Page 30 of Promise Me This

Siobhan’s voice startles me with its sudden appearance. She lets the door fall shut behind her, traipsing over to the couch.

“Granny, the cats belong to the neighbors,” Niamh groans.

Siobhan glances up at me with the most theatrical expression of shock I’ve ever seen before planting her hands on her hips and smirking down at her granddaughter. “Now that you mention it, you’re absolutely right, my girl. I must be losing it in my old age.” Niamh sits up to make space for her, and she settles on the couch, pulling Niamh to her side. She tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and smiles. “Now, what did I miss?”

Chapter Fourteen

Callum

Eoin, who has managed to forgive me for nearly flattening one of his sheep last week, calls just after dawn to let me know the power’s turned back on. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, prompting my back to scream at me for falling asleep propped up in a wooden dining chair. My ass has gone numb and I’m fairly certain my hair smells like the old, decrepit wall of books I used as a headrest. I need a shower, a warm liter of tea, and a lot more distance between myself and Leo than this room currently offers.

Standing brings with it another round of bodily anguish. Bracing one hand against the back of the sofa, I reach down with the other and brush a matted curl away from Niamh’s forehead. She stirs, glancing up at me groggily. Her eyes are framed with a fan of damp black lashes. Just the sight of them squeezes my heart.

“I’m tired, Daddy,” she whimpers. A fat tear pools on the precipice of her eyelid. Niamh is many things, but a morning person after being kept up on and off all night is not one of them. Even as an infant, she coveted her sleep.

“I know, love. Let’s go home.”

I come around the sofa as she sits up, removing her feet from where she’s propped them on Leo’s lap. Unwilling to glance in the woman’s direction lest the tap of intrusive thoughts come back on, I simply toss the blanket Niamh unwittingly disturbed back into Leo’s general vicinity. Even my mother, who is usually the earliest of birds, remains sound asleep.

Probably exhausted from all that meddling she did last night. I huff a quick laugh at my own joke, even as I lean forward to place a kiss against the crown of Mam’s head before heading for the exit with Niamh on my hip.

“Racing home so soon, son?”

Shit. I glance over my shoulder at Mam, who is getting to her feet with a grunt and a prayer. She waddles over to Niamh and me, working out the same kinks in her back that I had. For a moment I catch a glimpse of myself thirty-five years in the future, and I shudder.

“Yeah, Eoin’s after calling. Power’s back on at the cottage, so I thought we’d hurry on so there’s more room on the couch without this one.” I give Niamh’s side a squeeze for emphasis, which she swats away with a scowl on her face.

Mam glances over her shoulder, and I can just see the corner of her mouth twitch when she looks at Leo. I fight the urge to follow her line of sight, knowing that seeing her will hurt more than help. The need to hold her last night had been visceral, and I can’t be letting feelings like that simmer. They’ll boil over eventually, and we’ll all get burned.

When Mam’s gaze returns to me, her lips have formed a full-blown grin. Not done meddling quite yet then.

“The two of you’s have a good conversation last night while I was out herding cats?”

I roll my eyes at her. “You and I both know those cats were fat and warm in the neighbor’s house.” A quick glance around her assures me Leo is still fast asleep before I add, “What’s your game, old lady?”

Mam chuckles and tosses her silver hair over her shoulder. “No game, son. I just think, underneath all that anger, you care for her still. Would it be the worst thing in the world if that were to blossom into something more?”

I clamp a firm hand over Niamh’s ear a little too late, though from the soft snores falling out of her parted lips, I think we’re in the clear. “Things between Leo and I are over. They’ve been over. Don’t go dredging up things better left buried. Soon she’ll leave again. I don’t want to go through that a second time, and I certainly don’t want Niamh going through it. Surely you can understand that.” With a last stern look tossed in my mother’s direction, I begin stalking toward the door again, ready to return to my house where the only two residents are at least sane.

She follows me into the hall, but pauses at the threshold while I continue walking away. I’ve managed to get my coat on and have Niamh’s in my fist when Mam’s soft voice calls after me with a haunting, “Just think about it.”

I spend the entire drive home trying to do anything but think about it.

It doesn’t take long after we cross over the threshold for Niamh to groggily make her way into the living room and curl up on the couch, drifting back to dreamworld. I settle in beside her and turn on a guilty pleasure home improvement show, trying to lose myself in the predictability of it. The steam from my tea envelops my senses in its malty aroma, bringing me back to life with every sip. But with that comes the sudden and sharp awareness of my conversation with Leo last night, and then I’m doing exactly what my mother told me to do.

I’m thinking about it.

Thinking about her face drenched in anguish as she slept. About the flash of recognition, of relief, when she saw me before confusion took over. I’m envisioning her breasts beneath her thin tank and the curve of her neck hollowed out by the firelight and her eyes twinkling with laughter as we fell back into old roles we once knew so well. And more than anything, I’m thinking about the word she never finished saying. It’s that singular word, more so than the coffee, that’s got me jittery.

You. She was going to say you. As in me. As in she bought a flight here in the midst of all her tragedy because the only thing that she was sure of in that moment was her need for me.

After all this time. After a marriage and a dozen years and even more that I probably can’t imagine, I’m still that person for her in a moment of crisis. Her home. Her soft place to land.

What does it say about me that the very thought fucking thrills me?

I jump to my feet, checking to make sure I’ve not woken Niamh, before striding down the hall to my home office. The computer whirs to life reluctantly, as if angry that I’ve disturbed it on a Sunday. While it drags its feet on the loading screen, I yank open the doors of the wardrobe in the corner, scanning the top shelf until my gaze falls on the target of my search.

The nondescript box is buried under layers of shoeboxes and file folders from over the years. I tactfully remove it without disturbing the other precarious items on the shelf, bring it with me over to my desk, and settle it on my lap as I sit.

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