Chapter 11: The Unexpected Visit
The gym smelled of sweat and old leather, a smell that had become familiar to Javier over the past two months. Killian's Boxing Club sat in a basement off a side street near the university, its windows painted over, its door heavy and scarred. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered, casting the space in a pale, unforgiving glare that showed every cracked tile and every frayed rope in the ring.
He pushed the door open and held it for Molly, who stepped inside and stopped almost immediately, her eyes sweeping the room. She was wearing a soft grey jumper and jeans, her short blonde hair tucked behind her ears, and she looked out of place among the worn punching bags and the men who moved through their drills without looking up.
"Jesus," she said, her voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "This is not what I pictured."
"What did you picture?"
"I don't know. Windows, maybe. Light that doesn't make everyone look like they're in a crime documentary."
Javier laughed and took her hand, leading her past the heavy bags toward the ring at the back. A few heads turned, mostly the older men who trained in the mornings, and they nodded at him with the quiet recognition of regulars. Killian stood by the ring, taping a young fighter's hands, and when he saw Javier he jerked his chin toward the corner.
"Took your time, Barreiro. You've got twenty minutes before the bell."
"I know. Killian, this is Molly."
Killian looked at her for a long moment, his deeply lined face unreadable. Then he nodded.
"Pleasure."
"Hi," Molly said, and Javier could hear the slight waver in her voice. "Nice to meet you."
Killian grunted and returned to his work, and Javier led Molly to a bench along the wall near the ring. There was a stack of thin blue mats, a bucket of water, a few pairs of gloves hanging from hooks. He sat her down and pulled off his jumper, tossing it onto the bench beside her.
"Don't worry about him. He's friendlier than he looks."
"Does he ever smile?"
"I've seen it once. It was terrifying."
Molly laughed, and the sound cut through the gym noise, bright and warm. She reached out and touched the bruise under his eye, which had faded to a pale yellow, barely visible now.
"This place did this to you?"
"No, that was a drunk in Temple Bar. This place fixed it."
She looked at him with those blue eyes, the same shade as the corner of the ring he stood in, and something in her expression softened. She was so open, so easy to be with. He had never had that before, not with anyone, and the feeling still surprised him sometimes.
"Go on, then," she said. "Show me what you can do."
He leaned down and kissed her, quick and light, and then climbed through the ropes into the ring. The canvas shifted under his feet, familiar and steady. He looped his hands through the wraps Killian had left for him and pulled them tight, flexing his fingers.
Across the ring, a tall man with a shaved head and a thick chest climbed in, a pair of red gloves already on his hands. He was from the university boxing club, one of the better cruisers, and he and Javier had sparred before. He nodded at Javier, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
"Is he any good?" Molly called from the bench.
"He'll survive," the man said, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
The bell rang, a dull hand-held thing that Killian struck against the post, and they moved together. The first round was slow, deliberate. They sparred light, feeling each other out, the sound of gloves meeting gloves echoing off the concrete walls. Javier heard Molly's voice from the edge of his awareness, cheering him on, and he let himself settle into the rhythm of it.
By the third round they were moving faster, the pace picking up. The cruiser had a long reach and threw heavy hands, and Javier had to slip and counter, stepping off the center line the way Seamus had taught him. The thought of Seamus made him grin, and the cruiser saw it and raised an eyebrow.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing. My dad taught me a trick."
"Your dad boxing coach?"
"Construction worker. Street fighter. Same thing."
The bell rang, and they touched gloves, both of them breathing hard. Javier climbed out of the ring and dropped onto the bench beside Molly, who handed him a bottle of water and watched him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. You're just like a different person in there. Focused. Kind of scary."
"Is that good?"
She leaned in and kissed him, and he tasted the salt on his lip, felt the warmth of her mouth against his. "Yes," she said. "It's good."
Killian appeared at the edge of the ring, his arms crossed. "You've got one more round, Barreiro, and then I want you on the bags. Don't think I didn't see you dropping your right hand in that second round."
"I didn't drop it."
"I saw what I saw."
Killian moved off, and Javier shook his head at Molly. "He's like a hawk. Misses nothing."
"Maybe he needs a hobby."
"Boxing is his hobby."
They sat together for a moment, her hand in his, the noise of the gym filling the space between them. He could hear the thud of gloves against leather, the sharp exhale of breath, the creak of the ring ropes. He had found a rhythm here, a place where he belonged, and having Molly here made it feel like he could have both things. His new family, his girl, his life in Dublin.
The gym door opened.
He didn't think anything of it at first. People came and went all morning, fighters and trainers and the occasional curious student looking for a place to train. But then he looked up, and the light through the door caught her hair, that polished blonde voluminous cut, and he saw her shoulders square as she stepped inside and looked around.
Roisin.
She was wearing a long cream coat over a burgundy blouse and dark trousers, her handbag over her arm, and she looked utterly out of place in the grey industrial dimness of the gym. She spotted him on the bench, and her face broke into a warm smile, and she started toward him.
Then her eyes found Molly.
Javier saw it happen in slow motion. Roisin's step faltered, just a beat, almost invisible. Her smile stayed fixed on her face, but something in her eyes flickered, a shutter closing. She kept walking, her heels clicking on the concrete, and reached them just as Javier stood.
"Javier," she said, and her voice was warm, too warm, the tone a shade too bright. "You left your lunch on the kitchen counter. I thought I'd drop it off before I opened the shop."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know I didn't. But you need to eat properly, and that slop they serve in the university canteen doesn't count."
She held out a paper bag, and he took it. Their fingers brushed, and he noticed how cold hers were, despite the warmth of the morning.
"This is Molly," he said, and he gestured between them. "Molly, this is Roisin. She's my landlady. Well, more than that, really."
Molly stood, wiping her palm on her jeans before offering it. "Nice to meet you. Javier's told me a lot about you."
Roisin took her hand, and Javier watched her look at Molly properly for the first time. Really look. He saw her eyes travel over the short blonde hair, the round face, the soft wide body, the smile that was open and unguarded. And he saw something cross her face, a quick incision of recognition, before she folded it away.
"You're American," Roisin said.
"From Ohio. I'm in Javier's program. Marine biology."
"Ah, the famous Molly. I've heard a great deal about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"All of them."
There was a pause, the kind that sat a little too long between the words. Roisin's smile remained fixed, polite, impeccable. She turned back to Javier.
"You'll be home for dinner? Seamus is making his fish chowder, and I know that's your favorite."
"I'll be there. I just need to shower first."
"Of course. Well. I'll leave you to it."
She didn't look at Molly again. She gave Javier a quick pat on the arm, a gesture so maternal it made his chest ache with fondness, and then she turned and walked back toward the door. Her heels echoed on the concrete, crisp and final, and the door swung shut behind her.
Javier watched her go, a strange tightness in his chest that he couldn't place. Molly sat back down on the bench, picking up her water bottle.
"She seems nice," Molly said. "Really nice."
"She is. She's been so good to me. Both of them have."
"I can tell. You talk about them like they're your real parents."
He turned to look at her, and she was smiling, genuinely, no trace of jealousy or discomfort. She had taken Roisin's measure and found her warm, motherly, exactly what she would have expected from someone Javier called family.
But he had seen something else. He had seen the flicker, the brief fracture in Roisin's composure, and he couldn't shake it.
"Come on," he said, offering her his hand. "Let me show you the bags."
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of exercise and sweat. Molly watched him work the heavy bag, her voice encouraging him through the rounds, and by the time they left the gym the morning had turned bright and cold, the winter sun low in the sky.
They walked to a café near the university, one of those narrow places with mismatched chairs and thick mugs of coffee, and she talked about her thesis, about the paper she was writing on the feeding habits of Atlantic puffins, and he listened to the warmth in her voice and let himself be carried along by it.
But in the back of his mind, the image lingered. Roisin's face when she had seen Molly. The way her smile had gone glassy, and her eyes had moved over Molly's features like she was reading something written in a language she recognized but couldn't name.
He pushed the thought away. It meant nothing. Roisin was a warm person, and she had been protective of him, that was all. She had probably just been surprised to meet Molly so suddenly, without warning.
He texted her that afternoon, a simple message. "Thanks for bringing my lunch. I'll be home by six."
Her reply came a few minutes later. "Of course, love. Enjoy your day."
The words were ordinary, kind, exactly what she would have said to him any other day. He read them twice and then put his phone away.
The fish chowder was excellent, creamy and thick, the way Seamus always made it. The three of them sat around the table with the windows steamed and the rain beginning to patter against the glass, and Javier told them about his morning, about the sparring and Molly watching.
Seamus laughed, his big body shaking the table. "You brought her to the gym? Brave girl."
"She liked it."
"Liked it or put up with it?"
"Both, I think."
Roisin was quiet, eating her chowder, and when she looked up she was smiling, that same warm smile she always wore. "She seems lovely, Javier. Truly."
"She is. I think you'd get along well, if you met properly."
"Maybe we'll arrange that. All of us together, sometime."
Seamus nodded. "Good idea. We'll have a roast on Sunday, and she can come."
Javier felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of rightness. This was good. This was what he had wanted when he came to Dublin. A family, a girl, a life that made sense.
He looked across the table at Roisin. She was watching him, her blue eyes soft and kind, and she raised her glass of wine in a small toast.
"To good news," she said.
"To good news," Seamus echoed, clinking his glass against hers. Javier lifted his own and drank.
But in the quiet of the night, lying in his rented room with the rain falling outside his window, he thought of that moment in the gym again. The flicker in Roisin's eyes. The way her hand had trembled, just slightly, when she had passed him the lunch bag.
He told himself it was nothing. She was protective, that was all. A mother's instinct. She had seen his girlfriend for the first time and had been surprised, startled by the sudden reality of it.
He fell asleep with the thought and the rain, and in the morning he did not remember the dream that had come to him in the dark, only the echo of a feeling that slipped away before he could name it.
Downstairs, Roisin lay awake in the still-dark hours before dawn, staring at the ceiling and feeling the fissure in her life widen by another thread. She had seen Molly, really seen her, and the sight had undone her in ways she had not been prepared for. The round face, the soft body, the short blonde hair, the blue eyes. She could have been looking at a younger version of herself, a version that had not yet worn the years of quiet longing, and she had felt something twist in her chest that she could not name and did not want to name.
She turned onto her side, and Seamus's broad back rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep, and she thought about the way Javier had looked at Molly. The light in his eyes, the ease in his body. He was happy. He deserved to be happy.
And she had no right to feel what she felt.
She pressed her palm against her chest, felt the gallop of her own heart, and waited for the dawn.
She lay in the dark and waited for the dream to come and take her under again.
It came. It always came.
The house was rearranged, the rooms she knew twisted into something that was almost familiar and almost wrong. The kitchen was where the sitting room should have been, and the stairs were on the other side, and the back door was locked when she tried it. She was standing in the hallway, her dressing gown pulled tight around her, and she could hear the front door open, the heavy thunk of keys on the sideboard.
Javier came in tipsy, his shirt untucked, his jacket half off. The smell of beer and the cold night air clung to him. He swayed a little, caught himself on the doorframe, and grinned at her.
"Mum," he said. "You're still up."
"Where have you been?"
"Out. With the lads. The usual."
"You're drunk."
"Not drunk. Just... merry."
She felt the anger rise in her chest, real and hot, and she let it have her. "I've been waiting up for you. Do you know what time it is?"
He shrugged, still smiling, that careless ease that made her want to shake him. "Don't worry about me, Mum. I'm a big boy."
The words, the tone, the dismissal: they cracked something open in her. She stepped forward, put her hand on his chest, and shoved him. He stumbled back, surprise flickering across his face, and she found her voice, low and hard.
"Upstairs. Your room. Now."
"Roisin, come on—"
"Don't. Don't you dare. You come into my house at this hour, you reek of drink, you have no thought for anyone but yourself. Upstairs. You will undress, and you will lie across that bed, and you will wait for me."
His eyes widened, and something shifted in them, something that was not quite fear. He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and went up the stairs, two at a time, and she watched his back disappear down the landing.
She followed him slowly, the cane in her hand. She had not seen herself pick it up. It was simply there, thin and dark and smooth as silk, and it felt natural in her grip, like an extension of her arm.
His door was open. He was standing beside the bed, his shirt off, his hands at his belt. The bare skin of his back was smooth and warm in the dim lamp light, and she could see the working muscles beneath it, the shape of his shoulders, the narrow cut of his hips. He turned when she entered, and his trousers were off, and he was standing there in his shorts, and the air was thick with something she could not name.
"Lie across the bed," she said.
He did. He lay face down, his arms stretched out, his body open and vulnerable, and she felt a thrill pass through her that she should not have felt. She walked to the bed, the cane in her hand, and she stood beside him for a long moment, just looking.
"You know why I'm doing this?"
"Yes, Mum."
"Because I love you. Because I will not let you throw your life away. Because you are mine to care for, and I will not fail you."
"Yes, Mum."
The cane swept down. The crack of it against his skin was bright and clean, and he flinched but did not cry out. She struck again, lower, and again, and the rhythm of it settled into something almost musical, the swish and the crack and the quiet intake of his breath. She counted, her voice steady, and he answered, his voice rough, and between the numbers there was only the sound of their breathing and the heat building in the room.
"Six."
"Six, Mum."
"Seven."
"Seven, Mum."
She lost count of the strikes and the numbers warped into a single continuous electric hum, the cane moving through the air like something alive. He was trembling now, his hands fisted in the sheets, and he made a sound low in his throat that was not quite a sob and not quite a moan.
She dropped the cane. It clattered on the floor. She stood there, her chest heaving, and he turned over slowly, his face flushed, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Mum," he said. Not a question. Not an answer. Just the word, raw and broken, and it undid her.
She was on the bed. She did not know how she got there. Her gown was gone, and her skin was against his, and his hands were in her hair, and his mouth was on hers, and it was everything she had dreamed and more. The cane could not have prepared her for the way he pulled her down to him, the way he claimed her mouth like he was drinking her, the way his hands swept the length of her, fierce and demanding.
"You belong to me," he said against her neck, the words thick and rough. "Say it."
"I belong to you."
"Say my name."
"Javier."
"No. Say it right."
And she understood. She understood what he was asking, what she had been asking of him all along. She said it, the word burning on her tongue, and he said hers back, and the names bound them together in a way that broke her and remade her and left her gasping.
He took her hard. There was no gentleness in it, no patience. He drove into her with a force that made her cry out, and she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper, and he called her mum and she called him son, and it should have been wrong, it was wrong, it was the worst thing she had ever done and the best thing she had ever felt.
"Again," she begged. "Again."
He gave her everything. The room narrowed to the two of them, to the slap of their bodies and the rhythm of their names and the heat that built and built until she was not sure where she ended and he began. She came apart beneath him, a wordless keening in her throat, and she felt him follow her over the edge, his body shuddering against hers, and she held him there, held him in her, held him as if she could keep him forever.
When she woke, her heart was slamming against her ribs and her nightgown was soaked through with sweat. She lay in the grey dark of the bedroom, the rain whispering against the glass, and she could still feel the ghost of him inside her, the echo of his voice in her ear.
She pressed her hand to her mouth and swallowed the sob that wanted to escape.
Beside her, Seamus slept on, undisturbed.
She had not been this well fucked in her entire life. The thought arrived unbidden, unwanted, and it was true. It was devastatingly, shamefully true. Seamus had always been gentle, careful, considerate. He had never taken her like that, with that hunger, that desperation, that sense of being claimed.
She lay in the dark and wept.
Across the landing, in the room with the blue curtains, Javier slept too. He was dreaming. It was not a dream he had ever had before, not like this, and in the morning he would not remember it clearly. But in the night, it came to him with a vividness that was almost painful.
He was young in the dream, younger than he was now, a boy with scraped knees and a guilty conscience. He was standing in a hallway he did not recognize, the wallpaper floral and faded, and he knew he had done something wrong, though he could not remember what. A door opened, and Roisin stood there, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her blue eyes fixed on him with a warmth that was also a warning.
"What am I going to do with you?" she asked.
He did not know. He felt the words dissolve in his mouth.
"Bend over my knee," she said. "You know you deserve it."
He did know. He did not understand how he knew, but he knew. He lay across her lap, his cheek against the soft wool of her skirt, and her hand came down on his backside with a sharp, stinging crack that made him gasp. Again. Again. The rhythm of it, the heat of it, the way her hand lingered between blows, stroking the sting away.
"You're a good boy," she said. "You just need reminding."
"Yes, Mum."
"Say it again."
"Yes, Mum."
She helped him up, her hands gentle now, and she took his hand and led him down the hallway to a door that was his, or hers, or theirs. She opened it, and the bed inside was big and soft, and she turned to him and pulled him down into it.
"Don't be afraid," she said. "I'll take care of you."
She did. She took care of him in ways that made his body sing, her mouth on his, her hands in his hair, her heat wrapping around him until he was lost in her. She was tender and fierce at once, and she called him son and he called her mum, and the words were a thing of beauty, a sacred shame, a bond that burned.
When he woke, his heart was racing and his sheets were twisted around him. He sat bolt upright in the dark, the rain still falling outside, and he pressed his hand to his chest as if to hold his heart still.
"What the hell?" he whispered into the empty room.
The dream clung to him like a scent, like a warmth, like the ghost of a touch. He could feel the weight of her body against his, hear the roughness of her voice, see the look in her eyes as she pulled him down to her. His body ached with a want he had never felt before, answering a desire he had not known was there.
He swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He walked to the window and stood there, gripping the sill, staring out at the grey pre-dawn and the rain-slicked street.
Was that me? he asked. Did I just... what is happening to me?
Molly. He thought of Molly. Her warmth, her openness, the easy glide of their bodies together. He loved her. He was sure of it. He had told her so, and he had meant it.
But the woman in the dream had not been Molly. The woman in the dream had been Roisin.
He shook his head, hard. It was nothing. Just a dream. His mind playing tricks on him, his childhood memories of his own mother entangled with the woman who had taken him in. It did not mean anything.
But the question would not leave him. It sat in his chest like a stone, and when he finally went back to bed and lay in the dark, it was still there. The image of her face. The sound of his own voice saying mum. The feel of her hands on him, guiding him, claiming him.
What kind of son dreams of his mother? What kind of boy?
He turned onto his side and closed his eyes, but he did not sleep again. When the first grey light crept through the curtains, he was still awake, still turning the memory over and over in his mind, still asking the same question.
What is happening to me?
In her room, Roisin heard the creak of his bed, the pad of his feet on the landing. She held her breath and listened, and she heard the soft click of his door closing. She lay in the dark, her body still aching from a dream that had not been real, and she pressed her hand against her belly and felt the heat of it, the shame of it, the hunger.
She did not get up. She did not go to him. She lay very still, and she waited for the morning to come, and she did not know who she was anymore.