“Mate, stay still, like, won’t you?” I sigh.
He turns on the radio and starts dancing in the living room, even though there’s nothing cheerful about George Michael singing that his heart was broken last Christmas. Why they’re playing Christmas songs after Christmas is a mystery I reckon everyone is too post-holidays bloated to solve.
Rory is in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed.
When I look back at Richards, he’s fixing himself a martini on the breakfast nook, improvising with a pickled egg instead of an olive. I’m about to head into the shower to clean up and go through the script in my head of what I plan on saying to Rory. I laugh a little to myself, because I brought her here looking for one thing, and now it’s like scrambling to welcome a new baby hours before its arrival. Everything is different and exciting and new.
The song ends and another one begins.
“Belle’s Belle,” written and performed by Glen O’Connell.
No. No. No. She can’t hear this.
“Turn it off,” I snap, grabbing the rugby ball Richards brought in earlier today (“Dude, this football is hella weird. I had to buy it.”) and squeezing it hard to get rid of the tension.
“Why? I love this song! This O’Connell guy was a one-hit wonder, but boy, what a hit.” He starts moving to the slow, acoustic tune in a way I think he perceives as seductive. In practice, he looks like a drunk swaying his way back home.
Realizing he is not going to comply, I tuck the ball under my arm and stalk toward the radio on the breakfast nook before Rory comes back from the bathroom.
“I said turn it off.” I reach for the radio, but Richards swats my hand away.
“Rain or shine, snow or sun, you will always be the one…”
“No! It’s giving me inspiration.”
“What inspiration? You don’t even write your own songs—probably because you’re bloody illiterate.”
Truth be told, I’m already furious with him for spilling the beans about Kathleen. And I’m not Instagram. I don’t have any filters where people who are not Rory are concerned. If something pops into my head, I say it—the byproduct of having nothing to lose these days.
“Bells are ringing, choirs are singing, it must be Christmas Day…”
“Harsh.” Richards pouts. “Take it back, dude.”
“Turn it off.”
“Nope.”
“Lovely as you are, we had to say goodbye, step away from the high, only to hit rock bottom…”
I reach for the radio at the same time he tries to snatch it away. I slam the rugby ball in his face and grab the device. Richards stumbles back, holding his nose, hits the wall, and falls on his ass. I’m fumbling to find the off button, but accidentally turn the volume up. Way up. Now Glen’s voice is booming everywhere, soaking the walls.
Feck, feck, feck.
I hear something crash on the floor. When I look up, Rory’s standing in front of me, tears in her eyes.
I finally hit the off button, but it’s too late. She heard. Obviously. God. That muppet, Richards. He ruined everything.
She runs to the front door, swings it open, and takes off.
I track after her on instinct, not even bothering to lock the door behind me.
Some people are prone to dramatics. Not Rory. I know it has physically rattled her to hear her father’s song.
Running after her reminds me of another time—a time I didn’t make it.
Not this time. This time, I get the girl.
It’s pouring. Rory is wearing her thin PJs, and she’s barefoot and surely freezing. I can’t stand to think of her uncomfortable in any way.
She is not yours. She’s someone else’s, I remind myself.
But Shiny Boyfriend is not here. The devil on my shoulder fingers his Salvador Dali moustache.
Besides, making her yours has been the plan all along. My angel smooths his white robe, dangling his leg over my other shoulder.
Wait, isn’t my angel supposed to talk me off the destruction-of-her-relationship ledge?
My angel shrugs. If they marry, he’ll move her to a plastic, soulless suburb and cheat on her before she hits forty—with his fresh-out-of-college secretary. I’ve seen that movie. She’s not going to like the ending.
Fair point. I pick up the pace.
I’m soaking wet, the gravel sinking under my feet with a crunch. The chase is not only a chase because my legs are moving, but because my mind is racing in one direction.
Mine.
It is primal and carnal and caveman and stupid, but I never fancied myself a particularly bright person.
I knew I was going to destroy her life whether I liked it or not the moment I laid eyes on her again, when she stirred under the chandeliers in that New York ballroom like a mythical fairy.
But being more to her is another matter completely. I didn’t think I could. Now I do.
I catch up to Rory and block her way down the path to Main Street. Everything is closed, and miles away, and anyway, running from your problems is a bit like chasing them. They’re right there with you, wherever you go, no matter the pace.