the fire's not enough

by SeerowsKindness

Summary:

It makes sense at the time: Leo loves her and she’s always liked him and maybe this is her chance.

It makes sense at the time: Leo loves her and she’s always liked him and maybe this is her chance. She remembers late nights studying with him or the times he’d read her his (sometimes questionable) poetry or when they’d stumble back to his flat, slightly drunk, laughing. They were happy. She remembers being happy.

She’d ended it, of course. She knew he’d resent her if he came back with her to Ballykissangel. He was meant for the city, or at least was meant for the city then, and she had to go back for the pub. There was no one else. She thought he’d figure it out for himself: which mattered more, the city or her? He’d say her—he said her—but she knew, once he was there, things would be different. And she’d been right. If you love it, let it go, or something like that. He didn’t come find her.

Until he did, of course, on assignment, doing what she’d known he should: writing and making a living off of it. And it was so strange to see him again, especially in BallyK. She felt somehow older and younger at the same time, as if she’d outgrown him, as if she wanted to go back to then. She hadn’t told him. She didn’t know what to say. He left. She knew it was better that way.

And then there he was in that London restaurant she’d gone to with her friend, walking in, scanning the room, eyes glancing over her, coming back. She looked away, looked back. She’d seen him come in. She didn’t know what to do, her breath catching in her throat. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

He’s picking up takeaway, has a meeting, something, but he asks why she’s in town (she could ask him the same thing), if he can see her again. She says yes, her friend looking on all the while.

And it just makes sense. When he kisses her, she kisses him back. It feels like the past, feels familiar. Maybe she could get used to this, maybe this could be the future. He is good to her, careful, attentive, quiet when she needs him to be. He wants to know her plans—he’s back to Dublin soon, what about a restaurant there, a pub?

What about her pub? What about Fitzgerald’s? She’d run away, of course. Needed to get out of there, clear her mind, understand what was happening and understand how to stop it. She needed it to stop, needed to get a grip and face reality. And if that meant holding on to Leo to find her footing again, well, it made sense. He was here and he wanted her and she’d always liked him.

He proposed, but she was the one who said yes, yes if they went back. It was safe now, with Leo with her. She could have the life she’d built and she could have Leo too. He’d come back, hadn’t he? It worked in London and it would work at home too.

The wedding is nothing fancy, because she requests it. He’d do whatever she asks. He kisses her and she kisses him back and she thinks, This is it. I’ve made my decision.

And it all falls apart so fast. She was right: he should have been in the city, but she holds him close at night and wakes to find him gone and wonders what’s turned so wrong.

And it’s her, of course it’s her, there’s something wrong with her that she can’t be happy with this man right in front of her who loves her and who she’s sure she could love. Things aren’t perfect, not everything fits, but if she wants to be here and he wants to be here, then it should work—if only she could be happy.

She is not at all surprised when he leaves. She doesn’t put up a fight. She says almost nothing and she blames herself, but Niamh is right (Niamh is often right) and he deserves to know something about why she’s like this, why she keeps pushing men away, why she can’t stand to be close to anyone, not properly, not even when it’s good for her.

It doesn’t go well. He wants her to stay in Dublin, says they can have a proper start here. He takes her hands and tells her he knows she’d be brilliant here, that she’s meant for more than a small town.

That makes her angry and makes her feel justified in walking away. He doesn’t know her, she tells herself. He doesn’t understand the differences she saw between them, even right at the start, and he doesn’t understand that she’s trying, trying to do the right thing, trying to make him understand.

She isn’t happy to leave him, but she wouldn’t be happy staying, either.

And that’s it, she thinks, crawling into her bed in the dark, avoiding the side where he slept. Niamh is upset and Peter is gone and this is not the homecoming she wanted, but she supposes it’s to be expected. At least she didn’t have to face his pity, didn’t have to hear him say how sorry he was with complete sincerity. At least she didn’t have to wonder if that was Peter talking, or Peter the priest. And in the end, should it matter? Peter and Peter the priest are the same person, really, which is the whole problem. She can’t take the religion out of him, shouldn’t try, but she hates it, hates it, but it's what he wants, what he is, and that’s why she’s lying here in this bed, still alone, staring into the darkness at nothing.