Page 40 of Promise Me This

Suddenly I’m so hot. My face, neck, ears burn. My heart fucking burns with all this love that has nowhere to go. Love meant for Callum, for Poppy, turned malignant from lack of use. “I just need some air,” I croak, forcing myself out of bed.

“Right.” She rises alongside me. “I’ll just give Podge a call; he can take you anywhere you need to go.”

“He takes the weekends off.” I scan the room, looking for my jacket. It’s slung over the chair of the writing desk, where my journal for Poppy lies open. I grab the jacket and shut the journal, letting the pretty floral cover shield the anguished words that lie within. “Besides, I’d like to walk.”

“The sun will be setting soon,” she says, worrying at her bottom lip. She pulls her phone from her back pocket. “He’ll do anything I ask. I’m practically the lad’s second mam.”

I shake my head at her, lips flattened into a grim line. “It’s really okay. Thanks anyway.”

I step around her, not bothering to wait for her response. Out of the corner of my eye as I round the top of the stairs, I see the phone lift to her ear, but I don’t wait. I just go.

“Where are you off to?” Padraig asks, hanging his arm out the window. He’s driving alongside me as I make my way down the sidewalk. Passersby are beginning to stare at the girl being stalked by the taxi driver, but I do my best to pay them no mind. It’s not lost on me that this is a mirror image of him finding me trudging home from Callum’s in the driving rain. Only this time, the last thing I want is a ride.

A lift, I correct myself.

“I’m just getting some air, Podge. It’s fine.” I’m looking anywhere but at him. The chimneys adorning every rooftop. The empty flowerpots hanging from wrought-iron posts. The sky with its streaks of pink and gold. “Go back to enjoying your night off.”

“Sure look, I could go on and leave you here, but Siobhan’s after calling. And if I don’t do what Siobhan asks, she’ll stop inviting me for Sunday dinner. I quite like being invited, even if I can’t always make it. So respectfully, I’m more scared of her than I am of you. Get in the car.”

“No.”

“All right then.”

He pulls ahead of me, and I let out a sigh of relief. But the victory is incredibly short-lived. The reverse lights come on, and then he’s backing into a vacant spot along the curb. I do my best to pick up the pace, but I’ve only made it a few yards ahead when he comes jogging up beside me.

“Is that why you wear the tracksuits?” I cast an irritated glance in his direction. “To chase after unwilling customers.”

He laughs, jolly as ever, like I’m joking. I’m not.

“I happen to think I look good in them.” He smooths his hands over the pudge of a beer belly on his otherwise lanky frame. “Makes me look slender.”

“Mhm, sure they do.”

“Please try to remember,” he says, casting a hand over his heart, “that I am not the enemy. There’s no need to go insulting my figure. I’m sensitive, you know.”

I stop on the sidewalk, turning to face him. “I’m sorry, Podge,” I say, doing my best to sound earnest. “You’re right. Thank you for being a friend to me. I’m clearly not very good at being one in return.”

“Apology accepted.” He hooks an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into what I think will be a quick embrace. But soon he’s walking forward, still holding me hostage. “Now, let’s go handle your sorrows the true Irish way. With a stiff drink.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly healthy.”

He smirks, casting a sidelong glance my way as we step into the pub that he and Callum frequent. I pause for a moment, expecting to see him here, but a quick scan of the room yields no dejected blond Irishmen.

“Well, I promise not to tell your therapist if you won’t,” he says. He tugs a stool out from the bar, offering it to me.

I take the seat, and he joins me, calling over to the elderly bartender for a round of beers. I mouth, “Cider,” over his shoulder, and the gentleman offers me a conspiratorial wink. “I don’t have a therapist.”

“Neither do I.” The drinks are settled in front of us, a dark red ale for Padraig and a pale cider for me. We clink them together in a sad excuse for a toast. “Here’s to a poor man’s version of mental health care. Slainte.”

“Slainte.” I take a sip, the syrupy fizz temporarily providing a balm to my wounds. “I think that’s just called alcoholism.”

“It’s only alcoholism if you think you need it.” He slaps his palm against the counter, startling nearby patrons. And me. His eyebrows pull close as he studies my face intently. “Do you need that alcohol to feel better?”

“No,” I answer honestly. Of all the possible vices I could’ve developed after losing the baby, self-isolation seems to be my drug of choice. Alcohol I can take or leave.

“Then we’re grand.” He sips his beer, offering me a sad smile, as if he understands all that I’ve left unsaid in my simple answer. I like that about Padraig. He was born with the very rare gift of being able to read a room.

“Should I be worried about your drinking habits?” I do my best to make it sound like a joke. I remember how to make jokes, right?

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