Page 24 of Promise Me This

After I lost Poppy, trudging forward with my degree felt like wandering through a dark tunnel in an attempt to end up in a brighter place. Then my father’s friend offered me a job after graduation at his law firm as a legal editor, and at the time the grief was still so fresh that I had no energy to seek out internships or fight for a spot at an agency. A job being handed to me was the first bit of grace I’d received from the universe in two years, and I decided to hang on to it for dear life.

Then there was Nick, who had roots the size of a redwood. After meeting him at a conference and falling into a safe kind of love, his dedication to remaining in his hometown forever meant I moved there, too. He had no desire to travel, and I had no desire to make him, so I let my passport expire. Along with it went any chance of returning to my original dream. Getting a new one when changing my name back after our divorce was done more out of routine than actual plans to use it.

Sadness burns the backs of my eyes, and I hope Siobhan can’t see it in my expression. With the way hers softens, though, I imagine she can.

I may not have loved Nick in the all-consuming, earth-shattering way that I did Callum, but I did love him. It was gentle and safe, steady as a heartbeat. The loss of it left its own kind of scars.

“You know,” I finally say after clearing my throat. “I’m trying to figure that out.”

She nods with her lips pressed into a grim line. Her hand that isn’t holding a mug reaches out and settles over mine where it rests on the counter. “When Callum’s father left, I had a lot of figuring out to do. It takes time, but time is all it takes.”

“I like that. Time is all it takes.”

“Thanks. I stole it from someone, I’m sure.” She winks at me, a grin softening her somber expression from before. “Feel free to steal it from me.”

I chuckle, feeling the tension in my shoulders release with the act. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Now listen, the rooms are all done and this is likely one of the last nice days we’ll be seeing for the next few months, so why don’t you go on down to the market at the community centre. Just bring a raincoat this time; you know how quickly the weather can change.” She reaches out and pinches my shoulder softly before adding, “See if a little exploring won’t bring that travel bug back to life.”

Siobhan was right. Strolling down the sidewalk after a much-needed shower and change of clothes, I can’t help but squint my eyes against the blistering sunlight. Everything appears more vivid, from the pastel shades on the shops lining the street to the green of the mountains in the distance. A wild wind sweeps through the town, tossing my hair this way and that. Summer is making its last stand on a random day in the fall, and I’m admittedly grateful for it.

The farmer’s market is bustling, with lilting music weaving in and out of the many conversations taking place between merchants and patrons. The frenetic energy adds a bounce to my step. As I move into the fray, a fleeting thought dances through my brain.

I wish Callum were here with me.

I shake my head, dismissing it. How can I still wish for someone’s company from twelve years ago? After all, there’s no way it’s this modern-day, prickly and solemn Callum that my heart is longing for. It’s the version of him that I knew back then. The one who oozed charm and positivity. Who could turn a trip to the social security office into an adventure.

A booth featuring various hand-carved wooden magnets captures my attention. I pluck one from the display board, turning it over in my hand. Someone has carved the outline of Ireland into the face of it, then marked the spot where Cahersiveen lies along the southwestern tip with a tiny heart. It reminds me of one of those mall directories with a YOU ARE HERE sticker plastered over the entrance.

“How much for this?” I ask the gentleman behind the table. He glances over at me from where he’s bargaining with an elderly woman over the price for one of his more elaborate creations, a custom cutting board from the looks of it.

He squints his eyes at the piece in my hand before glancing up at me. “Five euro.”

I remember how Callum taught me to play this game, especially as a tourist. Removing two coins from my pocket, I hold them out for him to see. “I’ve got four.”

His gaze flickers between my palm and my face before he finally glances back at the woman still waiting for him to match her price and decides I’m the easiest negotiation he’ll get today. “Fine, yeah. It’s yours.”

“Thank you!” I toss the coins into a waiting jar and take my leave, listening as he tries to explain to the woman why she can’t have that cutting board for a fiver.

I shove the magnet into my purse, and I imagine it joining the collection in a box on the top shelf of my parent’s spare bedroom closet. The collection that started when Callum drove me to Newbridge that day. After finishing up at the PPS office, I met him back at the street corner where he’d dropped me off. He was leaning against the hood of his car, his golden hair being tousled by the breeze. When I approached, he held his hand out with a satisfied grin on his face, dropping a green, shamrock-shaped magnet into my outstretched palm.

“To commemorate the day you became an Irish citizen,” he said. “If only in the eyes of our tax law.”

The memory brings a smile to my face even as my heart squeezes tightly in my chest.

I pass by food stations and stands featuring handmade jewelry. One woman tries to draw me in with the promise of a tarot reading. I shrug her off with a polite, “No, thank you,” wishing I could explain that when the worst thing has already happened, the future no longer carries any wonder. It is just something that will happen, with or without you, and the only thing you can do is survive it. Until you don’t.

The last stall I come to is filled with woven baskets overflowing with children’s toys. There are trains carved from wood and painted in every primary color. A display of blocks is stacked on the table in the shape of a pyramid with hand-painted letters reading MAEVE’S TOY CHEST on the front of them. My gaze is drawn to a hanging mobile, meant to dangle over a crib and mesmerize the infant inside. Each little woodland creature is strung up with silky ribbon in various shades of pink.

“Those are made out of wool, if you can believe it.” A woman—Maeve, I presume—approaches me from her seat in the back of the tent. “Handcrafted each one of them myself. Took ages.”

I marvel at a tiny bird perching on the ring of the mobile, amazed at the amount of detail in its markings. “That’s incredible.”

“My dad taught me as a child, and I’ve been doing it ever since. He doesn’t like to admit it, but I’m much better at it than he was.”

The corners of my mouth twitch at her comment. “I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

“Oh yeah, he loves that I carried on the tradition.”

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