Page 22 of Promise Me This

No dice. The sky opens up right on schedule, spilling a steady smattering of rain on the pavement. And, consequently, me. I tilt my head back the way Leo did the day she showed up on my doorstep, only instead of soaking in rays of sunlight, I’m attempting osmosis.

Why am I doing this to myself? She’s just a woman who, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t know in the slightest anymore. We’ve both lived entire lives in the time we’ve been apart. Letting her presence drive me to this level of stress is ridiculous.

The moment Catherine stepped out the door, I swore I was done wasting my time on flighty women. Niamh is my world, and she deserves my undivided attention. And she certainly doesn’t need to watch her father repeat the same mistake ad nauseam, leaving her thinking this is how relationships should be.

There’s a bit of resolve still left in me, though I have to dig deep to find it. I shrug into it like a stranger’s coat, foreign in fit but functional nonetheless. I can do this. I can ignore Leona Granger, for as long as she remains on my side of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Daddy, what does it mean to have ‘cowlike reflexes’?”

I pause midstroke, leaving the comb lodged in Niamh’s damp curls. She scoops another bite of porridge into her mouth, patiently watching her favorite television show while I attempt to form a plait with her rebellious locks. Now she’s added understanding her question to the list of things I’m not succeeding at this morning.

“Could you give me an example?”

“Yesterday I knocked cleaning stuff off the table, and Leona caught it before it fell all the way down. She said she had ‘cowlike reflexes’ and that’s why she caught it so fast.”

I press my lips tightly together, suppressing a grin, even as my headache from last night threatens to return. “I think what she probably said was ‘catlike reflexes.’ Like the neighbor’s cats that wander into Granny’s garden. Even when you scare them and they fall off the wall, they still land on their feet. It means they have really good balance.”

“I’ve never scared the cats.” She turns to look up at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Have you been scaring the cats?”

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t rushed them a time or two, making growling noises just to startle them off. I’m not exactly a fan of always being the one to find the cat-poop land mines in the garden, usually with my nicest shoes, no less. Despite my best efforts, the food scraps Mam feeds them keep the felines coming back for more jump scares.

Rather than lie to Niamh, I do what any parent does best with questions better left unanswered. I dodge it. “What do you think cowlike reflexes would be?”

She considers it for a moment, facing forward once more. Her feet kick back and forth in the chasm of space between her chair and the floor, a metronome to keep pace with her thoughts.

I’m about to secure what I can confidently say is my best plait to date when she turns unexpectedly to face me once more, yanking the tiny lock from my fist before letting out an impressively baritone, “Moooooo.”

As I watch in abject disappointment, the plait unravels within seconds of being released. I lock my hands on my hips and give Niamh my best pout. “Now why’d you go and do that? I was just after finishing!”

Niamh shrugs and offers me a cheeky grin. “Cowlike reflexes.”

I burst out laughing, any twinge of anger forgotten. This is the part of parenthood no one warns you about. There’s all the talk of sleepless nights and endless sicknesses and relentless questions once they’re old enough to talk. What everyone forgets to mention, however, is just how damn funny kids can be.

At least, mine is. Can’t speak for the other sorry bastards that didn’t create their own personal comedian. Pride swells in my chest, and I envelop my daughter in a quick hug, squeezing her to me as hard as I can without suffocating her. “Love you big.”

She forces out a reply with each tiny gasp of air she’s able to suck in between the gap in my arm. “I love. You. Big. Too.”

When the emotion releases its grip on my heart enough that I can function, I step away from Niamh and assess the situation. “Bad news bears, we’re going to have to start all over.”

Rather than deflating like I expect, she perks up. “Leona had her hair in two plaits yesterday. Can you do two plaits, Daddy? So I can match her?”

I bite down a little too hard on the inside of my cheek, and the metallic taste of blood coats my tastebuds. Two shout-outs for Leo in one morning. I guess Neruda was right about love being short, and forgetting being the bastard that takes his sweet time.

“Erm, I don’t really know how to do two plaits, hon.”

“You could watch a video like before!” She scoops another spoonful of porridge, unbothered by the idea of being stuck here for another thirty minutes while I watch some woman on the Internet plait a mannequin head’s hair at half speed.

All for my daughter to look like Leo. Pure agony.

When she realizes I’ve not set to work on pulling up a tutorial, she looks over her shoulder at me, bottom lip in a pucker. “Please, Daddy.”

Fuck. Can’t say no to that.

“Right, okay.” I grab my phone from the counter nearby, loading up the best video I can and slowing it down to a speed I can at least somewhat comprehend. Niamh gives a satisfied harrumph when she sees she’s been victorious. As if she’s ever known anything but.

“Leona says lots of other funny things as well.” The kicking resumes, making it even more difficult to hang on to her now-dry curls that are slick and soft as silk. “She calls the bin a garbage can.” A fit of giggles follows her attempt at an American accent.

I smile despite myself. Curiosity creeps up on me, and before I know it, I’m asking, “Do you see her often?”

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