couldn't even drive past the cemetery, let alone stand by his daughter's grave.

"No," he replies, "it's better that she doesn't."

"Why?" You ask.

"Because..." he pauses for a moment, contemplating his answer, "she'd only worry if she knew. She'd tell me it's not healthy."

You wonder if it is.

"How often do you come here?"

He takes in a deep breath and twists his neck, then sniffs as if trying to maintain some sort of composure.

"You don't get to talk to me about this," he says.

You're silent for a moment, letting the words sink deep into your flesh, cutting you to pieces. After a moment you nod,

"OK," you whisper, "if that's what you want."

Brendan sighs and shakes his head, A long silence follows your words and just when you think he's going to turn and leave you standing alone, he says,

"Almost every day," he turns to look at you, as if trying to gauge your reaction, but your eyes meet his intently and you don't say a word, "clears my head."

You feel a twinge in your chest. Part of you wishes you hadn't come.

"When did it happen?" You ask, then shake your head, "sorry, I shouldn't-"

"A few years ago," he nods, then bows his head to the ground, "feels like yesterday... nobody should have to bury their own child."

You can't speak and you remain speechless as he continues to talk,

"I remember sitting with Eileen and she was shaking in my arms. I remember the paramedics arriving...I don't remember much after that."

There's something detached and mechanical about the way he's speaking. As if he's separated himself from the memory.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly.

"It's not your fault," he mutters, coolly.

"Not for that..." you say and he looks at you in confusion, "I'm sorry for saying you didn't know what it was like to have kids. I didn't mean...I didn't know, otherwise I would've never...I have no idea what it must've been like for you to-"

"Steven," he puts his hand out and presses the back to your chest to cut you off, "just...don't, OK? It doesn't matter."

"It does though," you say, "it matters to me."

He's silent and you can feel the heat of his arm against yours as you both stand, side by side like two soldiers, and you're not sure if you're both ready to fight against the World or each other.

"I just..." you mumble, shaking your head. You don't know if you should finish the sentence.

"Just what?" He asks.

You peer up at him with wide, blue eyes.

"I just wish I could've been there for you," you say, swallowing hard, "I do."

He's silent, but the strength in him is unmistakable. With a soft, calm voice he says,

"You wouldn't have wanted to know me back then, Steven."

You press your lips tightly together as he takes his hands away and shoves them into the pockets of his black jacket. You can still feel his arm beside yours and you wonder if he notices it too. If he does notice, he doesn't mind. You change the subject,

"Cheryl wonders where you go, you know?" You say, "She told me once that you just leave and nobody knows where you are."

"Probably thinks I'm up to no good," he smirks, and it sends a flutter through your chest to see him smile.

"Probably," you smile softly, and when he turns to look at you his eyes are light.

You feel something swelling inside you when you see that look in his eyes and it gives you a boost of adrenaline, something strong and addictive that makes you want to tell him what's on your mind; explain why you're here, back in Dublin, when you swore you would stay away. You don't want to rock the boat, especially when he's only started being civil, but you can't help yourself and when you start to speak it comes out in an unstoppable rush,

"Brendan," you start, breathing deeply to try and garner up some courage, "I know you probably don't want to hear this..."

"Steven..."

It sounds like a warning, but you don't stop because if you stop then you won't say the words and you can feel them bubbling fiercely under the surface to the point where you can't keep them contained any longer.

"Just let me finish," You whisper, then quickly continue, "I just want you to know that I didn't come back here to piss you off, I swear."

Your eyes scan over his face and he's looking at you with an expression that you can't read. He looks relaxed, effortlessly so, and sometimes you wonder how he can maintain such stoicism. It's only recently that you've began to realize that it's his defence. You take his silence as an OK to continue,

"It's just..." You look to the ground, then away from him towards the expanse of trees surrounding the graveyard, "when I left...I thought it would make me happy, but it didn't," your heart burns in your chest, "I thought everything would go back to normal but it didn't."

"That all?" He finally asks.

"No," you say, "look I know this is wrong, what I'm doing...I know it's not fair. I love my family, but..." You choke on your words, "but I can't make them happy. I can't. I can't be what they want me to be."

"Try harder," he looks at you with sharp, icy eyes and you can tell he's trying to contain his growing frustration, but you won't be silenced.

"I have," you say, hands reaching for your hair as if ready to pull it out, "God, I've tried so hard Brendan. Do you think I wanted this to happen? All of this? This was never what I wanted...but it's too late now. Then, when Cheryl told me about..." You look at the grave and you know you don't need to say the words, "all I wanted to do was..." You shake your head and sigh, put your head in your hands, "I never wanted this to happen."

"You think I did?" He asks, eyes dark, "You really think I did?"

"I don't know, Brendan, I don't know what you're thinking," you say.

"Yeah and you're a fucking open book, ain't ye Steven?" He's given up trying to be calm.

"I'm just scared, all right?" You exclaim, unable to keep it in any longer. You look at him with wide eyes, "I'm just scared."

A silence falls between you as you both stare at each other. You feel like you're in the eye of the storm and you can hear the birds chirping while the sun splits the trees, but you know there's a hurricane to come.

"It's OK to be scared," he says, looking at you carefully.

You don't know how to respond.

As the silence continues you stand side by side and you can feel his arm shift as he pulls his hands out of his pockets. His arm is hanging beside yours, and the air between your hand and his hand feels thick and electric. You wonder what it would feel like in this moment to touch him and, as the thought circles in your head, you find yourself unable to control your body's response. Like a drug, you need to be close to him again. All you want to do is comfort him, your body aching as you see him stand by the grave. You want to be there for him now the way you couldn't be at the time. You hold your breath as you slowly reach out and trace your little finger against the edge of his palm.

You expect him to pull away, so you bite your lip in preparation, but when he doesn't you feel your heart lurch and pound in shock. You let your little finger slowly trail the length of his palm, then tentatively let your ring finger follow. The hairs on your arms are erect, sending tingles through your body, and your mouth is dry because you can barely breath. When you feel confident that the Irishman is not going to pull away, you let your palm glide against his and slip your fingers into his lax grip.

It feels like you're holding onto air, but your heart is beating against your rib cage with the force of a lead weight. You can't believe he's letting you do this and once again you wonder if he would if you'd caught him at any other moment in time. Maybe it means nothing, but it feels like it means everything.

You stay this way for what feels like an eternity until finally, as if becoming suddenly aware, he lets his fingers slip through yours and part. You say nothing, but you can't help the disappointment from settling in your gut as you realize he's not ready to take you back. He steps away, trying to put as much distance between you as possible, and you can't feel his arm beside yours anymore.

"What do you want from me, Steven?" He finally asks, brow furrowed as he peers at you.

You ponder the question for a moment, but when you realize that no time in the World will be enough to form the perfect answer, you simply respond,

"I don't want anything from you..." you say, then swallow and quietly add, "I just want you."

"What if I say no?"

You step forward, the mere thought of it enough to scare you to your bones, and you look at him with wide eyes. You can't help the shiver in your voice when you say,

"Brendan, please," you whisper, practically begging, "just...just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

His eyes meet yours, burning into you, making you even more urgent.

"You think it's that easy, Steven?" he shakes his head and peers at you, brow furrowed to the bridge of his nose, "What about your family? Your wife? It doesn't all just go away, that's not how it works."

"I'll do anything," You say, unable to stop the frustration from seeping into your voice, "just tell me what you want, please, just let me talk to you for ten minutes. That's all I want, just ten minutes."

You step forward an inch more, so close you can practically feel his entire body against you. He stares at you for one long moment and just when you think he's going to tell you to get lost, he mumbles,

"...Not here..."

You can feel his hot breath on your cheek as the words fall from his lips, then he slowly pulls away and takes the warmth of his body with him. You shiver against the cold and watch as he steps away from the grave and down the narrow, trodden path through the graveyard. The sky is dark against his silhouette as you watch him, and you can barely believe what's happening when he turns round and says,

"You coming or what?"

You don't wait to be asked twice.