Page 75 of Verses Of Us

She tried to ignore her nerves by stirring her drink with the celery stalk, but it failed. He was too close. His scent, a mix of linen and something crisp, citrus, different, but no less enjoyable, still did strange things to her blood. And she didn’t hate it.

This was only a meeting for a drink, she kept reminding herself. She might get some sort of closure out of it, as Julie had suggested, but with each one of his movements, no matter how subtle, her body kept betraying her, responding like static electricity attracting her to him.

She yanked the celery out and shoved it into her mouth. Catching Ciarán’s reflection in the mirror across she saw his eyes widen.

“So, how’s life?” she asked, biting into the stalk, hoping he’d stop whatever dirty trip his mind had taken.

“Never better. You?”

“Can’t complain.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Behind them, the young couple laughed loudly, but other than that, the place remained cloaked in silence. Awkward, paralysing silence.

Alexis longed to speak first, to let it all out. She’d been holding it in for so long. But she knew that with repressed feelings, like the ones she had for Ciarán, they wouldn’t rear their heads when given the chance. They would float in the periphery of your brain, your heart, and take their sweet time to show themselves.

Uncertainties about how to speak simple words muddled her brain. Fear numbed her body, telling her no matter what she said, it wouldn’t be right. It would never carry the proper weight and wouldn’t quite hit the mark.

She inhaled, steadied her nerves and prepared to say something, anything, but then she reconsidered.

As if sensing this, Ciarán reached over, his hand covering hers.

“Why don’t I start?”

ONE DRINK

Alexis

Ahalfhourpassedand Alexis was more at ease, or at least more relaxed than when she’d walked in. Ciarán had taken charge of their conversation, leading with small talk filled with quick details that occupied the gaps in the years they’d been apart.

She flaunted her master’s degree and gloated about becoming editor ofForefront Magazine, a staple of the Montreal arts and culture milieu. Ciarán told her about the albums he’d released over the years, and even his attempt at theatre. He humbly mentioned the screenplay he’d co-written and how the film was a nominee at Cannes.

“Shut up,” she said, playfully smacking his arm. He grinned. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

He shrugged, scratching his bristly cheek. Humility was rare in a man like Ciarán Jones. A man who’d been performing since childhood and who spent most nights in front of millions. Still, a soft pink shaded his cheeks, and he smiled into his pint.

“I doubt it’ll win, but it’s a nice notch on my banister.”

“Your banister?”

“Of failed attempts at success.” He sipped his beer, licking the foam off his upper lip.

“You can’t be serious. You’re famous.”

“Fame doesn’t equal success. I want so many things, but I haven’t gotten close to them.” He paused, his eyes lifting from his pint, his forehead creased. “Yeah, I’d say I have ways to go.”

“Eye of the beholder, I suppose.”

She couldn’t recognize this person she was speaking to and tried to recall how he’d been before. He’d always been cocky, self-assured and proud. She wondered if that had been an act. Did he truly not think he was successful, even after everything he’d accomplished?

The idea that Ciarán would experience any kind of impostor syndrome broke her heart, bringing back memories of his kindness, his sweetness and the way he’d bent under her affectionate touch. Her body warmed at the thought.

“Who’s the lucky man?”

She perked up and frowned. “Beg your pardon?”

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