Chapter 12: Lucid dream
The dream began in the sitting room, where the fire had burned low and the armchairs still held the warmth of the evening. Javier knew he was dreaming because the room was not quite right. The books on the shelves had no titles. The clock on the mantel had no hands. And Roisin sat in the armchair across from him, watching him with an expression he had never seen on her waking face.
She wore a silk robe the colour of deep wine, belted loosely at her waist. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, softer than the polished style she wore by day. The firelight moved over her skin and caught the gold pendant at her throat.
"You're here," she said. Her voice was the same, warm and low, but there was something underneath it. A current.
"I'm here," he said. "This is a dream."
"Yes." She did not look away. "I know."
He should have found that strange. Perhaps in a dream nothing was strange. He rose from his chair and crossed the room to her. The carpet swallowed his footsteps. She looked up at him, and her eyes were the same brilliant blue, but there was something in them he had never dared to read before.
"I've dreamed of you," she said. "Many nights now. I thought I was alone in it."
"You're not alone."
She reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm, impossibly real. The silk of her robe whispered as she stood, and she was close enough that he could smell her perfume, lavender and something deeper, something that belonged only to her.
"Come with me," she said.
She led him out of the sitting room and up the stairs. The house was the same and not the same. The wallpaper seemed to breathe. The stairs creaked beneath their feet in the same places, but the landing stretched longer than it should have. She did not go to her own bedroom. She took him to his.
The door swung open on a room that was his and not his. His own bed, his own books on the windowsill, his own jacket hung on the back of the chair. But the light was different, softer, and the air was thick with the scent of her.
She stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him. The firelight from the sitting room should not have reached this floor, but it did, painting her in amber and shadow.
"Roisin," he said.
"Not Roisin." She stepped closer and placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. "Here, in this room, in this dream, you know what to call me."
He did know. The word rose in him like something inevitable, something that had been waiting for this moment.
"Mum," he said.
Her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them again, they were bright with something like relief, something like hunger.
"Good boy."
She pushed him gently backward until the back of his knees caught the edge of the bed and he sat. She looked down at him, and he felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing, the way her eyes travelled over his face and then lower, to the column of his throat, the line of his shoulders.
"You came home to me," she said. "You always come home."
"Always."
She reached for the belt of her robe and let it fall. The silk parted and slipped from her shoulders. She was fuller than the women his age. Her body held a softness that his hands ached to know. Her breasts were heavy, her stomach curved, her hips wide. She stood before him in the firelight, and he had never wanted anything the way he wanted her in that moment.
"Look at me," she said. "Don't look away."
He did not look away. She knelt before him, her hands finding his thighs. She undressed him slowly, deliberately, and he let her. When she had him bare before her, she looked at him with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"My beautiful boy," she said. "My strong, brave boy."
She rose and straddled him, her knees settling on either side of his hips. The heat of her was a shock, a revelation. She took him in her hand and guided him to her, and when she sank down onto him, they both gasped. Her head fell back, and the firelight caught the column of her throat, the swell of her breasts.
"Javier," she breathed.
"Mum." He said it again because he needed to, because the word carried a weight he could not name, a taboo that made everything sharper, brighter.
She rode him slowly at first, her hands braced on his shoulders. He reached up and took her hips in his hands and she let him guide her, let him set the rhythm. The dream was endless. Time did not pass here. It stretched and folded and repeated, and he felt every sensation with a clarity that waking life had never given him.
"I've wanted this," she said. Her voice broke. "I've wanted you. I've dreamed of you every night, and I wake up and I hate myself and I dream again."
"Don't hate yourself." He cupped her face in his hands. "I'm here. I'm here with you."
She kissed him then. It was not soft. It was desperate. Her mouth was hot and open, tasting of tea and something sweet, something like the honey she kept in the cupboard. He kissed her back and her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer, and she rode him faster, and the dream felt like drowning in warm water.
"Tell me I'm good," she said against his mouth. "Tell me I'm good for you."
"You're good," he said. "You're the best thing. You're everything."
She cried out, a sound that was half sob, and he felt her tighten around him. He held her, his arms wrapped around her, and he let go with her, a shudder that seemed to pull the air out of the room.
The fire burned low. The room was quiet except for their breathing.
She lay against his chest, her cheek pressed to his heart. Her blonde hair was tangled against his shoulder, and he carded his fingers through it without thinking.
"I don't want to wake up," she said. Her voice was small, the voice of a girl who had never gotten what she wanted, or had been too afraid to ask for it.
"Then don't," he said. "Stay here with me."
But dreams do not obey such commands. The room began to blur at the edges. The firelight faded. Roisin looked at him, and her eyes were bright with tears.
"I'll see you in the morning," she said. "We'll both wake up. And it will be like this never happened."
"Don't say that."
"It has to be. You know it has to be."
He shook his head. He tried to hold her, but she was already dissolving. The dream was pulling apart at the seams.
"Roisin," he said.
"Shh," she said. "Shh, my love. It's time to wake."
Javier opened his eyes to the pale grey light of a Dublin morning. The ceiling above him was his own. The wallpaper was the same flocked pattern that had been there since he moved in. The sounds of the street outside, a car passing, a dog barking somewhere, filtered through the window.
He was hard. His body ached with the residue of the dream. He lay still and tried to catch his breath, tried to sort the impossible from the more impossible. But all he could think of was the weight of her, the way she had felt around him, the way she had said his name.
He did not hear the door.
He did not hear anything until the footsteps stopped outside his room.
Then Roisin's voice, soft through the wood: "Javier?"
He sat up. The sheet fell away from his chest. "Yes?"
"Myself and Seamus are heading out. He has a site visit early." A pause. "I'll put the kettle on. When you're ready."
"Okay. I'll be down soon."
Her footsteps retreated down the stairs.
The house was quiet in a way it rarely was. Seamus left for his work with noise and presence, a horn a good morning, a cup of tea draining in the sink, boots clattering in the hallway. But by the time Javier showered and dressed and went down to the kitchen, there was only Roisin.
She stood at the stove. The radio played softly on the windowsill. She wore a cream cardigan over a floral dress, and her hair was pinned up in its usual polished arrangement, and she looked exactly as she always looked, and something had changed.
The air between them had changed.
They both felt it. Javier watched her turn from the stove and set the kettle on the counter, and she did not quite meet his eyes. Her hands were not still. She touched the edge of the counter, the handle of the teapot, the hem of her sleeve.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning."
She poured the tea. The steam rose between them. "I was thinking, maybe eggs. Or we've some of that soda bread from yesterday, if you prefer."
"Eggs sound grand."
She nodded and moved to the fridge. He watched her from the kitchen table and she felt him watching, he could see it in the slight stiffness of her shoulders, the way she took her time arranging the butter dish and the jam.
The silence grew thick enough to taste.
He cleared his throat. "Seamus left early?"
"Aye. Site visit out in Kildare. He'll not be back till tonight."
"Right."
The eggs hissed in the pan. The kitchen filled with the smell of butter and morning. She did not turn around.
He rose from the table and crossed to the counter. He stood beside her, close enough that he could see the slight tremor in her hand as she stirred the eggs.
"Roisin."
She stopped stirring. The sound of the pan faded to a soft crackle.
"I had a dream last night," he said. "I need to tell you about it."
Her face went pale. She gripped the wooden spoon too hard.
"Javier, we don't have to—"
"It was about you. It was us. We were in the sitting room, and then we went upstairs. To my room." He swallowed. "It felt real. It felt like it really happened."
She did not respond. The eggs burned. The smell of scorched butter rose in the air, and she did not move to take the pan off the heat.
"Roisin, what's wrong?"
She turned to face him. Her eyes were wet, and there was something broken in the way she held herself. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"I had the same dream."
The words hung in the air between them, impossible and huge. He stared at her. She stared at him. The eggs continued to burn.
"That can't be," he said.
"I know. I know it can't be. But it was. You. Me. The sitting room." She reached up and pressed a hand to her mouth. "You saw me in the wine-coloured robe. You called me mum."
His blood turned to ice and then to fire. He knew her words were true because he had dreamed them, because no one else could have known those details.
"How is this possible?"
"God forgive me," she said. "I've been dreaming of you for weeks. I tried to stop. I tried to pray it away. And last night, you were there. Not just in the dream, but with me. Like you were real. Like you knew."
"I did know." He stepped closer. "I knew it was you. I knew we were dreaming together. I didn't understand how, but I knew."
She shook her head. "This is madness."
"It's not madness. It happened."
"Javier, I'm married. I'm fifty years old. I'm your—" she choked on the word.
"My mum," he said.
She flinched. He felt a slash of shame at it, but he didn't take it back. The word had too much power between them now.
"I can't be that to you," she said. "Not the way I dreamed. Not the way I want." The admission slipped out like a body caught in a current, and she looked horrified to have said it.
"Roisin." He reached for her hand. She let him take it. Her fingers were cold.
"You have Molly. You're a beautiful, wonderful man, and you have a life ahead of you. You have a girl your own age who will love you properly, and you don't need—"
"I know what I need." He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "Feel this. Feel what you do to me."
"Javier, don't."
"I can't pretend I didn't dream. I can't pretend I didn't feel you, Roisin. I can't un-know you."
She was crying now. The tears fell freely down her round cheeks and she did not wipe them away. The eggs had burned to nothing in the pan and the kitchen smelled of char and butter and the sharp scent of her grief.
"This can never happen," she said. "Do you understand? I love my husband. I've loved him for thirty years. And I love you. You are the son I never had. And I can't, Javier. I can't be both of those things." She pulled her hand from his and pressed it to her heart. "But I dreamed you. I dreamed you so completely that I woke up believing it was real. And I don't know if I can live with that."
He stood before her, the burnt eggs making a tether of the present in the madland. Everything in him wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her until the trembling stopped, to tell her that they could find a way, that Seamus would understand, that love was not a thing to be rationed. But he did not know any of those things were true.
"Then what do we do?" he asked.
She laughed, a broken, brittle sound. "I've no idea."
The kettle clicked off. The steam had stopped rising. The kitchen was still warm but the air was heavy with the weight of what they had confessed.
She turned back to the stove and scraped the ruined eggs into the bin. Her movements were mechanical, her face blank. When she had cleaned the pan and put it in the sink, she stood with her back to him, her shoulders rigid.
"I think you should go to Molly's today," she said. "Spend the day with her. Remember what's real."
"What's real is standing in this kitchen with me," he said. "What's real is that we both dreamed the same impossible thing. You can't make me forget that by sending me away."
"I'm not trying to make you forget." Her voice cracked. "I'm trying to save you from making a terrible mistake."
He moved to stand behind her. He did not touch her. He could see the pulse beating in her throat, the tremble of her jaw.
"I'm not going to pretend this didn't happen," he said. "But I won't push you. I won't ask you to choose anything. I just need you to know that I'm here. That I'm not going anywhere."
She turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her mascara smudged, and she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"You're going to marry Molly one day," she said. "You're going to have children, and you're going to raise them in a house full of noise, the way you always wanted. And you're going to look back on this and you're going to wonder why you ever thought—"
"Roisin, stop."
She stopped. He reached up and, very gently, cupped her face in his hands. She stiffened, but she did not pull away. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his palms, the slight tremor of her lips.
"I don't know what's going to happen," he said. "I don't know if we ever speak of this again. But you need to know that I meant what I said in the dream. When I called you that." He paused, and the word came heavy and true. "Mum. When I held you. I meant it. And I don't know what that makes me, or what it makes us. But it's real."
She let out a sob. His heart cracked in his chest. And then she was in his arms, and he was holding her, her head tucked beneath his chin, her body shaking against his.
"You're a good boy," she whispered into his chest. "You've always been a good boy."
He held her until the trembling stopped. And when she finally pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she gave him a watery smile.
"I'll make fresh eggs," she said. "And we'll eat breakfast, and we'll pretend everything is normal."
"Will that work?"
"No." She turned to the stove. "But it's what we have."
But it's what we have. She turned back to the stove and cracked fresh eggs into the pan. The butter sizzled and the kitchen slowly filled with the warm smell of breakfast. Javier stood at the counter, watching her, and the silence stretched between them like a rope pulled taut.
He saw her shoulders rise and fall with a breath. She reached for the salt, her fingers brushing the small ceramic pot, and he saw the tremor in them. He saw the way she held herself, the stiffness in her spine, the careful way she kept her back to him.
"Roisin," he said.
"Nearly done," she said. "Sit down. I'll bring it over."
He did not sit. He crossed the kitchen and stood behind her, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body through her cardigan. She stiffened. The spatula paused over the pan.
"Javier—"
"I can't pretend," he said quietly. "Not with you. Not now. We stood in this kitchen and we told each other the truth. You can't ask me to un-hear it."
She turned. The spatula hung at her side. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her mascara was smudged and she looked at him like he was the answer to a question she had been afraid to ask her whole life.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
He reached out and took the spatula from her hand and set it in the sink. He took her hand instead. Her fingers were cold, trembling, and he brought them to his lips and kissed them.
"I want you," he said. "I've wanted you since the coffee shop. Since the first time you smiled at me. I've wanted you through every dinner and every text and every night I lay in that bed pretending I didn't think of you."
"Javier, no—"
"I dreamed you," he said. "You came to me in the dream and I knew it was real. And now you're standing here in my kitchen and you're telling me you dreamed the same thing. You can't tell me that and then ask me to sit down and eat eggs like nothing happened."
Her breath caught. She looked at him, her blue eyes bright with tears and something else, something that flickered in the grey morning light like a flame catching.
"I'm married," she said. "I'm fifty years old. I'm your mum."
"You're not my mum," he said. "You're the woman who took me in. You're the woman who made me feel like I belonged somewhere for the first time since I left Spain. You're the woman I called mum in a dream because it was the only word big enough for what I felt. But you're not my mother. And I think you know that."
She shook her head. "This is wrong."
"Then why did you dream it?" he asked. "Why did we dream the same dream? Why did you come to me wearing that robe, why did you take me to my room, why did you ride me until I couldn't breathe? Tell me that was wrong and I'll walk away. I'll go to Molly's and I'll never speak of this again. But I don't think you can tell me that."
She stared at him. The eggs burned in the pan behind her, the smell of scorched butter rising between them. She looked at his face, at his eyes, at the line of his jaw, at the way his chest rose and fell beneath his shirt.
"No," she said finally. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I can't tell you that."
He pulled her into his arms. She came without resistance, her body folding into his. He felt her tremble against him, felt the rapid beat of her heart through her cardigan. He buried his face in her hair, the scent of lavender and something deeper, something that belonged only to her.
"I love you," he said. "I know it's madness. I know it doesn't make sense. But I love you, Roisin. I loved you the moment I saw you."
She let out a sound, half sob and half something else. She pulled back and looked up at him, and her eyes were wild with fear and desire and a hunger she had been suppressing for weeks.
"Take me to your room," she said.
He didn't need to be asked twice. He took her hand and led her out of the kitchen, past the dining room, up the stairs. The house was quiet and empty, Seamus gone for the day, and the only sound was their footsteps on the creaking treads.
They reached his room. The door swung open on the same walls, the same windowsill with his books, the same jacket on the back of the chair. The same room he had dreamed of. The same room where she had straddled him in the firelight.
She turned to face him. The morning light came grey through the window, softening the edges of everything. She reached up and unbuttoned her cardigan and let it fall from her shoulders.
"I'm not young," she said. "I'm not Molly. I'm not what you should want."
"You're wrong," he said. "You're exactly what I want."
She unhooked her dress and let it pool at her feet. She stood before him in her slip, the thin silk clinging to the generous curves of her body. Her hands trembled as she reached behind her and unclasped her bra.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered. "I'll fall apart."
"Then fall apart," he said. "I'll catch you."
The slip followed the dress. She stood naked before him in the grey morning light, her body soft and full, her skin pale and warm. She was not young, and she was not thin, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He undressed himself quickly, his hands shaking. When he stood before her, she reached out and touched his chest, her fingers tracing the line of muscle there.
"My beautiful boy," she said. "My strong, brave boy."
The words from the dream. She said them the same way, with the same reverence, the same hunger. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
It was not the desperate kiss of the dream. It was slower, deeper, a kiss heavy with years of loneliness on both sides. She tasted of tea and grief and longing. He held her face in his hands and kissed her like he had wanted to since the day they met.
She broke away and pushed him gently back onto the bed. He fell onto the mattress and she followed, straddling him, her knees settling on either side of his hips. The same position as the dream. The same heat.
"Mum," he said, and the word felt right.
"Son," she breathed. "My son. My beautiful boy."
She reached down and guided him to her. He was hard, aching, and when she sank onto him, they both gasped. She was wet and hot and tight, and she took him all the way in and then stilled, her head falling back, her body trembling around him.
"Oh God," she moaned. "Oh God, Javier."
"Mum." He gripped her hips. "Move for me."
She began to ride him. Slowly at first, a gentle rocking that built a rhythm. Her hands braced on his chest, her breasts swaying with each motion. He watched her, the firelight of the dream replaced by the grey sweetness of morning, and he saw her face transform with pleasure.
"You feel so good," she gasped. "You feel better than I dreamed. Oh God, you feel better than anything."
He reached up and took her breasts in his hands. She moaned and arched into his touch, and he felt her tighten around him. She came with a cry that was almost a sob, her body shuddering above him, and she collapsed onto his chest.
"That's it," he said. "That's it, mum. Let go. Let everything go."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were dark, wild, full of a desire she had never let herself name. She kissed him hard and then she began to move again, faster this time.
"Son," she said between breaths. "My son. Fuck me, Javier. Fuck your mum."
The words broke something loose in both of them. He rolled her onto her back and took control, driving into her with a rhythm that made her gasp and claw at the sheets. She wrapped her legs around his waist and cried out with every thrust.
"Yes," she keened. "Yes, yes, yes. Son, oh God, son, don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't stop. He fucked her with everything he had, with every night he had lain awake thinking of her, with every glance across the dinner table that he had forced himself to ignore. She came again, harder this time, her body arching off the bed, her nails raking down his back.
"Javier," she sobbed. "Javier, I'm coming. I'm coming again."
"Come for me, mum. Come for me."
She screamed. The sound was raw and animal, muffled by the pillow as she buried her face in it. He felt her clench around him, felt the wave of her orgasm pull him closer to the edge.
He slowed. He wanted to draw this out, to make it last forever. He rolled them again, so she was on top, and she rode him in a frenzy, her head thrown back, her blonde hair wild around her shoulders.
"I want to feel you come inside me," she said. "I want to feel my son come inside me. Please, Javier. Please."
He took her hips and drove up into her. She cried out and came again, a long rolling orgasm that seemed to go on and on. He felt himself tip over the edge and he followed her, buried deep inside her, releasing with a groan that came from somewhere primal.
She collapsed onto his chest. Her body shook with aftershocks. He held her, his arms wrapped around her, his hands stroking her sweat-damp back.
"Roisin," he said.
"No," she said. "Not Roisin. Not now."
He understood. "Mum."
"Yes." She nuzzled into his neck. "Yes, my son. My beautiful, wonderful boy."
They lay there in the grey morning light. The room was quiet except for their breathing. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, gradually slowing to match his own.
"Was it like the dream?" he asked.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she lifted her head and looked at him, and her eyes were bright with wonder.
"Better," she said. "It was better than the dream. I've never been loved like that." She paused. "I've never been fucked like that, either. Not in thirty years. Not ever."
He kissed her forehead. "Mum."
"Son." She smiled, a soft, wondering smile. "I don't know what we do now. I don't know how we live with this."
"We don't have to decide now," he said. "We just have to be here. Together."
She laid her head back on his chest. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his skin. The morning light crept across the bed.
"I have to make us breakfast eventually," she said.
"Not yet," he said. "Stay with me a little longer."
She closed her eyes. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes and fell onto his chest.
"I love you," she said. "I love you in a way I have never loved anyone. It frightens me."
He held her tighter. "I know. Me too."
They lay together as the morning grew brighter. The world outside continued, cars passing, a neighbour's dog barking, the distant sound of a lawnmower. But in that room, time seemed to stand still.
They lay together as the morning grew brighter, and the world outside continued, cars passing, a neighbour's dog barking, the distant sound of a lawnmower. But in that room, time seemed to stand still.
The light changed slowly, from the grey of early morning to the pale gold of a winter sun finding its way through the clouds. Dust motes drifted in the beams. He watched them move, felt the slow rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, and for a while he let himself believe that this was all there was. The two of them, the warm sheets, the quiet house.
But the quiet was not empty. The quiet was full of everything they had not said, everything they could not say. The name Seamus hung in the air like a third presence, and beneath it, the shape of Molly, the girl who had done nothing wrong, the girl who had trusted him.
Roisin stirred against him. She lifted her head, and her eyes were clear, already sharpening with the return of the world. She looked at him, and he saw the regret beginning to gather in her face, not for what they had done, but for what it cost.
"We need to talk about what happens now," she said.
"I know."
She sat up, pulling the sheet with her, holding it against her chest. The morning light caught the curve of her shoulder, the soft fall of her hair. She looked at the window, at the street beyond, at the ordinary life that was waiting for her downstairs.
"Seamus cannot know," she said. Her voice was flat, careful, as if she were reading from a script she had rehearsed for years.
Javier sat up too. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, but she did not look at him.
"Roisin—"
"Listen to me." She turned to face him now, and her eyes were fierce. "I love my husband. I have loved him for thirty years. He is a good man, the best man I have ever known. And if he knew what I have done, what I have felt, it would destroy him. Do you understand that? It would break his heart."
"I understand."
"And Molly." Her voice cracked on the name. "She is a lovely girl, Javier. She loves you. You cannot hurt her. You cannot let her find out that you've been with her and then come to me like this."
He felt the weight of it settle on him. He had known, of course, that this would not be simple. But hearing her say it, hearing the names of the people who would be collateral damage, made it real in a way that the dream had not.
"What are you asking me?" he said.
She looked at him for a long moment. The sun had moved, and the light was brighter now, illuminating the lines at the corners of her eyes, the softness of her jaw. She was not young. She had never pretended to be. But she was the woman he wanted, and that was the problem.
"I'm asking you to keep this secret," she said. "I'm asking you to go downstairs with me, and eat breakfast, and talk about the weather and your studies and anything else that is safe. And I'm asking you to never, ever speak of what happened in this room. Not to me, not to anyone."
"And we just pretend it didn't happen?"
"No." She shook her head. "We don't pretend. We carry it. We hold it between us, and we never let it out into the light. That's what a secret is, Javier. It's a thing you carry so the people you love don't have to."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her that this was not fair, that what they had was too real to be hidden, that love was not something you could ration out in secret. But he looked at her face and he saw the truth there. She was not asking him to deny what they had done. She was asking him to protect the people who would be hurt by it.
"What about us?" he said. "What about what we feel?"
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were wet. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know what we feel. I don't know if what I feel for you is love or madness or just the hunger of a woman who has been asleep for thirty years and woke up to find you standing in her kitchen. I don't know what it is. But I know it cannot be allowed to grow. Not here. Not like this."
He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. She did not pull away. He could feel the tremble in her, the same trembling that had run through her when she confessed her dream, when she had come apart in his arms.
"Then we keep it secret," he said. "I'll do whatever you need me to do. But I need you to hear me, Roisin. I need you to understand that this isn't something I can just switch off."
"I know." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I know, because I can't switch it off either. God help me, I've tried. I've tried for weeks. I've prayed and I've cried and I've lain awake next to my husband and I have tried to make it go away. And it won't. It just gets stronger."
"Then maybe we don't have to switch it off," he said. "Maybe we just need to be careful."
She looked at him for a long moment. The fear in her eyes warred with something else, something hungrier. He watched her make the decision, saw the moment she committed to it.
"Careful," she repeated. "Yes. That's what we'll be. We'll be so careful that no one ever suspects. And we'll be discreet. And we'll be—" she paused, searching for the word. "We'll be what we are. When the house is empty. When no one can see."
"And when it's not empty?"
"Then we're exactly what we've always been. Landlady and lodger. Mum and son. Nothing more."
The word mum landed between them like a stone. He had called her that in the dream, and she had called him son, and it had been the hottest thing he had ever felt. But standing here, in the grey morning light, with the sheets tangled around them and the smell of their bodies still in the air, it felt different. It felt like a grief.
"Is that enough for you?" she asked. "A secret life? Hidden moments when the house is quiet?"
He thought about it. He thought about Molly, who would be waiting for him at the university, who would want to know why he was distracted, who would try to read his silences. He thought about Seamus, who had called him son, who had taught him to fight, who trusted him to sleep under his roof. And he thought about Roisin, this woman who had taken him in and given him a home and turned his world inside out.
"Yes," he said. "It's enough. Because it's the only way I can have you in my life at all."
The relief that crossed her face was almost painful to witness. She let out a breath she had been holding, and her shoulders dropped, and for a moment she looked younger, lighter.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
She leaned forward and kissed him. It was a different kiss from the ones that had come before. It was a sealing kiss, a promise. When she pulled back, her eyes were steady.
"From this moment on," she said, "this is ours. No one else gets to know. Not Seamus. Not Molly. Not anyone. Do you agree?"
"I agree."
She nodded. She got out of bed, and he watched her move across the room, gathering her clothes. The slip, the dress, the cardigan. She dressed with her back to him, and there was a finality in the motion, a closing of a door. When she turned, she was his landlady again, composed and warm and entirely proper.
"Breakfast," she said. "I'll make fresh eggs. And then you should call Molly. Spend the day with her if you can. It's important that we're normal."
"Naturally normal or actively normal?"
She smiled, a small, sad smile. "Actively normal. We make a point of it."
He dressed too, slower, letting the ritual of it ground him. By the time he reached the kitchen, she had the kettle on and the eggs out, and the smell of butter was rising in the warmth.
"I'll ring Molly after breakfast," he said. "Maybe take her to the coast."
"A good idea." She did not look at him. "A nice day out. That's what people do."
"People do."
The eggs cooked. The tea brewed. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, and they talked about the weather and the garden and the rosemary bush that was struggling in the winter cold. They talked about everything except what had happened, and the not-talking of it sat between them like a living thing, warm and breathing.
He finished his eggs and stacked his plate. She took it to the sink. When she passed him, her hand brushed his shoulder, a quick, electric touch, and she did not meet his eye, but the touch was there. A promise. A seal.
He went upstairs and called Molly.
"Hey," she said, her voice bright. "I was just thinking about you."
"I was thinking about you too." The lie tasted strange on his tongue, but he pushed it down. "I was wondering if you wanted to drive out to Howth today. Walk the cliffs. Get some air."
"Seriously? That sounds amazing. I've been staring at my laptop for three hours."
"Perfect. I'll pick you up in an hour."
"Perfect. Hey, Javier?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for calling. It feels like I haven't seen you in ages."
He felt the knife of it turn in his chest. He had seen her yesterday. He had held her hand and watched her smile and felt the familiar warmth of her presence. And now he was carrying a secret that made the warmth feel like a lie.
"See you soon," he said.
When he hung up, he stood in his room for a long moment, looking at the bed where Roisin had lain in his arms. The sheets were still tangled. The smell of her was still in the air.
He made the bed. He opened the window. He let the cold air come in and sweep the memory away, or try to.
Downstairs, he found Roisin in the sitting room, folding laundry that did not need folding. She looked up when he entered, and their eyes met, and for a moment the mask slipped.
"I'm going to Howth with Molly," he said.
"Good. I hope you have a lovely day."
"I will." He paused. "I'll text you. Let you know I'm safe."
The words were a code, a private covenant. Her face softened, just slightly.
"Good," she said. "I'll be here when you get home."
He walked out into the cold morning and got on his motorcycle. The engine roared to life beneath him, and for a moment he let it fill his head, a loud mechanical thing that left no room for anything else. Then he pulled away, and the house shrank in his mirrors, and the road opened ahead of him, grey and indifferent.
Molly was waiting on the pavement outside her flat, bundled in a thick coat, her face bright with the same open warmth she always carried. She climbed on behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed to his back.
"Ready?" he called.
"Ready!"
They rode north out of the city, the buildings thinning into fields and low stone walls and the long grey sweep of the sea appearing on the horizon. The wind was cold and sharp, and he kept his eyes on the road, trying to sink into the simple physicality of the ride.
At Howth, they walked the cliff path, the sea crashing below them, the gulls wheeling overhead. Molly talked about her thesis, about a paper she was struggling with, about the professor who had made a comment that had stung. He listened. He nodded. He said the right things.
It was not that he did not care. He did care. He cared about Molly, about her work, about the woman she was becoming. But the place in his chest that had once been open to her was now occupied by another presence, and he carried it with him like a splinter.
They ate fish and chips at a pub overlooking the harbour. She laughed at something he said, and the sound was bright and real. He watched her face and tried to remember when it had been enough. It had been, he thought. It had been enough. He had been happy.
And then the dream had come, and the dream had changed everything.
"You're quiet," she said, pushing her chips around her plate. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired. Didn't sleep well."
"Bad dreams?"
The word hit him like a fist. He forced a smile. "Something like that."
She reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were warm, reassuring, and the innocence of the gesture made his chest ache.
"I'm glad you called," she said. "I like this. I like being with you like this."
"Me too."
He held her hand and watched the gulls wheel over the grey water, and he thought about Roisin, standing in the kitchen with the eggs cooling in the pan, her hand brushing his shoulder like a brand.
That evening, he returned to the house.
The lights were on in the kitchen. Seamus was home, his boots off, his paper open on the table, a cup of tea at his elbow. Roisin stood at the stove, stirring a pot that smelled like lamb and rosemary.
"Javier!" Seamus called. "How was the coast?"
"Beautiful. Cold, though."
"Cold is good for the blood. Sit down, sit down. Roisin's made a stew."
Javier hung his jacket on the hook and washed his hands. He took his place at the table. Roisin did not look at him when she set the bowl in front of him, but her hand brushed his as she withdrew, a whisper of contact, a current.
"Thanks, Mum," he said.
"You're welcome, love."
Seamus was talking about a foundation he was pouring in Kildare, about a subcontractor who had tried to cut corners, about how he had set the man straight. Javier listened, nodded, asked the right questions. The stew was excellent. The fire crackled. The house was warm.
And in the spaces between the words, he carried the secret, the shining thing he had promised to keep in the dark, and he felt it burn inside him like a coal.