Page 52 of The Games We Play
Something flickers across his face for a moment. I don’t know him well enough to fully understand what it was, but it looked a whole heap like regret.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Not your fault.” Spark gets off the bike, grabs the backpack off my shoulders, and walks us to the door. When I step inside, I can see it’s a work in progress that has the potential to be beautiful. To the left, there’s an open-plan kitchen-dining-living space. The kitchen is new; the furniture in the living room is old but serviceable. To the right, I can see an open bedroom door, the bed stripped of linens.
But there are pictures on the wall, and the first one I notice is Spark with a buzz cut and a military uniform. “This is your place? When you said you had a place, I thought you meant one you’d borrowed or booked one.”
Spark nudges me toward the kitchen. “Was my grandfather’s. I’m named after him.”
“Wait. How do I not know your real name? And you were military?”
He shrugs his jacket off and slides it over the back of a kitchen chair. “You do know my name. I told you the day we met on your porch.”
“In fairness, a lot happened that day and I forgot.”
He grins. “Tyler John Hyatt. Thirty-five years of age. You?”
“Iris Caoimhe O’Connor. Twenty-eight.”
He cups my cheek. “What was your middle name again?”
“It’s pronouncedkee-va. But it’s spelt C-A-O-I-M-H-E.”
“Irish spelling is a bit fucked up, but your name’s beautiful. Suits you. Why O’Connor though and not Ó Ceallaigh?”
I turn and wander to the window in the living room. There’s a glimpse of the lake between the other houses on the road. “Because I don’t want any part of that life. And it’s a bit hard to escape it with my family name. I legally emancipated myself from Cillian as soon as I could and changed my name to my mom’s maiden name.”
He slips his hands around my waist and kisses the side of my neck. “I was military. Marine Corps. Sergeant Tyler Hyatt at your service, ma’am.”
I turn to face him, taken by just how handsome he is. “Thank you for your service.”
He tenses in my arms. “For all the good it did.” There’s that thing again, flickering across his face.
“When or if you ever feel ready to tell me about your time in the military, I’ll listen.”
Gently, he kisses my forehead. “If I ever feel like tripping down that memory lane, I’ll let you know. But we need to go get food. I thought we’d light the fire, cook at home, yeah?”
“That sounds great.”
We end up walking by the lake, then grabbing pie for lunch at a humble but delicious pizza place Spark knows. We grab steaks and corn amongst other things. He grabs some beer and encourages me to choose what I’d like to drink. I end up picking up some coolers and a bottle of wine. When I offer my credit card at the register, I swear to God the man growls at me.
On the way home, he carries everything in one hand and holds my hand with the other. “I can help carry something.”
“I know you can, but I want to carry it for you. I’m not here for all that feminist shit that misses the point.”
“This I gotta hear ... tell me about this ‘feminist shit that misses the point.’” The sarcasm in my tone is so heavy even Spark can’t miss it.
Spark looks down at me, then keeps walking. “Cool your heels, little chick. I get it. Women can shoot a gun, sign up for the Corps, become CEOs and shit. And that’s what they should be fighting for, and men should be helping ’em do it. But instead, we’re having conversations about whether holding a door open, or treating them to a nice meal, or carrying their goddamn bags makes you a sexist asshole. And here’s the thing. You could go run the fucking world. Become president. And I’d still pay for dinner and carry your fucking bags. My mom calls it manners and knowing how to treat my woman right.”
I think about what he said for a moment before responding. “Okay. So not as bad as it originally sounded.”
“For fuck’s sake. Why can I never say the right thing with you? You’re going to have to start reading between the lines. I like you. Not my intention to piss you off every five seconds.”
His surliness makes me smile. “You like me.”
We reach the house, and he lets go of my hand to let us in. “Thought that was obvious, little chick.”
17
