Dead Ringer

59

When I woke, it was light. With Ciar thoroughly passed out underneath me, my right leg curled awkwardly across his body and my left bent at the knee against the door, I became aware of just how cramped the car's backseat was.

What followed was a slow, silent attempt to peel myself away from him without waking him, while trying to figure out the physics of last night. I remembered everything—every touch of his skin, his fingers, his lips, every part of him against me. His whispers still echoed in the closed space, my name floating from the walls like a lullaby.

Maisye. Maisye. I am Maisye.

I leaned my head back against the window and sighed, letting my eyes flutter shut. Something had fallen into place last night in the rush of heated skin. Something that I couldn't ever remember feeling—not as a child, nor an adult. Not even with Mark.

Perhaps it was simply understanding. Ciar had said it one of the first times we'd met. You're just as reckless as I am. He'd seen it from the start, called me out on it.

Death wish.

Maybe he had one, too.

But the hole in my heart that opened into unnerving nothingness in the face of death felt shallower now, perhaps filled by whatever had sprung to life inside me last night.

A long, dramatic inhale broke the silence, and I opened my eyes as Ciar lolled back to consciousness. He squinted at me with bleary eyes and bedhead, and I wondered how I could feel safer waking up in a getaway car parked along the side of a deserted road than in my own bed.

He stretched as far as the backseat would allow, then sat up. His legs slipped out from under me as he pulled them toward himself, reaching for the clothes scattered about the car. He started to dress, and the ache in my chest returned the longer he went without speaking.

"Ciar," I started softly.

He handed me my clothes, all balled up, and I hugged them to my chest as my voice died.

After several seconds of waiting, he gave up on me, pulling himself forward by the headrests of the front seats and climbing back behind the wheel. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and I scrambled to throw my clothes back on.

With trembling limbs, I dragged myself into the seat beside him, and he started the engine without a word. I kept my breaths shallow, as if any movement might break the already thin ice between us. Did he regret last night? Did he think I regretted it?

Because I didn't.

"Where are you going?" I asked as he pulled back onto the road.

"We need gas. And breakfast."

Something started to drain away as we drove, as if we'd left part of ourselves behind in that stand of gravel along the side of the road. The silence thickened as it stretched, until it seemed like nothing could break it.

Finally, Ciar pulled into a gas station. I sat in the car while he filled the tank and then drove across the street to a small diner. I stayed seated as he got out, letting the slam of the door separate us and muffle the crunch of his boots across the lot.

I knew I would follow eventually, but I needed to settle my racing thoughts first. I had slept with him. So what? It wasn't like anything life-changing had happened. I was overthinking this, forcing it to mean more than it did. But his voice still haunted me.

Death wish.

And then, the softest whisper: Maisye.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I was so fucked.