Page 7 of Irish

“Nope.” She winked at him before she tore open the bag of gummy bears. “I devour it.”

“You’re still a little brat,” Irish said teasingly. “Some things never change.”

“And some things change a lot.” She said almost wistfully.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked her as he pulled back onto the road.

“No, not yet. If that’s okay.”

“Whenever you are ready. I’m here for you. So, what have you been up to these days? Sean bragged about you when you got your master’s degree.”

“He did?” She seemed surprised. “Let’s see, that was five years ago now. I’ve been working as a forensic accountant for…”

Makenzie caught Irish up on her professional life before inquiring about his. Before long, they arrived at the rest stop Irish had told her about. Other than a couple of semi-trucks parked in the back lot, the place was empty. They slipped into the family restroom and Irish deftly locked the door behind him.

“You weren’t lying about the buttons,” he said. “My hands are almost too big for this. I’m trying to be careful.”

“It’s okay. I don’t plan on ever wearing this dress again, and to be honest, there’s no emotional connection. We bought it at David’s Bridal on the sale rack…”

“So if I accidentally pop one or two off?”

“Totally fine,” Makenzie laughed.

He worked quickly and when the dress was undone enough for her to step out of it, Irish slid out of the bathroom to give her some privacy. He walked Clover around the rest stop, keeping the bathroom door in sight the entire time. She emerged a fewminutes later, smiling from ear to ear, wearing the pair of black joggers and light blue sweatshirt.

“Where’s the dress?”

“In the trash where it belongs,” she said softly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. If my mom is upset, I’ll pay her back for it. I don’t want it. I don’t want to look at it. I want to forget today ever happened, to be honest. I know I won’t be able to just forget what happened, and I have to face it, but right now, I needed to throw it away. ”

He held the truck door open, and she got inside. Clover immediately hopped in and cuddled into her side, resting her head on Makenzie’s lap. Irish couldn’t get over how quickly Clover trusted her. The road stretched before them, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the rugged landscape as Irish's truck ate up the miles back to Grand Ridge. Makenzie was quiet for the first few minutes before turning to Irish and breaking the silence with more childhood memories.

“Remember that time we tried to dig a pool in your backyard?” she asked.

“Yes, I remember how much trouble I got into when my dad got home from work. He threatened to send me off to a camp for wayward youth.” Irish chuckled.

“Speaking of camps, tell me about yours,” she prompted as she turned toward him.

“Well, it's more than just a camp,” he began. “I worked closely developing it with some of my operator friends on Valhalla. It took a couple of years to get it just right, but we’ve found our rhythm. It's a place where kids can break free from the concrete jungles, from the noise and chaos. Out in the wild, they get to challenge themselves, find some peace, maybe even figure out who they want to be. So, I work closely with different organizations to sponsor each child. Of course, it’s a tax write offfor them, and then once a quarter, I run a different camp aimed at different ages. In the winter, we do a ski-resort trip for high school juniors. The other three camps are wilderness themed. Teachers, social workers, and family members can nominate a child through our website. We meet as a committee and go over the applications. The children often come from low economic environments, are foster kids or have other struggles they need help overcoming. We match them with different mentors, all highly vetted and background checked, in their communities after they return so they don’t just get a good experience and are forgotten about. Several of these kids were on the verge of jail or dropping out of school and now are excelling in college and military careers.”

“Sounds amazing,” she said. “It’s clear this is more than just a job for you. Sounds like you found your calling.”

“No one gets to pick who their parents are or where they are born, you know?” Irish said, glancing at her. “We both were blessed to have parents who love us. These kids are victims of their circumstances or environments. Every kid deserves a chance, you know? They all have potential inside of them. We help them find it. Sometimes, they just need someone to believe in them and show them there is a different world out there." His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as if holding onto the belief that he could steer these kids toward better horizons. “These kids believe their futures are already written out for them. We help them erase those thoughts and write new stories, Makenzie.”

“I understand feeling as if someone else has written your story for you and the desire to erase it and write your own,” she confessed.

“I know your parents had high expectations for all you kids. I remember how much pressure they put on Sean. They expected him to start in every sport, get straight As and attend everychurch event with a smile on his face. I was thankful my parents weren’t quite as demanding as yours.”

“I was jealous of you growing up, not going to lie. Your mother didn’t limit the amount of sugar you ate or control the amount of sleep you got. Our household was a tightly run ship.”

“It was, but I never doubted your parents' love for you.”

“No, me neither. I knew they loved us. They raised us the way they were raised, doing what they knew. We never wanted for love, for hugs, or kisses. Don’t tell Ma this, but sometimes, I miss the strictness. I mean, I never had to guess what was going to happen next or figure out how things needed to be done. There was some freedom in it.”

Irish smiled to himself. He knew entirely too well what she spoke of. He’d heard it from many of the submissives at The Citadel.

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