My Baby, My Darling.

Dexter POV

They had already left by the time I pulled up. Her mom answered the door and immediately offered me a slice of apple pie, something my taste buds had been deprived of for what seemed like an eternity. When her parents still lived back home, apple pie was always in the kitchen, whether it was a few days old or freshly baked. Delia probably didn’t know I wasn’t currently dating her daughter, but she talked to me as if I still were, and I missed that. I missed being exposed to a full household with parents that cared and the comfortable scent of pie wafting from the kitchen. I think Chelsea sensed this because she was always bringing over apple pie to my apartment, of course it was store bought because I had never seen her cook anything besides breakfast foods.

Delia was showing me the blueprints of her new bakery when their car pulled up and into the driveway. I didn’t hear the door open, but rather the hushed panic that followed.

“That’s odd.” Delia’s eyebrows furrowed, aesthetically similar to the feminine expression of her daughter.

“What is?”

“I didn’t think they’d be home for another couple of hours. At least, that’s what they told me.” She stood up from her seat at the dining table and called out to them. I could faintly hear their stumbling figures as they drifted away from the foyer and toward the kitchen. Gabe’s voice erupted first.

“Dexter! What’s up, man? I thought you couldn’t make it.”

I stood up from the table and shrugged before clasping hands with Gabe and abruptly bumping his shoulder in our casual fashion. “Yeah. I moved a few things around.”

My eyes landed on Annie and a look of worry flashed across her face before shifting her gaze toward an irritated Nicole standing beside her. Nicole’s eyes bore into my towering frame with disgust before she turned and sauntered back into the kitchen. I could only assume that she knew.

My eyes drifted toward Marc, who was taking a seat beside his mother at the dining table and digging a fork into the pie in front of him. I faintly detected a reprimanding Delia as she swatted his hand away and told her son to get a plate from the kitchen. I scanned the rest of the room and noticed that she wasn’t here. She didn’t come home with them. And neither did Travis.

I squeezed past Gabe and Marc, who were now whining and hovering over Delia in an attempt to pick a bite at the apple pie on the table, which she was now holding out of their reach. My feet padded against the hardwood floors as I made my way into the kitchen, conveniently running into the last half of Annie and Nicole’s hushed conversation over a screaming pot on the stove. Annie resorted to making tea since she started trying not to drink as much as she used to. When I walked in, they quickly broke apart and attempted to busy themselves with pointless tasks like polishing silverware.

I raised my eyebrows, finally making eye contact with Annie and silently asking where she was. She merely shook her head slowly, sending me a confused look.

“You have got some nerve.” Nicole’s voice erupted from beside her and my gaze flashed towards her just in time to watch her slam a kitchen drawer shut.

I furrowed my eyebrows before dropping my gaze to the floor and rubbing the back of my neck out of reflex. I had to admit, Nicole and Chelsea had the same fiery way of instigating confrontation. If they were pissed, they were pissed. I’d never realized this commonality because Nicole never had a reason to be pissed at me.

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about, lover boy.” She snapped, her eyes sending daggers my way.

“Alright!” Annie stepped between us, putting a hand up in front of Nicole similar to how an owner would try to appease a growling hound. “Nik, would you mind letting me talk to my brother alone for a minute.”

Nicole scoffed, sending me another glare before storming out of the kitchen and shoulder bumping me as she passed. It didn’t hurt, but her force did make me stumble backward a little.

Annie waited until she was entirely out of earshot before spinning around and pouring herself a cup of tea. “Why are you here, big brother?”

“You said I had to figure out a way to fix this.” I waved my hands in front of me to show her that the reason was obvious.

She rolled her eyes and spun around to face me, the warm cup of tea settled between her palms. “And your first instinct is to drive on down here. What was the plan, did you even come up with one?”

“What is more elaborate than this?”

“Obviously, you didn’t elaborate enough. Did you just think she’d take you back because you randomly showed up here around a bunch of people that have no idea that you guys aren’t even together anymore?”

“How did she know?” I scoffed, gesturing toward where Nicole had walked off.

She rolled her eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “That’s her best friend.”
I nodded, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. “Where is she?”

I watched her take a sip of her tea and wince, as if the lack of bitter taste disappointed her. Her eyes met mine as before she shrugged halfheartedly. “I’d tell you if I knew.”

“What happened? Delia said that she wasn’t expecting you guys for another few hours.”

“Travis happened.” She raised an eyebrow before taking another sip of her tea.

Realization dawned on me. He didn’t come home with them. He was missing just as much as Chelsea was right now. They were together, our there in New York doing God knows what, and she had no idea I was here.

My jaw clenched involuntarily and I suddenly needed to hit something. My fists opened and closed and I began to breathe through my nose in a much needed attempt to calm down. “What did that fucker do? Where are they?”

“No one knows.” She rolled her eyes before setting her tea down onto the counter. “Travis snapped for some reason and ended up punching this bartender in front of Chelsea. I guess he ran out and she followed him out. Next thing I know, they’re both MIA and Travis is missing his gig.”

“Why isn’t anyone looking for them?”

“Gabe says they know the way home, so he isn’t worrying. And Marc trusts Travis, if he’s with Chelsea, he says she’s safe.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“You know that girl just as much as I do.” She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “She’ll be fine, Dex.”

I scoffed, shaking my head slowly in disbelief. “It’s New York City, Annie. It’s a hell of a lot different than the outskirts of New Haven.”

“I hate it just as much as you do, big brother. But they both aren’t answering our calls, so we have no idea where they are.”

“Fuck.” I hissed, my hand coming down onto the tiled counter, hard. “So, what now? What are we supposed to do? I can’t just sit here when she could be out there and in trouble.”

She knitted her eyebrows in concern and placed her mug onto the counter again before shuffling towards me. “We wait.”

---

Chelsea POV

Ireland. That is my fascination. The landscape, the architecture, the people, the pubs, the accents, the cabbage. I have always longed to visit Ireland, the idea of it anyways.

I mentioned this to Dexter once over Chinese take-out in his kitchen. He expressed genuine intrigue, telling me that his grandparents, his father's parents, live in Dublin. And at first, I thought he was pulling my leg, making up an outrageous story just to get a rise out of me and watch me squirm. That was the thing about him, he did it so often it was hard to tell when he was lying. But he wasn't, and I realized that when he pulled out the box, the Ireland box. He didn't call it that, but from then on that's what I referred to it as, so much that he found himself giving into the term out of force.

"The Ireland box, huh?" He was mocking me, a glimmer of laughter detected in his expression.

I held back a smile, shoving him so that he stumbled backward into a line of coats. "Don't make fun of me. This is some serious stuff. You have no idea how much I legitimately love Ireland."

"You've never even been there." He mused, bending down and peering into the box on his closet floor, fishing out a few aged postcards and handing them to me. He later explained to me that those were the postcards his grandparents sent him every year on his birthday, just enough to remind him that they still exist but not enough to establish a personal connection with their grandson.

I smiled, flipping through the postcards in awe. Pointing to a picture of one that caught my eye, I bent down to Dexter's level on the floor and pushed it in front of his face. It was a rural landscape, hillsides and Victorian houses showing in the distance and the sun sat perched mid-sunrise.

"Look at this, this beautiful view. I would love to wake up to this view for the rest of my life, wouldn't you? It's breathtaking. I swear that I am slowly falling in love with all things Irish."

He was quiet beside me, entirely still. And there I was, still staring at the photo and waiting for him to mock me yet again about my immense love for something I'd never even witnessed. Out of curiosity, I glanced sideways and found him staring at me, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. The same grin he used to stifle laughter.

"What?" I raised me eyebrows, searching my mind as I tried to figure out what I said that was so hilarious.

"Nothing." He smirked, shrugging his shoulders as stood up and cradled the Ireland box into his bedroom.

I chased after him, watching as he placed the box on his bed and continued to rifle through it. He sported the same smile, the smile he used to show me that he knew something I didn't.

"What is so funny to you?" I rolled my eyes, pushing his toned bicep so that he would face me.

"It's just, you said you were falling in love with all things Irish."

"And?"

"I just so happen to be 1/4 Irish." He finally met my eyes, his grey orbs dancing in amusement the way they always did when he said something charming.

I rolled my eyes, throwing my head back in laughter. "Oh, my God."

"It kind of seems like destiny, doesn't it?" He continued, pushing my buttons further. I knew he was kidding, that he was only trying to get me to laugh and would never dare refer to destiny or fate in a serious way. It worked. I threw a hand over my mouth to conceal the laughter that threatened to burst throughout his entire apartment.

"You did not just-" I spun around, making my way toward the kitchen while still shaking my head in laughter.

"I told you, sweetheart. The gods of love are telling us that we are meant to be." He followed me out into the kitchen, yelling over my blatant laughter, "Destiny is calling and we have to answer it! It's our duty, baby."

That was the memory that shot through my mind as I stared at the coaster sitting in front of me. “Luck of the Irish.” The slogan was written out in green calligraphy and wrapped around the lining of the circular, napkin. I was on my fifth, maybe sixth beer and I could see the many rings of each bottle, the damp circles that had imprinted on my napkin in the time I had sat in that bar. I didn't know the time, how long I had sat there staring at that same napkin. I stopped caring during my third beer, around the same time I ignored the tenth phone call, finally deciding to silence my phone.

It was amazing how even the smallest things reminded me of him, a damp coaster for God's sake. I was sitting here in who knows where, staring at a stupid coaster, intoxicated out of my mind. And there he is, popping into my mind, like it's nothing. Like nothing ever happened.

"Did you want to order anything else?"

"Hmm?" I snapped out of my trans, my eyes inching upward to settle on a red-headed woman with a thick Irish accent, looking to be in her mid-thirties. She was standing behind the bar, dragging a dirty rag along the counters and leaving a wet streak of pinesol in its trail.

"I have to close the register soon," her voice continued, shooting me a tired expression before throwing the rag into a nearby sink, "did you want another beer?"

I shook my head slowly, immediately wincing from the nausea created by the slightest movement. I was drunk. Gabe always joked about me being a lightweight, and I finally understood what he meant. "What kind of bar closes at-"

I looked down at my wristwatch, but immediately regretted the decision because I was suddenly wearing three watches, all of which had four different hands.

"It's 3 AM." I heard her say, and my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She must have hinted my disgruntled expression because she continued to explain. "You've been here for 4 hours."

"Have I?" I smirked, throwing back the last few drops of my beer. "That's just beautiful."

"Take it you're day was pretty shitty?" I heard her scoff from behind the counter. She was absentmindedly polishing a few shot glasses and placing them onto a tray.

I pushed a few strands of hair out of my face and wiped my mouth using the sleeve of my jacket. "What gave me away? Was it the tear-stained cheeks or the fact that I'm piss-drunk and in a bar at 3 AM."

"No," I heard her let out a small laugh, "It's the way you've been staring at that coaster for the longest time, like you're sort of concentrating on it. Can’t figure out what’s so goddamn fascinating about it though."

I rolled my eyes and immediately regretted the gesture because it only made the room spin faster. I let out a groan and slowly placed my head onto the wooden countertop.

"Let me call you a cab." She smirked, placing a final shot glass onto the tray and disappearing into the kitchen.

It was a miracle to me how I was able to successfully stumble into the cab when it pulled up in front of the bar and honked its horn. I was able to slur my address to the driver before drunkenly pressing my forehead against the cold window. I remember the cab driver asking me if I was cold, if I wanted the heater turned on. But the alcohol had long ridden me of the numbing sensation in my fingers. If anything, I wanted a slice of warm apple pie and I don’t think any of the knobs on the dashboard would magically produce that for me, no matter how much I tipped him. It was nearing 4 AM when he pulled up to the house. I suppose I had fallen asleep because he cleared his throat a few times before finally resorting to tapping me on the shoulder. It took quite a bit of will power to push myself up from the comfortable leather of his back seat. When I made my way around to his window to pay, I got a good look at his face. It might have been due to my drunken stupor, but the man looked strangely familiar to Regis Philbin.

The walk to the front door wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but rather a drunken stumble on a carousel in the middle of a 10.0 earthquake, which is probably why I didn’t see him. He was sitting on the porch steps, his body shaking slightly to defend against the cold. I noticed the slight shine of his worn leather jacket, the same jacket I had seen him wear a hundred times before and sometimes draped over my shoulders when I fell asleep on long car rides. He stood up when I was an appropriate distance away, a confused look on his face. As if he had a right to be the confused one in this scenario.

“What are you doing here, Dexter?” My voice sounded distant, lie it wasn’t my own. I felt myself sway and my vision blurred slightly as I foced on his face. I could faintly smell the alcohol radiating from my body and I was suddenly angry.

I watched him, noticing his grey orbs as they traced over my face, taking in my appearance. He was confused, surprised even, and then he was angry too.

“You’re drunk.” He stated it flatly, his jaw clenching in the process. “Where have you been? Everyone else got back hours ago.”

“That is not your concern anymore.” I spat, anger filling up inside of me. Deep inside of me, a voice was wondering why I was so angry. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He looked away from me and rubbed his tired eyes. I watched his eyebrows furrow slightly in exhaustion before his expression softened.

“I was worried about you.”

I heard myself let out a sarcastic laugh and his expression remained flat, emotionless. My head began to spin and I pushed myself so that I was walking up the front steps of the house, stumbling slightly and pushing past him in the process. As if by instinct, his hand moved to the small of my back, steadying me as he slowly guided me through the front door.

“I don’t need your help.” I heard myself slur, and he silenced me. I realized that none of the lights were on and I ran my fingers along a nearby wall in search of a light switch. These efforts he also silenced as he grabbed my arm and wrapped it around the back of his neck for more support as he guided me towards the stairs.

“Everyone is asleep.” He explained, his gruff, tired voice only inches away from my face.

I weakly attempted to push myself away from him, but his grip on me only tightened. “I can walk upstairs by myself.”

He only silenced me again before leaning forward for a brief second, and suddenly, he was cradling me in his arms and slowly walking upstairs. I wiggled slightly, still not willing to let him carry me.

“Stop. Or we are both falling down a flight of stairs.” His voice was still monotonous.

I pushed against him again and tried harder to break free of his grasp, but almost immediately, a stream of nausea shot through me and I found myself involuntarily burying my face in his neck to rid of my dizzying state. If he got satisfaction out of my surrender, he didn’t show it, but merely turned a corner and suddenly we were in the guest bedroom. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion and my vision attempted to focus on an empty bed.

“Marc and Gabe fell asleep in the loft,” he explained before setting me onto the bed. Everything became dizzy again and I was suddenly cold, the loss of his body heat wrapped around my own causing me to feel out of place.

Dexter bent down and pulled the heels off of my feet, tossing them into a corner of the room, next to the closet. He then reached up and slid my leather jacket off of my arms, only causing more of my body heat to escape from me. I shivered.

The blankets were pulled out beside me and I shook my head slowly, like a child. He raised his eyebrows, surprised by my stubbornness.

“You’re serious? You can’t just sleep in your-“

I shook my head, causing the room to spin out of control yet again and I shut my eyes, wincing against the nausea. I heard him let out a breath of air and his feet padded out of the room. After a few minutes, he was in front of me again and handing me my pajamas, the yoga pants and t-shirt I had packed in my suitcase.

I let out a frustrated sigh and reached behind me to unzip my dress, reaching for a zipper that my fumbling fingers could not find. I heard his footsteps leaving the room and I hissed in irritation with my dumb-ass dress.

“Dexter.” I hissed in frustration and I heard him padding towards me in the darkness. I opened my eyes and saw that his expression was amused. “Don’t start.” I warned.

He held back a smile and reached behind me, unzipping my dress with ease. I rolled my eyes and fumbled with the sleeves of my dress in an attempt to push it off of my frame. Dexter clucked his tongue and easily slid the straps off of my shoulders before pulling the shirt over my head and allowing me to put my arms through the sleeves. I pushed off the rest of my dress and stood up to pull on my yoga pants.

Again, he gestured toward the bed and this time I willingly obliged. I heard him begin to shuffle out of the room, again rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

“Dexter.” I whispered, just loud enough to make him turn around and look at me, wondering what else I needed and more than ready to get it for me.

I took a moment to look at him, to really examine his expression. He looked like he had aged slightly, like he hadn’t been sleeping at all. His features were slightly illuminated in the moonlight and I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers along his defined jawline and taste the familiarity of his lips against my own. His expression was blank. But his eyes conveyed all of his emotions, looking at me as if he were in pain, but for a split second I saw it. It was there and its presence was foreign to me. For a brief moment, a definite sign of relief flashed across his features. And I knew exactly how he felt. At that moment in time, I understood.

“I missed you.” My voice was soft, tired. Not just physically, but emotionally as well.

His expression softened slightly and he stood there for a moment, as if absorbing my words and analyzing it for all of the hidden context it was worth. Then, he nodded.

“Me, too.”