Whoo, first time in a long time. Missed these characters. Well, here they are now. Enjoy. And don't hate me. (That seems to be happening a lot lately.)

Not Quite

Chapter Eight: Another Look

Jason

FIVE DAYS LATER
(Saturday October 13)

I sat cross-legged on Keeley’s bed, my eyes shut tight. “I really don’t see why this is necessary,” I complained. “I’m no the one you need to worry about as far as peeking goes.”

“I’m not worried,” came the calm answer. I heard the rustle of fabric, thought about peeking despite my claims, and decided against it.

I could behave.

Sometimes.

When it suited me.

“When will you admit that you’re dating him?” I wondered aloud, voice curious. “I mean, come on. I’ll admit I wouldn’t know, but it seems to me that if the guy’s spending a gift certificate given to him on his birthday for the swankiest place in town on you, he likes you.” I said the last two words in a teasing singsong and would have batted my eyelashes had my eyes been open to begin with.

Keeley laughed, but her only answer was “Open your eyes.”

I did — and my jaw dropped.

She’d left her hair down, and was wearing a tight, knee-length dress of deep crimson that clung to her lithe frame like a burr, fitting closely over every bit of curve, flaring out the slightest bit from the hips down. Strappy heels of the same red hue — not very high, as Keeley and Dylan were near to the same height — were on her feet.

She wore little jewelry: a few silver bangles at one wrist, small hoops at her hears, a silver chain and Celtic cross at her neck — and, to my surprise, a silver ring, elaborately worked into a design of two hands holding a heart, on her right-hand ring finger.

“You’re wearing your grandma’s Claddagh ring,” I commented, pleasantly surprised.

She smiled and lifted her hand to study the ring. “Fenian Claddagh,” she corrected absently. “And yes, I am. I thought it was time to take it out again.”

I knew she valued the ring immensely. A Fenian Claddagh ring was considered by some to be a mutilation of the original Claddagh, a tradition that had its roots in Galway, Ireland. The original ring’s design was one of two hands holding a crowned heart. The hands were said to represent friendship, the heart love, and the crown loyalty.

However, at some point Irish nationalists had decided that the crown represented loyalty to British rule, which they wanted to be free of. So some rings came to be made without the crown present, and the term Fenian, once applied to supposed members of an outlawed society called the Irish Republican Brotherhood and now referring more to Irish nationalists, was applied to the rings.

“That looks like a ring Daddy has!” came Amy’s voice, bright and probably more excited than either Dylan or Keeley about what she had dubbed “the real date” (after I’d explained what a date was). “His is a Fenian Claddagh, too.”

Keeley turned abruptly. “Is your dad here?”

Amy’s usual wickedly charming grin flashed out. “Naw. He sent me to spy on you. You look really pretty, Keeley — but he can see for himself. I’m not telling him anything.”

She scrambled up onto the bed with me, grinning impishly when I said, “I didn’t even hear you come in, gorgeous.”

“That’s cause you make too much noise,” she told me primly.

Keeley laughed and shot me a dazzling grin. “She’s got you.”

“Shut up.” I stuck my tongue out at her and she laughed again.

As discreetly as possible I studied Keeley’s hand while she chatted with Amy and smiled when I saw it was on her right hand, with the two points of the heart inwards.

Before I could help myself I grinned and privately thought that maybe I’d spoken too soon, for it certainly seemed that in her own way, Keeley was indeed acknowledging the relationship between her and Dylan.

Claddagh rings are traditionally worn as a method of displaying the wearer’s availability. Worn on the right hand with the heart turned towards the body, as Keeley wore hers, indicated she was in a relationship. Had she worn it with the heart facing outwards, she would have announced herself as single.

On the left hand, pointing outwards, the ring showed that the wearer was engaged; if it was pointed inwards it was understood that the wearer was married.

At the sound of a knock on the door Amy grinned, announced, “I’ll get it!” and bolted for the door. I winked at Keeley, then left her in her bedroom and headed for the kitchen, clapping a hand over my heart and pretending to stagger at the sight of Dylan dressed in a suit (minus the tie).

He was already holding Amy in his arms, and smiled ruefully as he lowered her to the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Me in a suit — rare occurrence.”

“Rare occurrence?” I scoffed. “Please. This is the first time I’ve seen you in a suit since...”

“Since court,” Dylan soberly finished when Amy ran off to get Keeley. I nodded slowly, realizing it was true. I’d last seen him wear a suit almost two years ago when he, Chloe and the lawyers had been hashing out their custody agreement: that Amy would spend a week at a time with each parent and alternate, with the freedom to stay more frequently at one parent’s or the other’s as she chose from the time she was fifteen.

However, she tended to spend more time with Dylan already, thanks to her mother’s travelling and partying, and while I knew Dylan would never mind having his daughter with him, I also knew that he was furious with himself for letting Chloe get away with it.

“Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-you-have-to-close-your-eyes-Keeley’s-coming!” shouted Amy in one breath as she raced from Keeley’s bedroom back into the kitchen. “Close them!”

Dylan smiled down at his daughter, then obeyed. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, turned my head to see Keeley appearing, and my own smile widened. I was happy for them, and I wanted them to be happy together, and it looked like they were well on their way.

Amy was bouncing up and down, practically vibrating with excitement as she waited for her father to see Keeley. Keeley flashed her a quick smile, then turned so that she was facing Dylan and spoke softly.

“Open your eyes, Dylan.”

When he did, they instantly widened in surprise, then roamed over her in stark appreciation. I looked down at Amy and gave her a discreet thumbs-up and grin that she eagerly returned.

This time it was Dylan who spoke, gruffly. “Come here.”

Keeley smiled slowly and beckoned with a nod of her head, a crook of her finger. “You come here,” she returned, mildly taunting.

Dylan’s eyes snapped, and he reached out to pull her against him in one quick jerk and kiss her hard. I grinned, and beside me Amy clapped a hand over her mouth but didn’t quite muffle her delighted giggle.

“Daddy, Keeley needs to breathe!” she finally half-shouted, and Keeley laughed breathlessly as she drew back and laid her head on Dylan’s shoulder.

He grinned, held her at arm’s length. “Still breathing?” he inquired.

Eyes shining with humour, and her cheeks still flushed, she inhaled, then exhaled, and nodded. “Yup.”

“Well, that’s something, then,” he said cheerfully as he pulled her against himself again.

Amy rolled her eyes, stamped her foot impatiently and cried, “Daddy! You know what I mean!”

He chuckled, stepped over to her and scooped her up laughing into his arms. “Sure do, munchkin,” he said warmly before enthusiastically kissing her, too.

“I hope I’m not next,” I muttered, still grinning, as Amy shrieked with laughter and squirmed in her father’s arms. “Daddy, stop it!” she pleaded.

He laughed, set her down and crouched at her level, then said seriously,”You’ll behave yourself while Keeley and I are gone?”

She nodded, shot me a sly look that her father ignored. “Of course,” she agreed sweetly, and I choked back a laugh while Keeley winked at her behind Dylan’s back.

Dylan chuckled. “C’mere, you little fibber,” he teased as he brought Amy into his arms for another hug.

When he let her go and straightened, I couldn’t help getting a dig in. “Go on, lover boy, or you’ll miss your reservations.”

“Shut up, Jason,” my best friend replied in mild, conversational tones — the same polite tones he’d have used to tell me to go fuck myself, had his daughter not been present.

And given the way things looked for gay men in Lochinvar, I may have taken the suggestion into consideration.

He went on to dish out all the usual instructions — not too much goofing off, not too much noise because it could be heard by the landlord through the wall, bed at a fairly reasonable time (after all, he claimed, it had been a long week at school, and there was another to come).

At this last comment Amy grinned coyly and pointed out, “Keeley had school all week, and has it next week, too. Does she have to be back at a ‘reasonable’ time?”

Keeley and I laughed while Dylan gave his daughter a ruefully amused smile. “Nice try, squirt. Behave,” he said again as he and Keeley linked hands and turned for the door.

Amy and I only exchanged broad grins, then went after them and called together from the doorway, “Have fun!”

At the last second Amy added, “Be reasonable!”

Keeley’s laughter drifted back to us from the open window as Dylan’s truck pulled out.

XXX

Amy hooted with laughter as she dropped the controller of the game console and stood, performing a quick little victory dance. “Uncle Jason, you suck at racing games even more than the adventure ones,” she informed me brightly while shaking her butt in my face.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered as I snagged a handful of popcorn from the bowl we’d already made.

She grinned, stood to riffle through her extensive collection of PlayStation2 games. “Let’s see, what can I beat you at next?” she wondered loftily, tapping a fingernail to her chin.

I narrowed my eyes, jabbed a finger in her direction. “Okay, you, that’s it. Get out the fighting games. You’re going down, girly.”

In response Amy snorted and fisted her hands on her hips, looking the very image of a teenager.

Yikes.

“That’s what you think,” she retorted.

Her eyes were dancing, as I knew mine were. I was consistently terrible at video games and we both knew it, but for one, fighting games were my least mediocre attempt at beating her, and for two, the egging each other on was all part of the ritual.

“Listen, you,” I began threateningly, only to have the phone ring. An abnormal ring: more shrill than usual, and short, followed quickly by another.

Long-distance.

Amy glanced at me, amusement gone from her eyes, shrugged blandly, and went to answer it, squaring her shoulders deliberately as she did. “Hello?” Her expression abruptly changed as she listened, from bright and excited to closed off and neutral but for the emotions swirling briefly into her eyes before they were smothered.

It was all it took to confirm who was on the other end. I rose, went towards her and held out a hand for the phone. “Amy, honey, give me the phone, please.”

I said it quietly, but in no-nonsense tone.

“No.”

She said it quietly and firmly, and for a moment I thought she was disagreeing with me. Then I saw the heat, the cold dislike war in her eyes again, saw her lip curl into a thin snarl. “No,” she repeated, and then held the phone away from herself.

Face still blank, her eyes chillingly flat, Amy silently handed it to me. I watched her as she went to sit at the table and stared straight ahead while Chloe Sarault prattled on in my ear.

“You are aware I’m not Dylan, right, Chloe?” I finally queried when she paused, presumably for air.

For a moment, blessed, sweet quiet reigned. Then, snappishly, the annoying high voice came back. “Well, put him on, damn it. I’m in a hurry.”

“Can’t do that, actually,” I replied, just a little smug and enjoying her obvious irritation more than my conscience said I should. “He’s out.”

“Out,” Chloe repeated peevishly. “He move on to a new woman, or is he still with the redheaded girl next door?”

“That’d be her,” I agreed implacably. “You see, Chloe, some people learned the art of fidelity. Even your ex-husband, his neighbour and even me of all people. Amazing how many people manage it, isn’t it?”

She may have been across the Atlantic Ocean, but she was still a homophobe. She’d been uncomfortable with me from the start, and was pissed now to boot — hell of a combination. I could hear the hot slap of temper in her voice when she snapped back, “Look, it was one time, all right?”

“One time that we know of — and that was still all it took for your marriage to disintegrate,” I half-agreed, still poised, still calm, and still watching Amy. I hated that she knew what I was talking about, what I was referring to, that at six she understood the mechanics of sex — or, more accurately, how it could drive a couple apart.

Loaded silence, tense and edgy, hovered. “Don’t talk to me like that, you twisted fuck-up!”

“How ‘bout I don’t talk to you at all?” I returned heatedly, and curtly added, “Dylan’ll call you back.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “Tell him to enjoy himself while she can — and give Amy a kiss for me, won’t you?”

The last was said with a sweetness so sickening that it became malice, and I felt my hackles rising even as I slapped the phone down again.

Amy still sat at the table, staring sightlessly ahead while her hands lay folded on the table in front of her. I walked to the table, sat down beside her, and hesitated, studying my own clasped hands.

“She wants to live there.”

At this statement my head came up sharply so that I could study the little girl in front of me. The way she was sitting made her look like a miniature adult but for the fact that her feet, hanging a few inches from the floor, were swinging slowly back and forth: but her voice, calm and completely devoid of emotion, was frighteningly adult. I mean, I’m second only to Dylan when it comes to dislike of Chloe, but the look on Amy’s face, so much like the expression of controlled anger I had seen Dylan wear so many times when he dealt with his ex-wife, was not one I had ever expected to see on a six-year-old.

It broke my heart.

“Oh, sweetie. What do you mean?”

“She wants to live there forever and take me with her. She doesn’t want me, though. Not really. She just knows it’ll hurt Daddy. She turned her head towards me then, and I saw that now her eyes were bright, shimmering with tears that she was bravely battling back. “Uncle Jason, I don’t want to go to England!” she cried brokenly, and leapt from her chair, crawled into my lap and settled in, sobbing like the child she was.

At the moment, I felt a lot like crying myself.

XXX

Amy

I lay still in bed and kept my breathing slow, listening hard to the sounds in the other room. I knew it was late, but I couldn’t sleep, not when I thought I would have to go to England.

When I heard my daddy’s and Keeley’s voices talking to Uncle Jason, I pushed back my blankets, went to the door and headed for the kitchen.

Then I just stood there, quiet as I could be. My eyes were on Keeley: she was sitting beside my daddy, her hand gentle on his arm and not saying anything. Beside her Daddy looked madder than I’d ever seen him — but sad, too.

Deep down I knew it was Chloe — my mother — that he was mad at, but I still didn’t like seeing it, especially when I knew I was part of it.

Keeley saw me first, and she squeezed Daddy’s hand, then when he looked up, nodded towards me.

Only when Daddy looked at me did I see that his eyes, like Keeley’s were and like Uncle Jason’s had been earlier, were red, like mine were once after I cried because I’d scraped my knee.

I’d made my daddy cry?

“Hey, you,” he said, and his voice was a little shaky, a little rough. “You should be sleeping.”

“Couldn’t,” I told him and ran into his open arms.

He held me really tight, almost tight enough to hurt, but I didn’t complain, because right then I think we both needed it, even if we didn’t say so.

When he let me go, I looked over his shoulder and saw Keeley and Uncle Jason watching us, and wished with all my heart that Keeley was my mommy, not just a friend and neighbour.

I looked my daddy in the eye and held up one finger. Then I squirmed away, walked the little bit of space between Daddy’s chair and Keeley’s, and gave her as big a hug as I could.

She held me close for a long time, then whispered in my ear, “You’re a very brave girl, Amy Leah Llywelyn. I hope someday I have a daughter like you.”

I wanted to say something funny to cheer her up, because she seemed sad, but there was a big lump in my throat that wouldn’t let me speak. So instead I just hugged her again and hoped that was enough.

When I turned back to Daddy he was standing with his arms waiting for me. “Come on, princess, time for bed.”

“‘Night Keeley, ‘night Uncle Jason,” I told them, with hugs for each of them and a kiss for Uncle Jason, because he looked so miserable.

Two voices answered me with goodnights, and small smiles; then I let Daddy carry me back to my room.

Once I was there, snuggled in under all those warm blankets, it was hard to stay awake. But I still had a few things left to say.

“Daddy, are you mad at Chloe?”

He took my hand before he answered, voice a little shaky again. “She’s trying to take you away from me, sweetheart. It’s hard for me not to be mad.”

“I’m mad, too. I won’t go to England. I won’t.”

“If you don’t want to, you won’t go, honey,” he answered, and I hoped that he wasn’t just saying it. After all, I was the little kid. I was supposed to do what I was told — or so Chris, my mom’s boyfriend, said.

But he was an idiot. Not like my daddy.

“Promise me?”

Now he leaned down to hug me, voice muffled when he said, “I promise.”

We stayed like that for a while; then I asked carefully, “Daddy, you like Keeley, right?”

He moved back and looked at me with the look that said he was trying to figure out what I was up to. “Yes, of course I do.”

“Enough to marry her?”

It was almost, just almost, funny, the way his eyes bugged out. “Amy, honey, I’ve only known Keeley for a couple of months.”

“I know. It was just that I thought...”

I wondered if I should finish, if I should tell Daddy that I’d thought that if he was married, maybe it would be better, and the people who decided where kids with divorced parents lived would let me stay.

“What did you think, sweetie?” Daddy asked quietly, and I bit my lip, then told him.

When I finished there were tears in his eyes. “Oh, honey,” was all he said before his arms came around me again.

After a while he laid me down again, started running his hand through my hair.

“Honey, I don’t know if Keeley and I will ever get married,” he said eventually, quietly.

“But you do love her?”

Daddy was quiet for a long time, then he let out a long breath and answered, “Yes, I do, but don’t you tell her, okay?”

I found that a little weird, because the way I figured it, if that was true Daddy would be telling Keeley he loved her all the time, the way he did with me. But I nodded. “Okay. I won’t.”

“Sleep now, all right?”

I nodded again and tugged the covers up, then had one last important question. “Daddy, I’m not going to England, am I?”

He kissed my forehead, then stood up. “No, sweetheart, you’re not. You’ll stay here with me.”

“I wish I could stay all the time,” I mumbled while he closed the door.

Then I was asleep, thinking that together Keeley and Daddy and I could be a family, the way Daddy and I had never been a family with Chloe.

It helped, and gave me something to hope for.

XXX

Um. So. I’m evil. We’ve established that. It just seems to be the time for me to post chapters where I put my characters through hell. (If you’ve read the latest bit of Life’s Little Chances, you know what I mean. Yes, I was just plugging it.)

I haven’t written the next chapter yet, but it will be in the normal format, so, from Dylan’s and Keeley’s point of views. I just wanted to post this one as I did because it wasn’t really something I could display with Keeley and Dylan gone. Soo... there it is.

Review, please. I want more reviews on here. Can we hit twenty-five? Let’s see.

Well, choose your battles, tip your waiter, and drive fast without being caught. Til next time...

— Murphy