Page 31 of Promise Me This

It’s a plain, unmarked box that should definitely be labeled, Why the fuck do you still have me? But it isn’t, and I’m too exhausted to ponder that question anyway. I remove the lid as my desperation grows hot at the base of my neck, scanning the contents for the object of my desire.

I comb through various magnets and postcards and ticket stubs, not letting my gaze settle on them for too long lest the emotion brewing in my stomach become full-fledged nostalgic heartbreak. I find what I’m looking for beneath a dried sprig of foxglove, drawing the USB drive out carefully so as not to disturb the brittle stem.

My heart is now firmly lodged in my throat. I watch the files painstakingly load onto my desktop. I drum my fingers against the wooden surface of the desk, but the sound can’t seem to penetrate the roaring in my ears. Slowly the images become tiny little thumbnails of a past I tried to forget. Tried to bury so deeply that I’d never again find myself sitting here, tears burning the backs of my eyes and breath coming in short gasps as what I thought would be the rest of my life is once more laid out before me; a highlight reel of the singular summer it turned out to be instead.

The images make up a road map of our time together. There’s Leo with a shamrock magnet held up proudly beside a younger, softer version of her face. A hazy, ethereal image of her kayaking through a cavern at the edge of the sea fills the screen. I click to a photo of Leo leaned backward over a too-steep castle wall, kissing the Blarney stone while some old man who works there holds on to her sides. I snort at the memory, how I complained every time she dragged me to more touristy shit, all the while loving every minute spent watching her eyes light up at each iconic ruin or natural landmark or filming location for PS I Love You.

I click past another image, this time of her tiptoeing across the hexagonal rocks at Giant’s Causeway, to find the final photo, the one I stared at more nights than I care to admit after it all came to an end. She’s standing at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, and her long hair whips around her face in a brown flurry. Even in the midst of all that movement, there is a stillness in her striking blue eyes as they gaze at me on the other side of the camera. A smile spreads across her face like a meteor shower, miraculous and astonishing, forcing onlookers to stop and bear witness.

A true Leo smile. The kind I worked so hard to draw out of her every chance I got that summer. The likes of which I haven’t seen on her face since she walked out of my life all those years ago.

I know this woman like the back of my hand. It kills me that I do. But it’s like learning where Christmas presents really come from or that your parents are fallible creatures, just as prone to mistakes as you are. Once you know it, there’s no un-knowing it.

The image of her face last night fills my mind once more in all its haunted glory. I don’t want to care, but I can’t help it. I want to do exactly what I told Mam to do and leave it buried. But the need to unearth all those tattered pieces of her and hold them close fills me as fervently as the need to breathe. At the same time I want to push her to the other end of the earth so I can free myself from this torture at last.

With a heavy sigh, I lean back in my chair, drawing a hand through my greasy curls. I need a shower. Or a stiff drink. Possibly both, simultaneously.

I didn’t want to believe after all these years that she could still affect me like this. I thought I was stronger, more mature. That my priorities were in order at last. But it’s becoming apparent that there will be no end to this until I can finally understand why she did what she did all those years ago. I know Padraig is convinced she was a dumb twenty-year-old who didn’t know any better, but he’s wrong. I wasn’t nothing to her. I wasn’t some out-of-sight, out-of-mind summer fling.

You don’t buy a plane ticket in the midst of your life falling apart for a summer fling.

I close out of the program, but it’s no use. The image of her is burned on my brain. I down the rest of my now-cold tea and force myself to stand, weary as my legs feel beneath me. The box goes back where it belongs, fitting into the jumbled mess of the wardrobe about as well as this new version of Leo fits into the picture I had in my mind.

Sloppily and incredibly out of place.

I force it in regardless, grumbling to myself all the while. “You just have to figure out why she’s here, and then you can let her go. Wipe the slate clean. Move on.”

Yeah, right, says the voice in the back of my head. Bastard.

Chapter Fifteen

Leona

The sound of voices drifts up the stairwell and underneath the gap in my door, letting me know that the other guests are beginning to stir. I roll away from the fading floral wallpaper and the echoes of socialization, clamping a pillow down over my head to block it all out.

It’s been nearly a week since the windstorm, and though I’m fairly certain our vow of avoidance has been made null, I have a new reason to skip breakfast.

Waking up on Sunday morning brought with it all the worst symptoms of a hangover, despite having none of the fun the night before. Sitting across from Callum in the darkness, I could sense the veil of resentment and pain growing thin between us. I could almost see him clearly for the first time since I came back. But then the sun came up and filled the room with light, leaving me feeling raw and exposed, like I’d ripped a bandage off before the wound was fully healed.

It doesn’t help that every time Callum’s seen me since, he’s tried none-too-discreetly to get me alone and finish our conversation. Something that, in the light of day, I have no clue how to do.

My phone buzzes somewhere on the bed, vibrating the mattress against my cheek. I fumble through the sheets blindly until I feel its cool metallic surface beneath my touch. When I see my mother’s face filling the screen, I exhale a sigh of relief.

I accept the call and immediately place it on speakerphone, not bothering to unbury my head from beneath the pillow. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, baby! You sound far away; is something blocking the speaker?”

I dig my way out of the cocoon, sitting up in bed and bringing the phone to my ear. “Better?”

“Much better! How are you?” Mom asks, her voice full of zest after their two-week vacation. I hear a deeper voice rumbling in the background, and then she adds, “Dad says hello and he misses you.”

“Tell him I miss him, too,” I reply with a smile. There’s a muffled echoing of my sentiment and then the distinct squeak of their back door swinging open as I imagine she steps outside to enjoy the cool Tennessee fall morning. With my eyes closed, I can picture the ancient oaks along the property line with their leaves giving a last, vibrant stand before succumbing to the cold weather in a few weeks. It’s early there, so the sun will still be resting below the treetops, casting an orange glow across the sky that blends with the foliage.

The fact that even an image as beautiful as that one doesn’t fill me with homesickness is telling.

“We just got home last night, and he’s already knee-deep in planning the next trip,” she says, chuckling softly. “I thought retirement was supposed to be for resting.”

“You and I both know you’d hate staying home all the time and only getting out for Bingo on Thursday nights.”

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