A Match Made in Ireland: A Romantic Women's Fiction Novel by E.D. Hackett

Author:E.D. Hackett [Hackett, E.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: E.D. Hackett
Published: 2023-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

I woke up the following day in Owen’s bed, pressed between him and the wall. My head throbbed, and my stomach churned. How did I get here? Laying on our backs, our shoulders didn’t fit on the small twin-sized mattress, and I shifted to my side. The blurry room became focused, and a mixture of blonde and red filled my vision from across the room. There lay Jaime and Aoife. In the same bed.

Overcome by nausea, I climbed over Owen to get to the bathroom down the hall, careful not to stumble on the clothes and shoes strewn across the floor.

Falling between the toilet and the wall, my stomach knotted like a pretzel, and I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, stupidity, or embarrassment. Whatever it was, I needed to purge all the bad feelings eating me from the inside. Why was my love life influenced by this unhealthy need to be accommodating to others?

Despite my silent protests, Scott always cancelled our plans, flirted with other girls and borrowed money to blow on poker games. According to my father, I wasn’t worthy of his love unless I was successful at school, and my mother and I got along best when I ignored her overdependence on pills. My entire life, I tried my hardest to prevent the boat in our house from capsizing, and I had been taught that other people’s problems were more important than my own, so I minimized my needs and focused on keeping them happy.

Afraid my baggage would prevent me from standing up for myself, I needed to learn the truth about Jaime and Aoife. Think, Rory, think. My head pounded, and the small room continued to spin, so I laid my face on my folded arms over the filthy toilet seat and closed my eyes. Tomorrow. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

Stumbling back to the room, my eyes moved to Aoife and Jaime, watching her lips curl gently against his cheek and his arm drape over her waist. I didn’t want to be in there, imagining mistakes and hypotheses that may or may not have happened.

I grabbed my items, stuffed them into my bag, and slipped back to the dirty bathroom. Peeling out of my beer-scented clothes and dropping them in the trash can, I pulled on the same outfit I wore on the train ride into Dublin, trying to erase the entire night from my memory. Perhaps these clothes could turn back time—to a time before Dublin, when Jaime hadn’t stomped on my fragile heart.

Creeping down the wooden staircase, I greeted the young man working behind the counter. He looked about fifteen, with scrawny arms, pimply cheeks, and the same smattering of freckles Jaime carried. I dropped into an old, ripped leather armchair that looked like something my grandparents would own.

“Excuse me, do you have any water?” I asked the kid. Based upon his complacent reaction, he’d seen worse in this establishment.

He pulled out a plastic cup and advised me to fill it from the bathroom.

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