Page 123 of Until I Have You

What I’d like to say is, “Let me take care of you one last time.”

Instead, I close the door behind her and watch the car drive off.

She takes my heart with her.And with it every hope I thought was too good to hope for.Turns out I was right to be wary of my hopes.

If you don’t hope, you don’t get heartbroken.

If you don’t hope, you can bloody fucking survive.

24

ABIGAIL

I pulldown the hood of my rain jacket as I enter the pub.The pub is warm and swollen with laughter, much different from the cold, Irish rainstorms outside.

My mother is behind the bar, as usual.The Failte is a Sullivan family establishment.

My mother, Grainne Sullivan, inherited it after my grandmother passed away.Failte is the Irish word for “welcome,” and boy does the Failte welcome its guests.

“Early for drinking, Abigail,” she calls out, tapping her pen on her crossword.

Her accent is stronger than it was when I was a kid.When I went to college, she moved back to Eire to be with my grandmother before she passed away.Being back in her home country made her accent come back with a vengeance.I love it, though.So musical.I’ve always been jealous of it.

Plus, it’s nice to be in the land of the Irish to remind me how annoying the British are.Perfect timing.

I roll my eyes as I sidle up to the bar.“Visibility got too low at the cliffs.We took off early.”

Mom smiles, her green eyes appraising me thoughtfully.“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

She laughs and gives a knock against the service window that looks into the kitchen in the back.“Chips and mashed peas, Cookie!”

“I’m not going to eat the peas,” I grumble, shirking off my coat.

“You will, and you’ll enjoy it, or you’re no daughter of mine,” Mom replies.“Now careful with that coat, you’ll flood the place.”

As it’s late afternoon, the pub is only starting to fill up for the evening, which means my mom can hang around me and chat.

The past few weeks being able to visit my mom every day after work have been everything to me.

Ireland is like a different world, meaning my life in New York feels almost like a fictional tale.Something that might not have actually happened.

However, from the way my sternum aches at the memories, I know that’s not the case.

“All right now, show me the birds,” my mom says after placing a plate of chips and mashed peas, ew, in front of me.

I pull out my phone and flick through to my photos from the day.

The puffins don’t get old.They look like little businessmen wearing orange traffic cones on their face.

I let my mom go through the photos I took that day while I devour the fried potatoes, sprinkling them with malt vinegar as I go.

“Now, that’s a nice shot, isn’t it?”my mother asks, turning the phone back to me.

The picture is a view from the Cliffs of Moher before the clouds rolled in.Vibrant green coating the cliffs, the dark slate of the rocks, the rolling ocean below, eager to swallow as much as it can.Stunning and petrifying.

A far cry from New York City and its clusters of buildings.The closest I get to nature like this is Central Park.And I certainly don’t miss that view right now.

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