Page 50 of Promise Me This

“What I’m trying to say”—I splay my arms wide in exasperation—“is that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I’ve got to take things slow. I’ve got to make sure we’re on the same page so no one ends up getting hurt.”

Because I meant what I said to Leo. I couldn’t survive loving her—losing her—a second time.

Padraig’s gaze darkens, his spine straightening as he pushes off the wall of the inn. I’m taller than him by a few inches, and he has to look up at me to meet me in the eye, but when he does, I feel suddenly small and fragile.

“Look, I know it’s hard to put yourself out there.” He winces like the comment could apply to both of us. “But I really think you’re doing the right thing, for what it’s worth to you. Leona, she… she really cares about you.”

He stares intently, as though he can force me to believe him with sheer determination. I try my best to let the words warm me from the inside out, like a hot breakfast after a morning spent hunting in the cold. Granda would make quite the feast, and it always helped thaw out my bones.

I shake my head and offer Padraig a grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Grand. Now I’m going to get my ass inside before your daughter eats all the Yorkshire pudding.” With that, he pinches my shoulder once more and then releases me. He grabs the brass handle and steps inside, holding it open with his foot for me. I suck in a deep breath and follow, letting the weight of the solid wood carry the door to a close.

I stand with my back pressed against it, watching as Padraig makes his way to the kitchen without looking back to ensure I’m following. There’s a weight still sitting like stone in the base of my stomach, taking up so much space I’m not sure that I’ll be able to eat.

I can’t explain the depth of my reservations to Padraig because I don’t fully understand them myself. I know that the feelings are there between Leo and me. There’s no denying that after last night. Even the anger at her since she arrived has only been heightened by the love that still remains underneath. Deny it all I want, it’s still the truth.

But there’s something haunting Leo beyond our unfinished relationship. Something more than a broken dream. There’s a sadness so vast and deep that its darkness pulls me in like a black hole. The Leo I knew was a bright and unruly thing. The one I held last night was tamed, tampered down. Subdued. She’s drowning, and it kills me that I can’t tell what is holding her under.

Every time she hands me a piece of herself, it feels like a half-truth. She forgets that when someone knows you as well as you know yourself, they can sense the lies you tell. Even if they’re ones you honestly believe.

I want so badly for her to open up to me completely. To let me see all the dark and hidden parts of her so I can love them anyway. I want her to understand that her heart is safe with me, that I will not hurt her, no matter what the truth is.

It’s too soon to expect so much, but I hope for it all the same.

Deep down, though, worry still nags at my brain. It’s the part of myself I loathe, the voice of melancholy reason that suspects the worst in people. I don’t want to listen to him, but his concerns drift through my consciousness anyway.

What if it really is that bad?

I shake my head because it can’t be. I have loved her across time and an ocean and what felt like an insurmountable mountain of resentment. That love has survived every attempt I’ve made to squander it, to kill it. Despite all my reservations, the moment I held her in my arms, there was no denying it. And now that the floodgates are open, nothing could stop the rushing torrent.

Niamh walks out of the kitchen and bounds up the stairs without sparing a glance in my direction. “Leona! The roast is ready!” she calls, excitement pitching her voice up.

Nothing, I assure myself, except when it comes to my daughter.

“Afraid the door will cave in if you don’t keep holding it up?”

Mam’s voice startles me, making me realize how deeply I’d slipped into my thoughts. I shake my head and then my limbs, loosening them up as I step away from the door. Mam wipes her hands on the tattered gingham apron tied around her waist. Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s soaking up every bit of body language she can, trying to put together the clues into a bigger picture of what’s going on.

She’s too good at it, after making a career out of people watching. It makes my skin crawl.

I force my walk to remain steady, schooling my face into careful indifference as I close the distance between us. She cocks her head and presses her lips into an impish grin.

“You two were out awful late last night.”

I lean a shoulder against the wall, eyeing the stairs to check for my daughter and Leo. Mam tracks my gaze, and that grin deepens.

Busted.

I long ago learned not to lie to my mother. She can scent a fib on you like a bloodhound. Instead I survived my teenage years with partial truths that rang just true enough to go undetected, but not so complete that I didn’t get to keep the best parts to myself.

“We had things to talk about,” I say, keeping my voice level. Unaffected.

She hums softly, nodding to acknowledge my statement. Sometimes I wonder if she was a garda in a past life with the way she can interrogate you with silence, letting it drag out so long you feel the urge to fill it.

Not today. I look down at her with equal intensity, reminding myself that I’m an adult and I don’t owe my mam an explanation for staying out late.

Footsteps rumble above us, and a door slams closed.

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