Chasing River
Page 43

I start giggling. “You realize that she may actually hurt him, right?”
He cranks the engine and entwines his fingers with mine, and we shift the car into first gear together. “I’m kind of hoping she does. Not too much,” he quickly adds, a cute frown puckering his face. “Just a little bit. The bastard deserves it for the pranks he’s played on me.”
River weaves his car through the narrow streets, deftly avoiding bar revelers—really, there doesn’t seem to be a night when the streets aren’t filled with people enjoying Dublin’s bar scene—whirling around the roundabouts, a comfortable silence settling into the car.
“How much of that story is true?”
River opens his mouth, then hesitates for a moment. “If it weren’t for Marion McNally and Charles Beasley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today, that much I do know. Marion and her sisters all went on to marry husbands and bear children. It was the youngest, Sally McNally, whose lineage I can be thankful for. In every single generation, the first-born girl carried Marion McNally’s namesake. Which is why my ma’s name is Marion. And as fate would have it, she married a Seamus.”
“That’s just . . .” Tears well in my eyes. “. . . an incredibly tragic but uplifting story.” I smile to myself. “That’s why you wanted me to see that monument, isn’t it?”
He pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing my fingers, before setting us back onto the gear to shift around a corner. As if telling me that he’s so happy I understand the deeper meaning. Or, at least, that’s what I want it to mean. “Ma never let us up from the dinner table until every last scrap of food was cleaned from our plates. While Da’s side fared slightly better with the pub to support them, her family struggled greatly. The famine and starvation, the way the English government virtually abandoned us during those years . . . all of that is true, and I could tell you a hundred more stories about it. It’s why Ireland was in a constant state of rebellion for a hundred and forty-odd years after. It’s why the Irish Republican Army began in the first place. It’s why we fought—” He cuts himself off, inhales deeply.
Irish Republican Army. “The IRA.”
“Yeah.”
“So, your family was a part of that?”
He glances at me once before refocusing on the road. “They were, up until the mid-seventies. My great-granddad and his brother fought in the Easter Uprising, back when violence seemed to be the only way that England would listen.”
“I read about the uprising yesterday, at the museum. The British won that, didn’t they?”
“They did. But they executed fifteen of the republican leaders and the Irish people hated them for it. That little uprising of two thousand Irishmen started the revolution. It’s why we’re free of England’s rule today.”
I can hear the pride in his voice.
“And then my granddad and his brothers fought in the civil war. He actually knew Éamon de Valera well. The Republic’s third president,” he adds for my benefit.
“And your dad?”
“Him, too . . . for a while.” He clears his throat. “My uncle Thomas—Da’s older brother—was killed in the Northern riots in ’69, when he was eighteen. So, yeah . . . my granddad and dad were right pissed with anything British or Protestant. They fought with the IRA for a time.”
I’m trying to keep an open mind here, even as I listen to River admit that he comes from a long line of men who fought in the name of the IRA. Does that mean that River’s family members are . . . terrorists? I can’t ask him something like that. Besides, he said that was forty years ago. And it’s not River, I remind myself. It’s kind of like Bonnie’s family, who is German. Her great-grandfather was an actual Nazi soldier in the war—a secret that she’s told only me. That’s not her fault, or her parent’s fault. I need to look at this the same way. “You said they stopped fighting? What changed for them?”
“Times changed. Violence—especially the kind that was happening then, with plenty of innocent casualties—wasn’t the answer anymore.”
“Huh. I bet you have a lot of stories.”
“Some.” He sighs, squeezing my hands. “For another night, maybe.”
St. Stephen’s Green stretches out to the left of us. I haven’t gone back there yet. I haven’t felt the need to, though it’s probably something I should do, for a sense of closure. “The papers said that police suspected the IRA behind that. What do you think?” For a country I was so desperate to visit, I really had no clue about its history. My ignorance is embarrassing.
He stares hard out at the road, his jaw clenching. “Maybe. But if it is, it’s nothing my family stands for.”
I don’t press the topic, leaning over to settle a soft kiss on his cheek instead. “Thank you for tonight. It’s too bad I lost that bucket list of mine. I had this very item on it. Number thirty-two, I think.”
“Huh . . . Imagine that.” I catch his smile in the side mirror as he checks his blind spot and then changes lanes to turn down my street. In another minute, River’s car is sitting next to Simon’s, the quiet house looming before me as the car idles low.
“So?” His hands rest on his lap. He’s making no move to turn off the engine, to step out of the car, to walk me to the door.
To climb into my bed.
“So . . .”
“So, I don’t want to put the same kind of pressure on you that I unintentionally did last night, Amber. And I’m afraid that me coming inside will do just that.” His gaze flickers to my legs before settling on the hedge out front. “We can say good night right here, and I can come meet you after work tomorrow night, and I’ll be perfectly glad to do so. It’s whatever you want.”
I study his profile for a long moment—the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow, as if those words were difficult to say; the way that strong jaw clenches slightly; the way his right hand isn’t really resting on his lap, but gripping it, as if keeping it at bay.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was torn by desire and indecision. Tonight, that same desire is raging, coupled with a newfound mass of emotions, unspoken thoughts, and compelling curiosities. But that indecision? That dissolved as if it had never existed. I don’t believe I’d feel differently about River in three weeks than I do tonight. I’d only feel more.
I don’t have the luxury of weeks or months or years with him. I have only days, and I don’t want to regret how I use them.
“What do you want?” I ask softly.
A weak chuckle escapes him, his head falling back onto the headrest for a moment. “Do you really need to ask?”
Reaching over, I turn the key and the quiet rumble dies.
Heat flashes in his gaze as he turns to look at me. Hand-in-hand, we walk toward the cherry-red door, the only sound my beautiful but painful heels clicking against the concrete.
“Thank God we’re home.” I groan, my fingers twisting the deadbolt shut once inside. “These shoes are killing me.” They looked so perfect, sitting next to the dress at the boutique where I bought the outfit.
River steps in close and leans forward, peering down at them. “Those shoes?”