Who's Your Paddy?

Chapter 22

Paddy stopped short, pulling back slowly. "Uh."

"What?" I asked.

"Ye called me by someone else's name."

It took a second in the haze of drunken lust to realize what he meant. When it clicked, I stood, straightening my blouse and moved to the armchair.

"I'm so sorry," I gazed at the floor.

"S'ok. Just awkward. Is Liam someone you're seein'?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "I'm not involved at the moment, so it's different fer me."

Raking my fingers through my hair, I leaned back into the chair. "But Jesus, if I wasn't involved..."

"I still do it for ya?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

He smiled, scooting himself next to the fireplace.

"Uh, sorry 'bout all that."

"Don't be sorry. Just walk me home."

We talked until four in the morning, finally sobering up enough to have the conversation I'd been wanting to have with him. We talked about our lives. We did end up kissing one more time by the door just before he left, but it wasn't like the first time when we both got caught up in whiskey filled lust. It was sweet, tender and as if we were finally saying goodbye for good.

I collapsed on the bed feeling better for having had the talk with Paddy Dooley, but at the same time guilty about allowing the other stuff to happen in the first place. What the fuck was I thinking?

I tossed and turned for a while, chastising myself for, well, everything. And staying up so late on the day I would finally get to realize my dream was just stupid.

"It didn't mean anything!"

"Doesn't matter. What's done is done."

"Don't be like that! I'm trying to be honest with you."

"I won't be with a whore."

"Whore? Who you calling a whore?"

"You. I want you out of my house. In fact, get out of my life!"

"Liam! Don't be like this. I love you."

"And I hate you. Get up!"

"No, I'm staying here."

"Get off me sofa. Get up!"

"Annie, get up!"

I bolted upright and shouted. "No!"

Lindsey was standing over the bed and it took me a moment to realize where I was, and to become coherent enough to know she'd been trying to wake me up.

"You okay?"

I rubbed my face, wanting the lingering effects of that awful dream to go away.

"Yeah. Weird dream. Horrible in fact."

"Well shake it off 'cause Michelle called and said they'd be picking you up in two hours."

It was April first and instead of feeling excited—I stared out the tiny plane window at the sight of a coffin rolling slowly up the conveyer belt into the belly of Aer Lingus flight #136 to Dublin.