Unfixable Read online

  “Wow. Thanks for letting me unpack before unloading your family’s baggage onto me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  See, now he’s got me good and pissed. This is exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid. In the last month, I’ve experienced enough teen vampire-style angst to last a lifetime, and I’ve somehow already been dragged into this family’s drama. If there was a red reject button sitting on the desk, I’d slam my fist down on top of it. I have more than one reason to be annoyed and it all goes back to my stupid need to know more. “Where are you going anyway?”

  He looks to be debating whether or not to confide in me, but in the end he shrugs. “Back to racing. As soon as I can get this place sold, I’m getting back on the circuit. Shouldn’t be long until I unload this place. There are several interested parties.”

  I’ve only been here a couple of hours, and I’m already appalled at the idea of selling the inn. It screams family institution. When you’ve never felt comfortable or welcome in a single place in your life, and you find out someone is taking that very feeling for granted, it’s impossible to understand. “Why did you come back in the first place?”

  “My father died.” He says it quickly, snapping the revelation like a whip, as if he’d anticipated the question. Had been asked it countless times. “So you see, this year alone Faith has suffered enough loss. Then you walk in here with your Clash T-shirt, dripping with sarcasm, and she sees an escape. Don’t be that for her, or she’ll wither when you leave.”

  “For someone who clearly dislikes me, you seem to have a high opinion of my ability to sweep your sister off her feet.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. You’ve already got enough confidence to fill the Atlantic.”

  “What’s the Irish word for hypocrite?” He doesn’t answer, obviously. I want that to be my parting shot—I adore a good parting shot—but there’s still another piece of the puzzle I need to slide into place. “Won’t she still have your mother when you leave?”

  Shane laughs under his breath. “You’ll meet Kitty soon enough.”

  That answer is far from satisfying, but if I pry any more, it’ll look like I care. And I don’t. “Well. If she’s half as charming as you, I’m in for a treat.”

  He rounds the desk and comes toward me. I want to back away, but manage to stand my ground. Something about him puts me on the defensive. He keeps invading my personal space, and I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Anxious…aware. Before he can take another step, I close the distance for him, bringing us toe to toe. I’m trying to send a message, although I have no idea what it is. Stay away, maybe. So why am I moving closer?

  His eyebrows dip a little, as if he’s trying to read me, frustrated that he can’t. “Do I have your agreement, Willa?”

  I reach behind me and yank the door open with an impatient noise. “Relax, frosty. I told you I wasn’t here to make friends and I meant it.”

  “What are you here for?”

  I leave without answering. The only person I owe answers to now is myself.

  Chapter Three

  A few days passed and by slipping out of the inn early each morning, I’ve thankfully managed to avoid Shane and Faith. Kitty, not so much. Bright and early the morning after mine and Shane’s laugh-a-minute chat, she knocked on my door while I was still wrapped in a towel, hair dripping wet. Briefly, I’d pictured Shane coming to kick me out, but a tinkling voice had called cheerfully through the wood. Definitely not Shane.

  “Tea? Anyone in there for tea?”

  I’d cracked the door open just enough to peek out. My first thought upon meeting Kitty Claymore was, holy fuck-balls, she’s bat-shit crazy. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, but her smile reminded me of her daughter. Kitty was a walking, talking, age-progression drawing of Faith in forty years. Except eternal youth didn’t sit so well on Kitty. Time appeared to have taken its toll in other ways. As in, mentally. In her carefully arranged graying hair, she’d clipped some elaborate hairpiece that involved peacock feathers and blue robin eggs. Her dress hung off her, much too large for her thin frame, yet perfectly clean and ironed. Over it, she wore an apron with Claymore Inn embroidered over the breast.

  She looked right through me and held up a silver teapot. “Piping hot, it is. You’ll want to blow on it a while.” She breezed into the room as if floating on air and flipped over the teacup sitting on my dresser. “There’s toast.”

  I looked around confused. “W-where?”

  She pulled a burned piece out of her apron pocket and laid it down with the utmost care beside the steaming cup of tea. Then she pointed at it, as if it had been there all along. “There.”

  “Looks…great. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, love. How long have you been here? Have you met my husband yet? Don’t let him put you off the place.”

  Kitty’s question sent a tingle up my neck. Apparently my initial judgment of her wasn’t far off, but I felt guilty for having such harsh thoughts when her condition appeared serious. I didn’t known how to respond. “N-not yet,” I mumbled.

  “You will shortly, I’d say.” She patted her hair. “And my Shane? You’ve run into him, have you?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Right.” Suddenly, she looked lucid. Not to mention, highly amused at my abrupt answer. “Well, don’t go planning the wedding just yet.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Unless the reception involves a cage match.”

  “Not a bother.” She smoothed a hand over the bedspread. “Don’t judge him too harshly, though. He’s had a hard go of it, my son. Stuck in the mud with two crazy birds when he was born to go full speed ahead.”

  She looked up at me then and I’d watched clarity flee from her expression. “Well, I’ll leave you to your tea. Mind your tongue, now. It’s piping.”

  “Er…will do.”

  Every morning since, we’ve gone through the same routine. She knocks on my door at eight o’clock sharp, tea in hand as she floats around to each of the empty guest rooms and doles it out. Half the time, the tea is ice cold, not that I would drink it anyway. I’m a coffee person to the bone. But I get the feeling she’s the one who cleans my room each afternoon, so I make sure to pour it down the sink so she won’t know I leave it untouched.

  It didn’t take me long to fall in love with Dublin. I’ve purposely neglected to buy a map, kind of wanting to get lost. The first few days, I walked aimlessly along the River Liffey, stopping when something or someone interested me, snapping photographs. Scoping out the most convenient one hour photo center to develop my film. One afternoon, I fell asleep near the lake in St. Stephen’s Green, a lush park in the middle of the bustling city center. I woke when the sky opened up and soaked me to the skin. Thankfully, my camera was in its waterproof bag, or my beloved Nikon wouldn’t have made it past that first week.

  It took me three days to find Grafton Street, the main shopping area tourists flock to like hipsters to a vinyl record sale. At first the buzz of activity and crowds didn’t appeal to me, but with so much to look at, I couldn’t resist setting up camp on the sidewalk to observe. One particular street act had kept my attention longer than most. A well-hidden aspect of these buskers’ performance was to pickpocket members of the crowd.

  They were good. I never would have noticed, except I was in photographer mode, watching the crowd instead of the act. One member of the duo played a battered guitar, his thickly accented voice captivating the smiling onlookers trying to soak up the local flavor. While he sang Irish folk songs, his partner in crime walked through the crowd and took advantage of their inattention, pilfering wallets and dipping into purses as he went. I could tell they knew each other by the subtle eye contact they made between each song. The thief would raise his eyebrows or shrug depending on what he’d managed to pull in.

  The guitar player chose a woman from the audience then, kissing her hand and twirling her in a circle. Her group of friends, including an indulgent husband, applauded and snapped pictur
es.

  One of them was handily divested of their iPhone.

  “Dance for me, wouldya, sweetheart? Folks, isn’t she a picture?” More cheering. More stealing. He plucked a few chords on his guitar. “Right. Now I can tell she’s got Irish blood in her. Would you like to know how I’d make such an assumption?” A chorus of yeses. The guitar player leaned toward the crowd as if imparting a great secret. “Her husband looks like he needs a bloody drink.”

  Everyone laughs as I snap a picture of the pickpocket snaking his hand into a woman’s purse, removing a sparkly pink wallet. The crowd shifts, and I see the woman is holding the hand of a little girl. A frown mars my forehead and the shutter of my camera goes off. My sight is briefly obscured through the viewfinder as the shutter goes off, but as soon as it returns, I see the pickpocket looking directly at me. He signals the guitar player to wrap up the act with a quick slash of his hand across his throat. Casually, I hope, I replace my camera in my bag and stand to leave.

  “Hold on, now. Just a moment.” It’s the guitar player.

  Cursing my fucked-up luck, I paste a bored expression on my face and turn. “Hmm?”

  The pickpocket comes to stand at his shoulder, looking around furtively. Probably for cops. They’re both midtwenties, possibly even brothers, with scruffy, light brown hair. Guitar Player is attempting a beard that’s having a difficult time growing in evenly. Behind them, the crowd has dispersed as if it were never there.

  “Mind if I see your camera, pet?”

  “Why, so you can steal it?”

  I expect them to react with affront or deny that I’d clearly caught their con in progress, instead they both laugh. Guitar Player begins to play the opening strains of “American Woman” on his broken-down instrument.

  “No, I just want to make sure you got my good side,” the pickpocket answers jovially.

  My eyes narrow as I try to figure out their game. Apparently they’re not at all worried about me alerting a police officer. Not that I was planning on it.

  I have a soft spot for thieves, you see. My sister is one. Thieving is how we managed to escape the hell of Nashville and make a new life in Chicago. One night, Ginger came into the tiny bedroom we shared, clutching a bag containing fifty thousand dollars in cash, wide-eyed and shaking, but determined. Our mother had been transporting money for an unsavory character, but made a pit stop midtransit to get high and pass out on the couch. Some people would call what Ginger did “stealing.” I call it ingenuity. We were in Chicago before the sun came up and when it did, we were living new lives. We were in control of our futures.

  Still, soft spot for thieves notwithstanding, shouldn’t these buskers be at least a touch concerned that I’ll sound the alarm?

  Guitar Player reads my mind. “We’ll disappear before you have a chance, pet.”

  “Please, stop calling me that. It’s dehumanizing.”

  “Give us a name to use instead.”

  “Beyoncé.” They exchange an amused glance. “Your turn.”

  “Brian.”

  “Patrick,” says the pickpocket. “Not half as glamorous, but they do the trick.”

  Brian has moved onto the chorus of “American Woman,” his fingers flying over the neck of the guitar. “How long are you in town, Beyoncé? I’d hate for this to be good-bye.”

  For some reason, these two are already starting to grow on me. I haven’t talked to anyone in days apart from loony-tunes Kitty, and the banter feels easy and free of expectation. I know it doesn’t speak well of me that I get along so well with a couple of cons, but what can I say? I’m more comfortable exchanging words with these two than I ever was with Evan’s friends. “Why? You have any suggestions?”

  Patrick smiles. “We’ve a gig Friday nights in O’Kelly’s down on Sheriff Street, if you’re up for a pint and some real Irish music. None of this watered-down shite.”

  I consider them for a minute, wondering if there’s any harm meeting two semistrangers as long as it’s in a public place. Derek would shit a live cow, but he’s not here, and frankly, these two seem like the good time I need. I decide to case O’Kelly’s beforehand and leave if anything seems weird. “I’ll make you a deal. You guys let me return that pink wallet to its owner, and I’ll think about Friday.”

  It’s comical how both of them deflate, shoulders hunching like two scolded children being told to share. In the end, Patrick hands it over. “You’re worse than our ma.”

  My lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

  “See you Friday then?”

  I split a look between them. “As long as you realize I’m not interested in either of you sexually.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Women rarely are.”

  With a laugh, I leave them standing there and walk toward the mother, who is checking the ground for her missing wallet. “Hey,” I call out, holding up the wallet. “Did you drop this?”

  …

  Later that night, I walk into the Claymore Inn, surprised to find the pub mostly empty. A check of my watch tells me I’ve been out longer than I thought. On a weeknight at ten o’clock, it appears the good people of Dublin are resting up for work the next morning. Over the last few nights, I’ve managed to sneak past the bar without making eye contact with a swamped Shane. I don’t escape so easily tonight. He turns his head at my entrance, but he doesn’t move from his casual lean against the gleaming bar. An eager-looking man stands at the bar, watching as Shane writes something down on a glossy magazine. When Shane hands it back to him, I realize he’s just signed an autograph.

  This is the first time it has occurred to me that he’s actually…famous, in a way. I’ve seen the trophies, but until now his attitude has been taking up most of my attention. Why is it kind of appealing to me when he acts like he signs autographs several times a day?

  He’s layered a white, long-sleeved shirt under a black polo, the white material pushed halfway up his forearms. He nods absently at the man now thanking him, but he’s watching me as he starts chewing on a red cocktail straw.

  “I was starting to think you’d gone back to Chicago.”

  “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Knowing the few remaining customers could hear every word, I feel a stupid flush creep up my neck. I start to beeline for the back staircase, but something occurs to me. I’m running from him. Letting him intimidate me. If I do it once, it might become a habit, and I don’t want to run anymore. Easing into a swagger, I pull out a bar stool and hop up into the sturdy leather seat. I have the distinct pleasure of watching his teeth clench down hard on the straw. I don’t normally drink, but tonight I’m making an exception. I wait for him to ask me what I’m having, but he’s already putting together some sort of concoction out of my line of sight. When he sets the Shirley Temple down in front of me with a smirk, I reel back my temper like a fisherman who just caught a great white.

  Smile feeling as though it might crack, I fish through the ice for a cherry and pop it into my mouth. When his gaze drops to my lips, watching me chew, I know staying in the bar was a mistake. I clear my throat, breaking the silence, bringing his shadowed blue eyes back up to mine. “Slow night. I guess not everyone values abrasiveness in their bartender.”

  “I can play nice when I want to.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  He leans forward on strong forearms. “Would you like to see for yourself, tough girl?”

  I force myself not to jerk back, but it’s a damn struggle when his face comes within inches of mine. “I can’t think of anything less appealing.”

  “Liar.”

  That deep voice sends a ribbon of smoke curling in my belly. It alarms the ever-loving hell out of me. Is it because he’s so different than Evan that I’m being…drawn? Because he is, really. Entirely different than Evan. The anti-Evan. My ex-boyfriend had never challenged me like this or called me on my bullshit. He’d only ever tried to rid me of it. Like I must have
known it would, the forced reminder of Evan sends me leaning back in my chair, as if he’s just walked into the room and found me inches from another man so soon.

  Shane’s stare is unnerving. “You didn’t answer my question the other night. What are you doing here, Willa?” He looks over my head at some invisible spot before his attention locks back on me, more intense than before. “I’ve a hunch it’s a man you’re after running away from.”

  “I don’t care if you have a hunch,” I scoff. “Your opinion means jack to me.”

  He winks at me, the fucker. “Now, if that were true, you wouldn’t mind telling me about him.”

  “I never confirmed or denied I’m running away from a him. Or running at all, for that matter.”

  “What’s his name?”

  In the interest of buying myself some time, I take a long sip of the pink, fizzy drink. It’s actually really tasty. Why do we stop drinking Shirley Temples when we get older? They’re a goddamn delight is what they are.

  I give a mental eye roll when I realize even my subconscious is trying to change the subject. Oh, what the hell. Maybe I’ll just give him something to get him off my back.

  “Evan.” The name tastes like bitter failure in my mouth.

  Why he seems disappointed, I can’t begin to fathom. “Bad breakup?”

  “You could say that.”

  He rubs the heel of his hand against his jaw, appearing to weigh his next question. “Why’d you go your separate ways in the end?”

  I laugh loudly enough to draw the attention of a man half asleep in the corner stool. “You actually think I’m going to tell you that?” Another sip of pink stuff. “No way am I handing you that ammunition so you can use it against me at will.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Shane’s deadpan response infuriates me, mainly because it tells me that I’ve shown my hand. I’m not giving him an inch more. In fact, I decide to take a few back. Something has been bothering me ever since our conversation the night I arrived. His curt reply when I asked why he returned to Dublin. His defensive manner when revealing plans to sell the inn. Maybe I’ll just take a stab in the dark and see if I hit something. After all, it’s what he’s doing by asking about Evan. “We’re all running from something, though. You would know. Right, Shane?”