One Night Only by Catherine Walsh

30

I sidestep a dog walker as we walk down an otherwise empty street. We’ve passed a few bars already, but none seem good enough for Declan, who only shakes his head when I point them out. Instead, we head east along Lafayette Avenue, past schools and churches and hipster cafés, before Declan takes a sharp turn, leading me down quieter, more residential streets filled with red brick buildings and thick green trees.

“You must be beat,” I say, after ten minutes of near silence between us. He hasn’t tried to make conversation once. As if content just to walk with me. “Between your flight and your mom and…” Us. I press my lips together, leaving the word unspoken. I could really use a drink.

“I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “Are you trying to get out of this?”

“Of what?”

“Us. Again. Because I can go all night. Talking, I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” I mutter, tying my hair into a loose bun. The city might as well be a swamp today and my body is beginning to protest at the lack of air conditioning. “I’m not trying to get out of anything.”

He watches me for a moment as if trying to decide something. “Then do you want to come up?” he asks.

“What?”

“This is me.”

I peer up at the nondescript apartment building beside us. “You mean it’s where you live?”

“Where did you think we were going?”

“To a bar.”

“I spend every day in a bar. So, do you want to come up?” he asks when I don’t say anything. “Or are you tired of talking?”

“I’m tired of arguing.”

“Even better.” And without waiting to see if I’ll follow, he jogs up the stoop.

He lives on the second floor; at the front of the building, and I barely have enough time to come to terms with the fact I’m about to see where he showers and sleeps and God knows what else when he opens the door and lets me inside.

I linger in the doorway, trying not to look as curious as I feel. I don’t know what I’m expecting. A pigsty? An anonymous yet sleek masculine bachelor pad?

It’s neither. The apartment is tiny but clean, consisting of an L-shaped living area and a small galley kitchen. Through an open door next to the one window, I spy the corner of a bed and promptly look away.

Declan dumps his keys on a metal side table and locks the door behind us.

His fridge is covered in magnets and postcards, Paul and Annie’s wedding invitation tacked right in the center. An open cereal box sits next to the sink and the sight of it makes my stomach dip as I imagine him waking up and making breakfast. I force my eyes away, turning to the living area and the few touches of personalization on show. There’s a bookshelf with some old-looking paperbacks, a house plant that looks surprisingly alive and a battered laptop on a coffee table, perched upon a stack of glossy travel magazines.

“Please,” Declan says seriously. “Try not to look too impressed.”

“It’s lovely.”

“You’re a terrible liar. Do you want wine? Beer? I’m afraid we left the gin at yours.”

“I’ll just have water.” I need a clear head for this.

He gets me a bottle from the fridge and gestures to the gray sofa, the main piece of furniture in the room. An intricate woven blanket is draped over the back of it in an attempt at interior design.

“My nan makes them,” Declan says, noticing me admiring it. “Her secret talent.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, running a hand over the wool. “I was wondering where I’ve seen one before, but Annie has one just like it. I’ve always been jealous.”

“That’s your Christmas present sorted then.”

I freeze at his words; glad I’m facing away from him. The thought of us swapping gifts for the holidays is too bizarre to even consider.

It’s been a long day.

Declan grabs a beer and collapses into a worn armchair next to the bedroom. I’m relieved he does. I can’t have him too near me right now. Instead, I sit as gracefully as I can on the sofa only to immediately regret the decision.

“What?” he asks as I subtly adjust the cushions behind me.

“Nothing.”

“You comfy?”

I glance at him and the innocent look on his face. “This couch is—”

“The worst? Yeah, I know. It came with the apartment. I never sit there if I can help it.”

“But you’re fine if I do?”

He shrugs. “It’s my place.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“You can join me over here?”

“I’m fine. But I think I know why you have a bad back.” I take a sip of water. It’s so cold it hurts my teeth, but I gulp it back gratefully and press the bottle to the side of my neck.

Declan’s gaze tracks the movement.

“We lived in Brooklyn,” I say and his eyes snap back to mine. “Me and Annie. In Williamsburg.”

“Trendy.”

“We liked to think so.”

“I like this neighborhood,” he says. “I could probably be closer to work but it’s quiet. The lease is up in a couple of weeks but I’m hoping to hold onto it. You and Annie met in college?”

“That’s right.”

“Where you were studying architecture.”

“You know that already.”

“I do,” he says. “I’m being polite.”

He’s being annoying and he knows it. But he’s still looking at me, settled back in his comfy chair. Like he has all the time in the world. And I’m the most fascinating person in it.

“She said you lived together for years,” he continues.

“Four,” I say. “Not including college. She eventually moved in with a guy she was seeing but they didn’t last long. She went home for while and then she met Paul.”

“And you met Claire.”

“On Craigslist. I couch surfed in between. Somehow I’m still alive.”

I meant it as a joke but Declan’s looking at me curiously.

“You never lived with a partner before? Not even with Josh?”

I shake my head, picking at the label. “He’s actually the longest I’ve ever been with someone.”

Declan only nods. There’s no judgment in his expression.

“What about you?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation moving. “You said you don’t do hookups,” I say, risking a glance at him. “But you never said anything about girlfriends. There must have been someone since you moved here.”

“There have been girlfriends,” he admits. “It took a while though.”

“No rebound sex?”

“No,” he says, flashing a smile. “I was crushed when Fiona left me. I didn’t know how to deal with it or even how to go about finding someone new.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Twice. I was with Lauren for five months but she moved back to Houston. Then there was Sienna. She was fun but it fizzled out after a few weeks. I didn’t really mind when it did. And then I met you.”

He says the words with such finality that I shiver.

“I met you,” he continues. “And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to try again. But you know that part already.”

I say nothing as he takes a long gulp from the bottle, but I feel a little better. I’m almost pleased to know there were others between Fiona and me. It feels like less pressure. Less pressure and more… real. I don’t want to be the rebound girl, at least that much I know. And for a man who says he doesn’t do casual; he doesn’t seem too torn up about the others.

Fizzled out.

Is that what’s going to happen to us in a few months? All this buildup, all these crazy, mixed-up feelings inside will just… fade away?

I watch his throat bob with another sip of beer, his body sprawled in the chair, his hair mussed from where he’s been tugging it all afternoon.

Maybe a little fading wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe then I’d stop overreacting every time I’m around him. Every time I think of him. Like I—

I cringe as the water label rips loudly underneath my fingers. We both stare at it before I suavely dump it on the coffee table.

“You know, many view that as a sign of sexual frustration,” Declan says.

“I thought it was a sign of boredom.”

“Am I boring you, Sarah?”

“Not at all,” I say. “I love to talk. We can talk all night if you want to.”

His lips twitch. “I didn’t know if you were still mad at me or not.”

“I’m not mad about… I mean, I understand about Fiona,” I say. “About why you didn’t tell me. I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”

“And I’m sorry you had to find out like that. You’re right. I should have told you.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Great.”

“Great,” I echo, forcing a smile.

We both take sips of our respective drinks and I really wish I’d asked for wine. Maybe a bottle of it.

“And just so we’re clear,” he adds, leaning forward in the chair, “I fully plan on keeping my promise of sleeping with you again.”

“And do we need to schedule that in or what’s happening?”

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you. You always make the first move.”

I stare at him. “No, I don’t.”

“Uh, yeah, you do.”

“You’re the one who came up to me at O’Shea’s.”

“I talked but you initiated.”

“And you were the one who asked me for a nightcap in Ireland. I was only— What are you doing?”

I stare up at him, alarmed as he stands and stretches his arms overhead. I glimpse a sliver of tanned, muscular stomach and then he’s on the move, beer bottle joining my water on the floor as he steps toward me.

“Fine,” he says as my mouth runs dry. “Then I’ll do it.”