“Yer beautiful,” he whispered as his lips left mine and played gently against my jaw.
I tilted my head back to give him better access as he moved to my jaw. The sensation made me both shiver and burn, and when I felt the gentle scrape of his teeth, I couldn’t stop my hips from rolling against his. The blankets were still between us, creating a barrier that I hated, but when I tried to push them out of the way his hips jutted sharply downward, immediately giving me the friction I craved and trapping the blankets more firmly between us.
“Ye’ll leave dose dere,” he ordered, giving no further explanation.
Our hips moved in tandem as he held my hands at my shoulders, bracing himself with his elbows. I hated the few inches that separated us then. I was no longer conscious of anything except the need to be closer, to rub my body against his and feel more of his skin.
“Please, Patrick,” I whispered into his ear as he bit down gently on mine. “Let’s just move the blankets. That’s all.” I brought my knees up as far as I could and laid them wide in an attempt to feel more of him, and my breath caught as I succeeded.
“Aye, move de blankets, she says,” he chided into my ear, his voice taking on a bit of Peg’s odd accent, “Dat’s all, she says.”
“Please. It’s fine. Please.” I didn’t care how I sounded. I needed him now. I wanted to break his control so badly he’d give me what I wanted. I arched my chest up—my coup de grace—and just like I knew they would, the thin straps of my tank top became trapped under my shoulders and the front stretched so far that my breasts popped from the top. Who would’ve known that having a ratty old tank top that left me half bare if I twisted just right would come in handy some day?
Patrick froze completely above me, before slowly lifting his face to meet my eyes. He was angry. So angry, that I immediately flushed in embarrassment.
He closed his eyes tightly, his nostrils flaring and his mouth pulled up into a grimace before he lost whatever battle he’d been fighting in his head. I watched him, my hands still trapped under his against the sheets as his head tipped down and his eyes opened, staring at my breasts. He didn’t move, but surprisingly, he didn’t even need to.
Knowing that he was looking at me obliterated any embarrassment I’d felt and immediately ratcheted up my desire even farther. I began to move my hips against his tentatively, waiting for his response and, after a moment, he shoved down against me again. As he did, his head moved and suddenly my left nipple was between his lips and he was sucking it against the roof of his mouth. My breath caught as I tried to be quiet, but it was almost impossible to keep the noises from pouring out of my mouth. It all felt so good.
Until suddenly, it didn’t.
Patrick dropped his hips, trapping mine against the bed and bit down on my nipple hard enough that it wasn’t quite painful, but wasn’t pleasant, either. That’s when I lost the battle against sound and let out a mournful and pained whimper.
“Ye’ll not move again, do ye hear me?” he asked harshly as soon as he’d let my nipple go. “I’ve made meself clear, yet ye keep pushin’ and pushin’.”
His tone was scathing, and I immediately felt tears hit the back of my eyes as I tried to pull my hands from his. I suddenly felt naked, the thought of his gaze on my breasts becoming something that turned me cold and made me panic.
“Let go!” I choked. “Let go! Let go! Let go!”
My words gained in speed and volume as I said it over and over again, but it only took seconds before his gaze turned from surprise to horror. He let go of my hands like they were on fire, and his mouth hung open as I pulled up my tank top and pushed at his chest.
“Leave me alone,” I sniffled as soon as I was covered again. “Just leave me alone.” I brought my arms to my chest to protect myself, curling my hands into fists at my neck.
“No,” he said quietly, bringing one hand to cup the side of my face and leaving it there even as I tried to pull away. “Ye’ve got it wrong, love.”
His voice was so gentle that my breath hitched, but I lowered my eyes. I didn’t want to face him. I just wanted him to leave, so I could curl up into a little ball and pretend that I hadn’t just made a colossal fool of myself.
“Amy, look at me,” he ordered. “I’ll not move until ye do.”
I hated him a little bit then.
When I finally forced my eyes to his, the gaze that met mine was solemn.
“Dere are two types of women in dis world,” he told me, rubbing his thumb along my cheekbone. “De ones ye fuck, and de ones ye marry.”
My body jolted, and I wanted nothing more than to slap him across the face. I knew I was glaring, and I felt the tears drying into little hard lines against my temples where they’d run off my face.
“As much as I want ye, yer not a quick fuck,” he said adamantly, lowering his face close to mine. “I’ve known ye weren’t since de moment I met ye, yet I keep playin’ wit’ fire just to be close to ye. I knew better dan to kiss ye tonight, I knew dat t’ings would get outta hand.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s de truth. I’d like nuttin’ better den to sink into ye, darlin’. But dat’s not right.”
“You yelled at me.” My voice was shaky and I sniffled again.
“I’m sorry.” He tilted his head until our foreheads were touching, closing his eyes. “It’s not ye I’m angry wit.’ Forgive me.” His lips met mine softly in repentance, and I sighed against his mouth, my body beginning to relax.
He was like a hypnotist, controlling my emotions with a small movement or word. I knew it, yet I couldn’t seem to stop it. It was as if my body followed his, my emotions mirrored his own.
As soon as his mouth lifted from mine, he crawled from the bed. When he stood, I couldn’t help but stare at his hips where he was still hard and pushing against the zipper of his jeans.
“I’m leavin’ after church wit’ Mum in de mornin’, so I won’t see ye again before I go.” He said, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s probably for de best.”
“So, this, us, it’s over then?” I asked, rolling to my side to watch him as he moved to the door.
“I didn’t say dat.”
I finally looked away from his body and met his eyes in confusion. “You just said—”
He shook his head once as my words drifted off. Turning to open the door, he looked at me one more time over his shoulder. “I’ll just have to marry ye.”
Chapter 11
Amy
I knew from previous Sundays searching for Peg in the pews of our church that she attended a different one, but that didn’t stop me from looking for any sign of her or Patrick the next day. He’d left me reeling the night before, questioning everything between us in an endless loop that hadn’t allowed me to sleep. He’d have to marry me? I was seventeen, for goodness sake. I didn’t even have my driver’s license in Ireland or America. I hadn’t even graduated from high school!
I also couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of there being two categories for women—fuck or marry. It wasn’t the nineteen-fifties anymore. The sexual revolution had changed things, and frankly, the idea of saving virginity for marriage seemed archaic. Who wanted to wait to sleep with someone until after they were married? What if they were horrible in bed? Then you were stuck with them for life, especially if you were Catholic. There’d be no escaping.
I zoned out for most of the service, my mind wandering and causing my heart to race in both anger and confusion. My inattention didn’t really matter, though; we always stood at the same time, replied at the same time, knelt at the same time, received communion at the same time. Catholic services were comforting that way, always the same, never surprising or different.
The days after that passed slowly, especially after I realized that Patrick must already be gone from Peg’s and on his way back to college. It was like the spark that had been burning in my chest while I knew he was close was suddenly gone, and the days spread out before me under a dreary Irish cloud. The only su
nshine during those days was Peg.
We dropped back into our normal routine pretty quickly after Patrick was gone. I met Peg at the same time every day after school and ran to her house under the cover of darkness on the nights my parents entertained. The only thing different about those times at Peg’s were the days that she received a letter from Patrick. They always had a word or two for me in them, nothing profound or embarrassing, just a little something that assured me I was in his thoughts still. She let me read them sometimes, and other times she read them aloud, never letting me even glance at the page. I knew those letters contained things she’d rather I didn’t know about, and I hated when he wrote them. I wanted to see his words, the small cursive handwriting that sometimes had crossed out letters and words as if he was thinking too fast for his fingers to keep up with and he didn’t even have time to erase or start again. I needed to see the one or two lines he’d written especially for me.
The day of my birthday, I felt especially low. My parents had told me the night before that we had plans for dinner, and I dreaded the hour-long affair that I knew would include trying to politely converse with them as if they knew and cared about anything happening in my life. They’d had company the night before, and I’d held out as long as I could before the noises in their room had become so loud that I’d once again climbed out my window. Subsequently, my reluctance to run to Peg had caused both of us to stay awake late into the night, me because I’d been too afraid to go to sleep and Peg because she’d been too afraid for me to sleep. I’d promised her as I left the house that morning that I wouldn’t do it again, and the bags under her eyes made me feel like a complete asshole as she’d left for work.
Peg wasn’t waiting for me as I walked home that day, and my gut clenched in worry as I reached her bare front stoop. Was she okay? Even if it was raining, she was usually at least standing in the doorway as I’d made my way to her house. The sight of her had never been absent in the two months since Patrick had left again for school.
“Peg?” I called, knocking on her door before turning the knob slowly to find it unlocked. “Peg? Are you home?”
“In here, darlin’ girl!” she called from the kitchen. The breath I’d been holding immediately left me in a relieved whoosh.
As soon as I got to the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of a small cake complete with birthday candles. “Happy Birthday!” she yelled so loud I was sure the neighbors across the street heard her.
My mouth lifted in a huge smile as I looked around the kitchen. She’d hung up a homemade banner and streamers, and I could have cried at the trouble I knew she’d gone to.
“I can’t believe you did all this.” My heart felt light as I met her eyes.
“Of course I did! My girl is eighteen years today. It’s cause for celebration!” She carried the cake to the table and set it down, careful not to let the candles burn out. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet ye at the door. I wanted to have the candles burnin’ when ye stepped in! Well, blow them out then.”
I dropped my bag to the floor as I stepped closer to her, but I was in no hurry to blow out the candles. I hadn’t had birthday candles in years. I wanted to savor the moment, to take it all in for just a second so I could remember every detail later. When I finally leaned down to blow them out, she started clapping delightedly, a wide smile on her face.
“I love you,” I told her, my voice full of wonder.
“Sweet girl,” she murmured with a soft look, “I love ye, too.”
We sat down and ate the yellow cake she’d made, and as soon as I’d finished, she popped up from her chair to grab a small wrapped package from the couch.
“You didn’t have to—” I started uncomfortably.
“Ach, I wanted to. It’s the day of yer birth, the day God saw fit to put ye on this earth so seventeen years later ye could make yer way to me. It’s worth celebratin’, and it’s worth a gift.” She handed me the squishy parcel and stood, expectantly waiting for me to open it.
I couldn’t help the look of confusion or the emergence of a grin that hit my face.
“An apron. Did you make this? It’s beautiful!”
“Aye, I did. It’s time for ye to start learnin’ a little more in the kitchen. We’ll start lessons after school tomorrow. Yer an adult, ye need to be able to feed yer family more than spaghetti and stew… not that those are anythin’ to be ashamed of.”
“I love it.”
“Really? Yer sure?” she asked nervously.
“I’m sure.”
“Right. Well, then, one more gift for ye.”
“Peg, you shouldn’t have got me—”
“Oh, this one’s not from me,” she replied with a sneaky smile, handing me a thin envelope. “Ye go on into the livin’ room while I clean this up. Have a bit of privacy, eh?”
For Amy on her Birthday was written on the front of the envelope in familiar messy cursive. I barely made it to the couch before I carefully opened it, loathe to ruin even the envelope.
Amy,
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss...
I’d like to credit those words to myself, but I’ll be honest and tell you they come from W.B. Yates. Don’t try to find the rest of the poem, it’s a bit of a depressing thing. Only these few words seem to remind me of you.
I hope you’re doing well. Mum says you’re spending a lot of time with her. That’s good. Spend as much time with her as you can, it’s good for her and it keeps you away from those parents of yours.
I hope you have a wonderful birthday, sweetheart.
I wish I could write you pages and pages, but if I begin to do that I know that I will not be able to stop. I’d never get any work done that way.
Know that I am thinking of you constantly, especially on your special day. I wish I could be with you to celebrate.
Stay safe, darling.
Patrick
I read his letter over and over again, letting it seep into my brain until I could recite it word for word. He called me sweetheart again, and darling. My heart raced as I imagined him sitting at a small desk somewhere, finding just the right poem to quote and words to write. He hadn’t crossed out one letter, as if he’d painstakingly chosen every word before he wrote it down.
“Amy, it’s almost five,” Peg warned me as she laid her hand on the top of my head. “Best put that away for now and head home.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” I mumbled, folding the paper back up and slipping it into its envelope.
“I know ye do. Do ye have special plans tonight?”
“My parents are taking me to dinner,” I answered as I grabbed my bag and stuffed the letter inside.
“Well, I’m sure it will be lovely.” It sounded as if she was trying to convince both of us.
“Probably not. I doubt I’ll be over tonight, though. Even they wouldn’t have people over on my birthday.” I leaned down to hug her slight frame and inhaled deeply. “Thank you so much for my cake and my present.”
“Yer welcome.” She patted my back twice and then shoved me away gently. “Go on with ye then. Ye’ll tell me about dinner tomorrow.”
I left the house with a knot in my stomach that even thinking of my letter couldn’t chase away. I didn’t belong with my parents anymore. Peg knew it, and I knew it. Yet I kept having to go back to them, and each time it became harder for me to do.
By the time my parents picked me up for dinner, the letter stuffed under my mattress had become yet another thing that depressed me. I loved it, every sentiment and curved letter… but it made me miss Patrick even more. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to smell the scent of cigarette smoke and feel the callouses on his fingers brushing against my face. And I hated that I was spending my birthday dinner with two people who hadn’t given a shit about me for as long as I could remember.
“Why so glum?” my mom asked as we sat down in the fanciest restaurant in Ballyshannon. I hated that they’d taken me there. It was more for show than anything e
lse. They wanted to see and be seen; the doting parents who took their daughter out for an expensive dinner for her birthday. It was disgusting.
“No reason.” I smiled at the waiter as he left, then fiddled with my silverware.
“Well, cheer up! You’re eighteen! Doesn’t every girl wait impatiently for the day she turns eighteen?”
I smiled thinly in an effort to make her stop talking. Her voice was loud and obnoxious in the quiet room, the American accent she’d so painstakingly developed causing people to glance at our table. Exactly the reason she’d done it.
“A legal adult now, huh?” my dad asked in a voice appropriate for the restaurant we were sitting in. “How does that feel?”
“Pretty much the same as yesterday.”
It didn’t take long for the waiter to come back for our order, and soon after we were eating our meals silently, the requisite question and answer session over. It wasn’t as if they ignored me, they just didn’t have anything else to say. When you have little interest in the person across the table from you, it makes small talk virtually impossible.
It wasn’t until dessert had been served that my father once again began to talk, and the ground seemed as if it was falling out beneath me.
Chapter 12
Patrick
“I made a mistake,” Robbie told us, sitting heavily in Amy’s vacated chair. “I’m not sure it happened, but de lads…”
“What de hell did ye do, Da?” My stomach was churning at the sight of my father’s hunched shoulders. I’d never seen him less than completely confident, no matter the situation—even the day my mum had kicked him out after she’d found out he’d been spending time with the O’Halloran brothers. He’d argued then, sure in his path even as she’d packed his suitcase.
He could have stayed. I’d seen it on his face that he knew he could get Mum to change her mind, but he hadn’t. His respect for her and a goodly dose of pride had forced him to leave the house that day, and I’d only seen him sporadically through my childhood. It wasn’t until I’d began at Uni that I began to see him more often, our paths crossing in a way that I knew hadn’t been by chance.