Page 70 of Promise Me This

I’ve spent so long feeling desperately alone in my grief, fearing the worst if I were to let anyone else in, that I can’t hand myself completely over to relief all at once. But I see it there, on the table for me to pick up when I’m ready to believe it. When I’m ready to endure what must be endured to get to the other side.

When Poppy died, I saw my life laid out before me. For the first time it no longer felt too short for all the plans that I wanted to fit inside it. Instead the future felt impossibly long and complicated, like a labyrinth I had to pass through to get back to my daughter. Every day I survived was just one step closer to the day I’d hold her again. To the day I’d finally be whole.

But Siobhan’s words have given birth to a glimmer of hope. Hope that my life doesn’t have to be merely survived. Hope that I can love and be loved, with all my pain known and acknowledged. That I won’t have to walk alone through any of it anymore.

Still, there is a quiet voice in the back of my head that remains unconvinced. That believes Siobhan’s mistaken me for someone better, kinder than myself.

I lean away from her, studying the chipped polish on my left hand. “Is it selfish to tell him? Knowing it will only cause him pain?”

“No, love, it isn’t selfish.” She looses a sigh, filling the air between us with the scent of spearmint—an ingredient in her favorite nighttime tea. “There is pain in knowing the truth, but there is also a rare and precious joy. I’m sure you can agree that you’d rather grieve your daughter than to never have had her in the first place.”

I nod, pressing my lips firmly together to hold another sob at bay. My tears have finally dried, and I’m not ready to reopen the floodgates just yet.

“Glad that’s settled.” She flops onto her back, the bed squeaking beneath her. Her arms fold behind her head, and she smiles up at the ceiling. “Now, would you tell me about my granddaughter?”

It spreads an earnest, cheek-aching smile across my face. To hear someone else refer to my daughter like that. Even my own mother, in her sworn secrecy, has never talked this openly about Poppy. It makes her feel as real as she was, as she continues to be, for me.

I join Siobhan, reclining beside her and staring up at the cream-colored ceiling. And for the first time outside my letters, I tell the story of my baby girl. Of her life and death, and what an honor it was to carry her for as long as she was here.

Chapter Thirty

Callum

“This can’t be good.”

I glance up at Padraig, then down at the collection of empty beer glasses littering the table in front of me. Across the dimly lit room, Dermot watches the exchange. He removes his flat cap and smooths what few strands of hair remain on his freckled scalp before putting it back in place.

“It’s been a long week,” I grumble. With a nod in Dermot’s direction, two freshly poured pints head our way. He leaves the empty glasses on my table, probably to remind me to pace myself.

“Long week my ass.” Padraig swings the wooden chair around backward before straddling it and leveling me with a hard stare. “Whatever it is, it can’t have been that bad. After all, I haven’t seen your one wandering the streets in the rain all week, as she’s prone to do when you fuck things up.”

I huff into my glass, and the liquid ripples away from me. “That’s because she hasn’t been leaving her room.”

His jaw nearly hits the table. I reach over and slap it back into place. Lightly. For the most part.

“Sorry, lad.” He rubs at his chin absent-mindedly. “What did you do? Last I heard, the two of you’s were off to Kerry on one of your little adventures, or so you said.”

The stone wall becomes a fascinating thing to look at. At least it remains unchanged and nonjudgmental. And it’s capable of hiding how disappointed it is in my erroneous ways, unlike my friend.

“We went to Kerry. And things were good. Not completely back to the way they were, but better in a lot of ways, if I’m honest.” I take a sip of red ale, my least favorite because I’m apparently a masochist tonight, and continue studying the different shades of brown and gray that form the cavernous room. “We, erm, got close when we got home. I made some pretty awful assumptions about something I saw, and it ended horribly.”

I finally test a glance in Padraig’s direction. His eyebrows are so screwed up they’ve nearly merged into one. “Cal, I appreciate that you’re being protective of the lady’s privacy, but I’m going to need a bit more clarity before I can offer any sound advice.”

“As if you’ve ever,” I scoff. He doesn’t let up, though, and I find myself squirming in my seat. “She has stretch marks on her stomach that she reacted badly to me seeing. That, combined with some other things she’s said and done, had me jumping to conclusions. I panicked and accused her of abandoning a child. But she didn’t. She had a daughter, and that daughter died.”

“Oh my God.” Padraig’s voice is muffled by the hand clamped over his mouth. His halfway empty beer lies in wait on the table between us. I down the rest of mine.

“I know.”

“Well, I suppose if you wanted to run her back to America, that was the most efficient way to do it.” He scratches at his graying temple while studying a knot in the wood grain of the table. “My God, Callum. That poor girl. Can you imagine?”

I gulp. “I’ve been trying not to.”

He nods like he understands completely. As if he, too, is imagining a world without Niamh in it and can’t stomach the idea. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“I didn’t exactly feel like I had any right to ask, you know. Given I’d just accused her of something horrific, not to mention insensitive.” The hand I run through my hair is trembling with anger. Anger at myself, at Leo’s loss, at the incredible mess I’ve managed to make of things. “I’ve been trying to apologize every day, but she won’t come out of her room.”

“Is that why your mam canceled Sunday dinner last weekend?”

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