Page 14 of Promise Me This

I walked through the pain of losing her once. I rebuilt my life, better than it ever was. I met Catherine; we had Niamh. I survived the pain of being left behind yet again. My walls are hard-won, forged from steel and unrelenting determination to not let lightning strike a third time. Whatever minute desire exists within me to see her, to touch her, is left over from a past life. I’m stronger than that.

Granda’s old clock chimes five o’clock as if to say, You’re going to have to be.

The heavy wooden door of the inn falls closed behind me and I strain my ears for any trace of my daughter. The weathered photographs hanging on the wall, donated to Mam by local fishermen proud to show off their boats when she opened the business, reflect my passage back to me in their glass frames as I walk down the hall. I peek my head into the living room, nodding at the couple gathered around a selection of fruits and cheeses by the fireplace. No sign of Niamh. The kitchen is surprisingly empty, too, and so is the garden beyond it.

As I pace toward my mother’s room, a growing sense of dread fills my chest. The longer I linger, the more likely I am to run into Leo. The fact that there’s a flicker of hope behind the wall of anxiety makes me quicken my step.

I knock twice before opening the door, only to find Niamh’s pile of toys undisturbed and the sound of a shower running coming from Mam’s adjoining bathroom. Which means my daughter is not with her. The alternative doesn’t bode well for me.

Taking the steps two at a time, I reach the second-floor landing with the same speed as my pulse: rapid.

Niamh’s voice spills out of an open door at the far end of the hall. I move toward her on instinct, even as every alarm bell in my brain starts screaming, Something you don’t want to see is up ahead. Turn back. Like passing a car crash, though, I have to see it. Her.

Leaning against the jamb for strength, I fold my arms over my chest. Leo is mopping the hardwood floor while Niamh sits crisscross in the desk chair and chatters away about how the next-door neighbor’s cat is pregnant with kittens, and they’ve offered to let Niamh name them when they’re born. She rattles off options, starting with characters from her favorite movies before moving on to candies I never let her eat enough of, in her opinion. I’d give her an industrial-sized Mars bar right this second if we could retreat without me being seen.

Leo keeps her gaze trained on the floor, but a half smile plays on her lips as she listens. Her shoulder-length hair is tied back from her face, which is flushed and coated with a light layer of sweat. She’s dressed for a workout in a skintight long-sleeve shirt and black leggings whose knees have grown discolored, most likely from doing exactly what she’s doing now, which is kneeling to take a sponge to some of the more set-in spots on the hardwood.

If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in watching her. And around Leo, I can’t afford to be anything but careful. Especially when it comes to protecting Niamh from what I know is an inevitable disappointment.

“Niamh, can I have a moment with Leo?”

My daughter falters mid stream of consciousness, and both of them startle at my voice. Leo glances up, eyes suddenly alert, that soft smile long gone from her lips. I will myself not to miss it.

“Daddy, her name is Leona,” Niamh chastises. “Kinda like Fiona the ogre.”

I press my lips together to choke off the chuckle trying to escape my throat. Leo, to her credit, looks quite pleased that my own daughter is standing up against the long fought-over nickname.

For some reason that sparks the anger anew in my chest. Soon it’s roaring in my ears, prickling my palms. I clear my throat and force out the most level tone I can. “Niamh, downstairs, please. Go find your granny.”

Hearing the shift in my voice, my daughter tosses a surreptitious glance Leo’s way before scrambling out of the chair, across the still-damp floor, and down the hall. I train my gaze on the tiny trail of footprints left behind, reminding myself why I have to hold on to the anger.

Because without the anger, there’s only hurt. And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“So you’re really doing this then.” It’s not a question, really.

Leo deposits the mop and sponge into the bucket of water with a splash. I glance up to find her knotting her hands together in front of her stomach, gaze guarded and watchful as it meets mine.

“Doing what?” she asks softly.

I gesture around the room. “Staying. Working.” Ruining my life, I almost add.

She shrugs. “It’s the least I can do for Siobhan for letting me stay here.”

Something about my mother lending her a hand after watching me suffer all those years ago stokes the flame inside me.

“Won’t your husband be missing you?” I snipe.

She doesn’t even flinch. I’m almost convinced she’s turned to stone. “We got a divorce.”

I push off of the doorjamb with a scoff, striding across the now-dry floor until we’re only a few steps apart. Easy enough to close the distance if one wanted to, but of course I don’t. I plant my feet firmly where I’m at, close enough to intimidate, far enough not to find out if she still uses that citrus shampoo.

“So you got a divorce and thought you’d come running here? And what, we’d pick up where we left off like you never disappeared in the first place?”

My voice pitches higher than I’d like it to, and it’s then that she flinches. White-hot shame licks at my spine, but I force myself to turn it to fuel for the fire rather than an extinguisher.

“It’s not like that, Callum.” Her voice quivers, but she pushes past the break. “It was a year ago. I’m not here because of Nick.” She draws a deep breath while my own stalls in my chest. “I’m here because I left things unfinished.”

The snort that rips out of me is so harsh it grates my throat. “That’s putting it mildly.”

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