Thomas & January (Sleepless 2)

He grinned softly at me, making my heart palpitate in my chest, my blood boil. No one and nothing had ever made me feel the way he did every time he looked upon my face. I felt the warmth of his gaze from the tips of my hair to the tips of my toes. My smile pulled on one side as I lifted my shoulders softly in a shrug. His grin got bigger and he shook his head at me. My nose crinkled and my smile began to match his, reaching both sides of my mouth. He gestured toward the door and we moved in unison until we met at the entrance. I pushed through the doors first and spilled out into the late night air.

Outside, I stood underneath the soft lamplight, reminding me of the scene from New York, the one where he thought I’d played him but, in truth, hadn’t. I’d been just as surprised by his confession as he was. I just chose to let him think I wasn’t. In hindsight, knowing how cynical he was, I shouldn’t have done that. I was new to flirting and obviously so terrible at it he mistook my playfulness for cruelty. I was too embarrassed to correct the misunderstanding.

Tom approached me slowly and met me under the light on the stone walkway. He leaned over me so closely, my neck craned to see his face. His expression was one of confusion as he studied my own.

“What is it about you?” he asked me.

I gulped. “What do you mean?” I whispered, closing my eyes and swallowing again, my breaths becoming labored.

He lifted his hand and dragged the backs of his fingers across my jaw so lightly I barely felt them, but they made me feel dizzy all the same.

“How can you be this extraordinary, January MacLochlainn?” He leaned closer, a look of pure frustration and anger lit his eyes and pressed his lips. “And why couldn’t I have met you before I realized I didn’t want anyone...ever?”

“What?” I asked, astonished.

“Come on,” he said, jerking me down the walk, but I pulled back.

“Stop!”

“I have to walk you back to the inn,” he said, with no feeling at all.

“No, stop. Just, stop for a second,” I said, feeling like crying but not really sure why, I had no real reason to. I laid my hand over my pumping chest. “What did you mean by all that?”

“Nothing,” he said, coldly staring right through me.

“Nothing,” I said, searching his face for something more. “Nothing,” I repeated.

“Nothing,” he reiterated.

Oh God, what is this pain in my chest? “Let’s go,” I said, barreling past him.

“January!” We heard loudly, swinging both our attentions toward Gogarty’s. Cillian. “Where’re ya’ goin', lass?”

“We’ve got an early start tomorrow,” Tom said, answering for me, which angered me beyond belief, but I had some sort of strange indigestion and my chest hurt so I let him win that one.

Cillian stumbled down the steps toward us and grasped me in a fierce hug. “It was so nice to meet ya’, January,” he said into my ear, making the tears I’d been holding back fall. I’d been like that since I was young. Whenever I was struggling not to cry, the second someone touched me, the emotion would come spilling out of its own volition.

“It was a pleasure, Cillian,” I said truthfully. I hugged him back to gain some time and eventually, God willing, some state of composure. Ironically, the same touch that made them spill is usually the same touch that helped me reel them back in. A strange dichotomy, I know.

Cillian pulled me away from him just as I gained control, but I averted my eyes to hide the rawness in them. “When you’re in town next, lass, you look me up, right?”

“Zap,” I heard Tom curiously mutter under his breath but didn’t acknowledge it.

“Of course I will, Cillian.”

“Just ya’ ask any of the blokes in this bar, they’ll point ya’ my direction.”

“Thank you, Cillian,” I said, hugging him quickly before pulling away and waving goodbye as cheerfully as I could. Cillian watched us walk away for a moment before turning back to Gogarty’s.

Tom and I walked in silence the entire distance to Anchor House and it was beyond deafening. When it came within sight, I practically sprinted down the walk and up the steps toward the door but, distracted by the pain in my chest, I fell and scraped my hands on the fourth step—completely humiliating me. The tears I’d gained control of thanks to Cillian now spilled in embarrassment, the pain in my chest pierced me tenfold. I felt Tom’s breath catch before he reached for me.

“Don’t touch me,” I whimpered like a ten-year-old. “Please,” I added, clearing my throat, “I’m fine.”

I stood and carefully walked up the steps with my head held as high as I could get it, stiffening my back to the point it was almost painful. I felt Tom’s presence behind me the entire time but that only served to magnify the pain in my chest exponentially. Without so much as a glance his direction, I stuck the key in my door with a tight "Goodnight, Tom" and steered my way inside. The bed beckoned to me and I found myself answering with a soft sob in its pillows.

I woke to a pounding head. No, not a pounding in my head, I realized, it was a pounding at my door. I got up, not bothering with my hair, though I knew it was a glorified mess. I swung the door open.

“Paybacks?” I asked a stoic Tom.