Page 11 of Cillian

Queenie

The ride felt like hours that just wouldn't pass. Both of us sat in the back, the first half painfully quiet and I couldn't help asking would it be easier to just throw myself out the car or return home with him? Anxiety ran rapid in every single one of my nerve, and if I could scratch away the discomfort, I would.

I could feel his eyes on me, but I could barely look at him. A part of me thought I'd never have to. I'd never forget a face like that, but during the ceremony, I hadn't realized how young he looked without all the blood on his face. I swear, he looked so much mature to me back then.

Maybe my fear of him had convinced me he looked older. In forced proximity, even in my peripheral vision, it was obvious he wasn’t older by more than a year. Cillian had what my mama would refer to as a baby face. Bright, youthful features that made a grown man appear more virtuous than he actually was.

Maybe it was because I knew the truth about him that I just couldn't see past any of the appealing stuff that women noticed on a man. Of all the men I could have been forced to marry, why oh why did it have to be him?

“I reckon you'll fancy the flat me brothers picked out for us,” his voice cracked. Almost like he was just as nervous to break that silence. “Not sure if you ever lived in a penthouse before, but I'm told there's a big kitchen. More than one washroom and a few other things we're bound to make use of,” his thick foreign accent a bit of a challenge to understand.

I just didn't understand. We had to learn American but everyone else who voluntarily came here didn't or weren't forced to. “I'm sorry, what did you just say?”

He cleared his throat. His hard-blue eyes looked heavy between mine. “I said I think you're going to like the place my family picked out for us.” His attempts to enunciate and use words he should have used in the first place. I still struggled but managed to piece the words I could understand together and omitted the rest.

“I have no idea what you're trying to tell me,” I said, choosing to feign ignorance.

“I'm speaking English. What kind of problem you got with me?”

“Maybe I'm just not in the mood for conversation,” I ended, forcing my gaze elsewhere but not quick enough to notice him rubbing his palms against his thighs in silent protest.

My words acted as a conversation suppressor for now, but once we reached the said apartment building, Cillian advised me to wait before stepping out the vehicle.

There was no way I'd ever get out this car if I didn't leave now, and if the place was as spacious as he bragged it to be, I wanted to just hide somewhere while I had the courage to do so. Hopping out of the car before anyone had objections, all I heard was, “Oi! I told you to wait.”

Making it clear that I wasn’t going to just obey like a house pet, he had a slight exchange with his driver, before erasing any possible distance with his long strides.

“Hey!” He sneered as he grabbed my arm with a firm handle. “I said I’d bloody open your door for you, what’s your problem?”

“I just want to get tonight over with,” I interrupted, which appeared to mean something different to him because he couldn't wipe that grin of satisfaction off his face. I was a lot newer to the subject of marriage and men, but I’m sure I just implied that I was just as eager to start the marital expectation of a wife.

“I can see why you're in such a rush,” he smirked, after offering a curt “After you.” All it did was give me a second longer to let the scenery to distract me. This hotel was swanky. Definitely nowhere a Colored girl who didn't star in pictures would likely find herself. With all the looks I was getting, it was clear that I was either not welcome or assumed to be a hooker.

Especially given my now husband was a white man that I didn’t seem to know very well.

That certainly made me slow my stride to walk with him next to me, so no one approached or told me I didn't belong. I didn't, but this part of town wasn't the worst of Boston. At least neighborhoods with some color weren't far in distance away.

The elevator ride felt even longer than the car ride, as I had no choice but to let Cillian lead. He took out his key to the only apartment on the floor, but before he could guide me any further, I darted past him, eager to kick my shoes off and find a place of refuge he hopefully couldn’t break down.

“Hey—hey, what the hell is bloody wrong with you? I know everybody's eager. But the least you could have done was let me make it more memorable for you and carry you over the threshold.

“Well, lucky for you, you've given me enough memories to last a lifetime.”

“The attitude on this one, you must be one of them uppity ones.” He boldly spoke without shame.

Up until now I had tried my best not to behave outside of how I was raised, but that word? It flipping infuriated me. “What did you just say?”

“Look, I ain’t the one with the problem here. Since the moment I've been alone with you, you've been a big bloody tart, and all I'm trying to do is see the upside of the situation.”

“Maybe there's one for you, but there is no upside for me. In fact, this is the last place I'd rather be.”

“You think I wanted to fucking marry you? Like if I had a choice, this is where I'd be? Don't flatter yourself geebag, if it weren’t for our fucking families, I'd be slapping skins with a proper Irish girl right now.”

Something about the way he said geebag and proper Irish girl didn't sit right with me. One word I had no cultural context to. The other phrase came out in a way to suggest anything that wasn't Irish was the opposite of proper.

“Well, I don't know what ‘geebag’ means,” placing my hands on my hips. “But if you're so concerned about having a proper Irish girl maybe you should just go do that.”

“I'm not going fucking anywhere, so you could drop this stuck up act and start listening to what your husband tells you.”

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