The Player and the Pixie
Page 60

Noticing the time, I let out a few choice swearwords as I realized I was late to meet Broderick for lunch at our usual spot. Throwing my hair up in a ponytail, I grabbed my coat and handbag before heading out.
I saw him as soon as I stepped inside, sitting at our favorite spot by the window, headphones on, a coffee and pastry in front of him. Shooting him a quick wave, I went to order some food while surreptitiously sliding a raisin and oat cookie into my pocket.
It was a common tactic: buy something to cover up that you’ve stolen another. I’d been doing the exact same thing for five afternoons in a row and I didn’t understand why. I knew it didn’t make things any better, but I’d even been giving the cookie to a homeless man who sat begging outside the café as I left. I thought I had a handle on my compulsion but it was coming back for some reason, even though I’d barely spoken to my mother in weeks.
The barista smiled at me, completely oblivious, as I dropped a ridiculous amount of coins in the tip jar, took my things and headed over to join my friend. Broderick pulled off his headphones as I sat, a heavy baseline blasting from the speakers.
“You’ll make yourself deaf listening to music so loud,” I said, picking up a knife and cutting into my scone.
“And you’ll get arrested if you keep stealing baked goods,” Rick answered back casually. “What’s the deal with that anyway?”
My eyes widened, my mouth opening slightly as I stared at him in disbelief.
“I . . . I, uh . . .”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Cat got your tongue?”
I leaned closer, whispering, “How did you see?”
“You’re not exactly the artful dodger, babe. Every time we come here you take the same damn cookie. At first I thought I was imagining things, but then you kept doing it over and over again.”
Letting out a sigh, I sat back, a terribly guilty look on my face. “It’s just this thing I do sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
“Stealing is a big deal, Lucy. You’re not in Ireland now. New York is a whole other ball game, and if you get arrested here you’ll be facing a lot worse than a slap on the wrist and a call home to Mommy.”
I frowned, muttering under my breath, “No need to be an arsehole about it,” but then immediately regretted my words. I was the one being an arsehole. God, I hated myself for how I was acting.
“I’m only being an asshole because I care. So tell me? How long have you been doing this shit?”
Letting out a long sigh, I told him all about the beginnings of my strange habit, how it related back to my anxiety and pressure from my mother. She’d never been a particularly loving parent, but her belittling behavior only really started in full-force after I turned eighteen. I was an adult by then, starting to follow my own path in life, a path that didn’t reflect the one she foresaw. I ended my story by telling him how I’d been successful in quitting shoplifting until recently.
“Huh,” said Broderick, a thoughtful look on his face.
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“No, that’s not all. What’s changed in the last couple of weeks?”
“I don’t understand.” I folded my arms defensively.
“Of course you do. What’s changed that’s caused you to slip back into old habits? There has to be something.”
I scrunched up my brow, wracking my brain until it finally hit me.
It was so bloody obvious.
Sean had gone home. I’d had amazing sex and a scarily intense connection with this big, handsome, incredible man with the word “forbidden” stamped on his forehead and then poof, he left, leaving my life feeling empty without him.
“I know that look,” said Rick. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“And . . .”
“And it’s none of your business,” I snapped, surprising even myself with how snippy I was. I’d never spoken to him like that before. Never. How on earth had the loss of Sean Cassidy turned me into such a sour old shrew?
Rick gave me a look that was all, fine, have it your way, and I sighed, feeling guilty yet again.
“I’m sorry. I’m being horrible.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, believe me, I understand. But think about seeing someone, a therapist or a counselor who can talk things through with you. It’ll do you the world of good, I promise.”
I sighed and fiddled with a sugar packet. “Actually, I tried that once. It didn’t end so well.”
“No?”
Shaking my head, I answered, “Nah. Mam found out about it and kicked up a fuss, thinking people would discover I was a klepto and it’d tarnish Ronan’s reputation. She forbade me from going to any more sessions after that.”
Broderick frowned like he thought my mother was a mental case, which she wasn’t. She was just overly concerned about what the neighbors would think, concerned in the extreme.
“I don’t know what to say, Luce. That’s fucked up, and I’m certain Ronan wouldn’t give a damn about his rep if he knew his sister was getting the help she needed.”
“Yeah well, that’s my mother for you, always worrying about Ronan. He’s the one who keeps her in designer handbags and weekly blow-dries after all,” I said, my intended humor falling flat.
A small trace of his frown remained as he reached over to squeeze my hand. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m right here, okay?”