Page 59 of Promise Me This

I scowl at her, grateful that Niamh has already escaped to the neighbors to check on the kittens so she’s not privy to this conversation. I cross my arms over my chest and give her a measured look. “Actually, I’ve been secretly cataloging every antique in this place so I have an idea how much money I’ll be making when you pass on.”

She slaps the towel she was using to cover fresh bread against the counter, hard enough that I’m certain she’d rather it was my head. “Callum Walsh, you take that back!”

“Ask stupid questions,” I say, reaching to pinch a piece of bread off and barely escaping with my hand still attached. “Get stupid answers.”

“Imagine if I’d said that to you when you were in your ‘why’ phase. Why is the sky blue? Why are the trees tall?” She counts them off on her fingers. “I’ve humored a lot of stupid questions, son.”

“I’d hardly call questions about environmental science stupid.”

She grumbles something, but not loud enough for me to hear. I take it as a victory.

“Anyway,” I say, still keeping a healthy distance between myself and that weaponized towel. “Thank you for watching Niamh today. I owe you one. Maybe I’ll sell off one of these antiques and buy you something nice.”

She glares at me, unamused, so I shrug and head for the exit. “Tough crowd.”

Before I can shut the kitchen door behind me, she calls, “Callum?”

I turn, half expecting a ball of raw dough to be flung at me. It wouldn’t be the first time. But instead her expression has softened, the ravine of a wrinkle between her brows dissecting her eyes.

“What’s the story, Mam?”

“Be careful with her,” she says, pointing at the ceiling. We both know who her is; she doesn’t have to explain. “I think she’s been through a lot more than either of us realize.”

“What makes you think that?” I ask, though from the look on her face, she knows I’m hedging. So I’m not the only one who’s sensed it, that sadness in Leo.

“Sometimes you can just tell,” she says with a sigh, and then she goes back to kneading the bread, her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her suspicions.

With a quick jolt of my head that barely counts as a nod, I duck out of the room, not allowing myself to exhale until I’m halfway up the first flight of stairs. Mam’s words stick in my head like an annoying jingle; I already know they’ll be there all day.

In a way, it’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one who sees it. I’m not crazy. But it also worries me, and in some dark corner of my heart there’s a twinge of jealousy. That my mam gets to be around her 24-7. That she’s privy to thoughts of Leo’s that I’ve not yet earned access to.

When I reach the second floor, the door to the bathroom is propped open and, to my surprise, Leo is inside, giving the shower a wash. A memory of the first day I ran into her here, soaking wet from the shower with her breasts visible through the thin layer of her white T-shirt, lodges in the forefront of my mind. She senses my presence, turning toward me. It’s all I can do to keep my gaze from dropping to her chest, searching for her dark nipples pebbled beneath damp fabric.

“Callum, you’re here early. And on a Saturday.” Her tone is polite, borderline customer service. It’s not the way I want to hear my name on her lips. I’d rather it be punctuated by a moan or a sigh or…

God, what is wrong with me? I shift my weight, trying to get comfortable in my suddenly snug pants.

Her eyebrows rise, beckoning for me to speak. I swallow thickly, finally freeing up enough space in my throat for my voice to pass through. “Speak for yourself, cleaning this early on a Saturday morning. Do you ever sleep?”

I meant it as a joke, but she winces, and guilt immediately pools in my gut. I scramble for a way to fix it, my mouth opening and then closing, but she puts a hand up to stop me. “It’s okay.” The corners of her lips turn down, and she tilts her head to study me. Her chest rises and falls on a deep crest of breath before she looks back at the task at hand. She’s resumed scrubbing when she adds, “You’ve seen what the dreams do anyway. Not like it’s a secret.”

The night of the storm flashes in my mind. I’ve been so focused on the dream of me that she mentioned having, that I forgot about the one I practically had to pull her out of by force. For a second I worry that I’m the star of the nightmares, too. Then I remind myself not to be a self-centered prick.

I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, watching quietly as she rinses the shower walls and then steps out, her bare feet landing on the towel she’s left spread on the floor as a makeshift mat. Her toenails are painted with a bright pink polish that matches her fingers, I realize, and it’s the kind of intimate detail that overwhelms my senses, like finding out her bra and panties match.

Now there’s a mental image.

Shaking my head, I get myself back on track. We need fresh air and open roads and anything else to clear the fog that fills my brain. If we stay here any longer, I’ll be tempted to do something I shouldn’t, especially with my daughter liable to walk in at any moment.

“Erm, so.” She looks up at me from where she’s been drying the stray water splatters off her legs. She’s wearing neon-orange gym shorts, and they make her olive-toned skin look especially dark in comparison. I gulp. “I was thinking. You’ve been here nearly a month now, and we haven’t taken a single adventure together.”

Her eyes go wide, the blue impossible and endless. “An adventure?”

I nod, puffing out my chest a bit. I knew this was what she needed, what we needed. The fact that, even after a dozen years, I can accurately guess what will make her happy is enough to fill my heart with warm pride. “There are two sausage rolls in the car with your name on them.”

“An adventure and sausage rolls?” She gasps, slapping a hand against her heart. “Is it my birthday?”

I pretend to check a watch that doesn’t exist. “I don’t know, I didn’t think it was March yet, but I could be wrong.”

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