before, I wondered, or had my leaving changed him somehow – embittered him. And if he had changed, was it permanent?
I looked around the room, noticing its disarray as if for the first time – the beer bottles he hadn't managed to clear away, the clothes strewn around the room, the suitcase he was living out of dumped haphazardly next to a wall.
Add to that the fact that Conor was now a traveling martial arts fighter who made his living hitting men in a cage, it was hard to avoid the creeping suspicion that he'd never fully recovered from me leaving. It was what I'd feared all these years, but brought vividly to life.
I pulled my mind back to the present. "Yes. I was going to tell you, I promise, but –."
He interrupted, his voice low and husky, his eyes glinting with the fierce, determined zeal of a man who was finally getting to ask the questions he'd held onto for years. "But you could never find the right time?"
I nodded mutely, tears prickling my eyes as I too was forced to deal with memories I hadn't fully unpacked in years. I let my head sink, unable to bear the pressure of Conor staring back at me with those deep, hurt green eyes. I'd known him long enough to know exactly how he was feeling right now – the same pain as a wounded animal. It was perhaps worse even than the hurt I was experiencing, because he couldn't, or wouldn't, express it out loud. If I knew him, he'd soon be off to look for a punching bag to hit.
He surprised me.
He closed the distance between us, and before I knew it his hand was on my shoulder, pressing down, comforting. The touch was electric. My body remembered it as if we'd only parted yesterday, and it reacted with a shiver. It had always had a mind of its own around Conor…
"Don't cry, girl." He murmured softly, his lilting accent suited so perfectly to providing comfort, so unusual for a man who looked as dangerous as he did, the kind of man you wouldn't want to pass late at night in a darkened alley.
I couldn't turn to look at him, couldn't bear to see that hurt in his eyes. He hadn't moved his arm from my shoulders, nor stopped his hand from gently stroking my upper arm. He smelled the same, too – of the salty scent of fresh sweat on his skin, and the heat of his favorite Irish whiskey on his breath.
"You've been drinking," I whispered back.
He threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "Have you forgotten that much about me? I'm Irish, for God's sake – and I had a bleeding fight tonight!"
I flushed and turned my head automatically to face him. It was like barely a moment had passed, like I was still that same naive young girl who'd wandered into the wrong part of Dublin – his part, and he was still the same eighteen-year-old kid who'd put his fists up and his street-cred on the line to save me – a girl he'd never met before.
I shivered with the memory of how close I'd come to…
Don't think about it .
He'd saved me once. Could he do it again?
I didn't dare think about it. Long years of bitter experience had taught me that to think about salvation was inevitably to hope for it. And Alexandria isn't a place that rewards an emotion as fleeting or as ephemeral as hope.
No, it was safer to focus on what I had right in front of me. And besides, it wasn't like I was capable of much thinking right now, anyway. Not with Conor so close. I'd spent so many years lying in bed at night, dreaming of this moment, dreaming of us being reunited. Okay, sure – this old, faded motel wasn't exactly where I had pictured our reunion going down, and sure, I'd imagined a softer bed…
But what really mattered was that he was here at all.
After all this time, he was here, sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t even know how we’d come to sit down, like my brain was ignoring anything but his presence, here, next to me And all the rest? The stained, ratty curtains; the springs pushing their way out of the old mattress, all of it. It simply faded
I looked around the room, noticing its disarray as if for the first time – the beer bottles he hadn't managed to clear away, the clothes strewn around the room, the suitcase he was living out of dumped haphazardly next to a wall.
Add to that the fact that Conor was now a traveling martial arts fighter who made his living hitting men in a cage, it was hard to avoid the creeping suspicion that he'd never fully recovered from me leaving. It was what I'd feared all these years, but brought vividly to life.
I pulled my mind back to the present. "Yes. I was going to tell you, I promise, but –."
He interrupted, his voice low and husky, his eyes glinting with the fierce, determined zeal of a man who was finally getting to ask the questions he'd held onto for years. "But you could never find the right time?"
I nodded mutely, tears prickling my eyes as I too was forced to deal with memories I hadn't fully unpacked in years. I let my head sink, unable to bear the pressure of Conor staring back at me with those deep, hurt green eyes. I'd known him long enough to know exactly how he was feeling right now – the same pain as a wounded animal. It was perhaps worse even than the hurt I was experiencing, because he couldn't, or wouldn't, express it out loud. If I knew him, he'd soon be off to look for a punching bag to hit.
He surprised me.
He closed the distance between us, and before I knew it his hand was on my shoulder, pressing down, comforting. The touch was electric. My body remembered it as if we'd only parted yesterday, and it reacted with a shiver. It had always had a mind of its own around Conor…
"Don't cry, girl." He murmured softly, his lilting accent suited so perfectly to providing comfort, so unusual for a man who looked as dangerous as he did, the kind of man you wouldn't want to pass late at night in a darkened alley.
I couldn't turn to look at him, couldn't bear to see that hurt in his eyes. He hadn't moved his arm from my shoulders, nor stopped his hand from gently stroking my upper arm. He smelled the same, too – of the salty scent of fresh sweat on his skin, and the heat of his favorite Irish whiskey on his breath.
"You've been drinking," I whispered back.
He threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "Have you forgotten that much about me? I'm Irish, for God's sake – and I had a bleeding fight tonight!"
I flushed and turned my head automatically to face him. It was like barely a moment had passed, like I was still that same naive young girl who'd wandered into the wrong part of Dublin – his part, and he was still the same eighteen-year-old kid who'd put his fists up and his street-cred on the line to save me – a girl he'd never met before.
I shivered with the memory of how close I'd come to…
Don't think about it .
He'd saved me once. Could he do it again?
I didn't dare think about it. Long years of bitter experience had taught me that to think about salvation was inevitably to hope for it. And Alexandria isn't a place that rewards an emotion as fleeting or as ephemeral as hope.
No, it was safer to focus on what I had right in front of me. And besides, it wasn't like I was capable of much thinking right now, anyway. Not with Conor so close. I'd spent so many years lying in bed at night, dreaming of this moment, dreaming of us being reunited. Okay, sure – this old, faded motel wasn't exactly where I had pictured our reunion going down, and sure, I'd imagined a softer bed…
But what really mattered was that he was here at all.
After all this time, he was here, sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t even know how we’d come to sit down, like my brain was ignoring anything but his presence, here, next to me And all the rest? The stained, ratty curtains; the springs pushing their way out of the old mattress, all of it. It simply faded
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