Chapter 6
Declan
Mybedroomwasjust as I’d left it ten years ago. I opened the glass doors and stepped onto the balcony. Sea air smacked me in the face, and I breathed it in deeply for an awakening hit.
We were about to celebrate my mother’s fiftieth birthday, and at a loss for gift ideas, I’d bought her favourite perfume so that the handwoven scarf from Afghanistan wouldn’t seem too paltry a gift.
The red cashmere scarf flooded me with memories of a remote village located in a rocky, hard-to-get-to mountain terrain. Against a backdrop of gun blasts, I entered a cave where a pair of frightened eyes framed in a slit of black fabric pleaded for mercy.
Her eyes switched from fear to joy as soon as I emptied my pockets of all the afghanis I possessed—a much higher sum than her asking price for the exquisite scarves she and her daughters wove.
I answered a knock at the door and found Ethan holding a couple of bottles of Guinness. He waltzed in casually, like a man without a care in the world.
“I thought you might be thirsty.”
I took a bottle from his hands. “I am. Good timing.”
He stared down at my bed, at the scarf and bottle of perfume. “Mother’s presents?”
“Yep.” I sipped on the cool bitter liquid. “I need to wrap them. I didn’t get her a card.”
“Neither did I.” He sauntered about picking up the odd knickknack. “I bought her a painting.”
“That’s a little more substantial than this, I guess.” After being reminded of my mother’s birthday yesterday, I remembered the scarves as I unpacked my case. An earthy scent coming off the cloth swamped me with memories of that harsh terrain. From above in an aircraft, that jagged land resembled a giant’s broken teeth.
It was a place I’d never forget. Not like a warm, fuzzy memory that a visit to Venice or Prague produced, but in a haunting, life-changing way.
“What do you give someone who has everything?” Ethan chuckled.
My brother was the counter opposite of me. While I was the serious one in the family, he was the clown. But it worked for us. Two years apart, we grew up playing, fighting, and then talking about girls.
At least we weren’t competitive, like some brothers, which pissed my mother off, who viewed competition as healthy.
From a shelf filled with odd bits and pieces, Ethan took a cricket ball, a souvenir from my college days when I bowled for the winning side. He tossed it from hand to hand. “Cleo’s coming, I take it?”
“I guess so.” I flicked back a wave of hair. My hair had grown back quickly, and while I’d instructed the barber to cut my sides to number two, I asked him to keep my dark-brown locks longer on top. After eight years of wearing a buzz cut, I welcomed the change, but now the unruly strand kept falling on my face.
“So, are you back on? Now that you’re back for good?”
I shook my head. “We caught up the other night.”
He sat on my bed and bounced on it. “You don’t sound like a man in love.”
“When have I ever sounded like that?” I sipped on stout and stared out the window, soaking in the view that seemed endless thanks to the inky ocean.
He studied me for a moment. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “You’re not batting for the other side, are you?”
“Fuck, Ethan. What’s wrong with everyone? Just because I’m not in love means I’m gay?”
“Blame the overzealous rumour mill dying to catch us with our dicks out.” He chuckled. “That said, I wish you’d start fucking around again, so they lay off me for a while. I mean it’s kinda weird that you’re not fucking around, considering how women throw themselves at you.”
“They throw themselves at you too.” I flicked through my shirts from when I was younger. I’d filled out since then. All that intense army training had broadened my shoulders.
“Fucking is fun. You must admit.”
“Not before dinner.”
He laughed. “You’re such a bore.”