Page 87 of Heart Strings
“Your family?”
“Yes, it’s Cielo. She needs me.”
“What, she can’t handle a little competition from Emma Kinnane?”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”
His lips purse. “I knew this would happen if you spent too much time in Galway.”
I’d believed him when he told me that I needed to be in London when we started working together. Now, I wonder if part of his reasoning was isolating me from the people in my life. “I need to be there today.”
“This is your career, Aidan. And I called in a lot of favors to get you this meeting.”
“I know, and I appreciate it so much. You made the impossible happen. But I just can’t, not right now. Nigel will either understand that or he won’t.”
“Don’t count on it. You need to ask yourself: Is this girl worth it? She shredded your heart once before.”
Heat rages through my veins, making my blood boil. Cielo Valdez is worth everything. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her. For her belief in me. For the way she makes me feel. I would risk anything for her, including another broken heart, for the chance to be hers again forever. Something tells me that if she doesn’t think I can show up for her today—and she already must think that, if she didn’t tell me about the biopsy—then I might have already lost that chance. I’ve been so focused on this meeting with Nigel, and so worried about what Lo thought about that thing with the actress, that I missed what was really upsetting her. I have to show up for her today; I have to put everything on the line. The risk is terrifying, but the reward is irresistible.
“This is your only chance with Nigel. Want to be on the cover ofRolling Stoneor on a playlist of one-hit wonders?”
It’s probably shortsighted to fire my manager when I’ll need help navigating my career post-label breakup, but I can’t stand the sight of his face one more minute. I draw in a deep breath.
“Martin, this isn’t working.”
“You just misseda flight to Shannon, boarding ended ten minutes ago.” The ticketing agent frowns into her monitor.
“What about Knock?” I ask through a pained smile. I’m exhausted, having gone non-stop for the past week, but I do my best to turn on the trademark Irish charm that Yanks love to go on about. “Is there anything you can do?”
“I’m sorry, the earliest flight for Knock is five-fifteen this evening.” Knock is about the same distance as Shannon, both about an hour’s drive from Galway.
Immediately after unceremoniously firing Martin, I’d returned to the hotel, stuffed my clothes into a suitcase, and grabbed my mandolin, heading straight to JFK airport without a wink of sleep. Desperate to hear Lo’s voice, I’d tried to ring her from the cab. It went straight to her voicemail each time. Through a throat tightening with unshed tears, I left a message saying that I was coming home early. That I love her.
When I hung up, I searched for last-minute flights but came up short. Surely, I reckoned someone here should be able to help me find something that would land me in Galway before Cielo’s appointment.
Maybe this is the universe telling me to stay in New York and take the lunch with Nigel. I could arrive in Galway later this evening to see Lo. But no. I need to choose her now. This is the universe testing me. Asking me to prove that I’m willing to work to be with her.
“Dublin?” There’s a panicked edge to the question. Taking a train from Dublin to Galway would add hours to my travel time, but if the closer airports aren’t options…
After a few clicks, her face brightens. “There’s a flight to Dublin in an hour. Only business class seats are left.”
That’ll get me back in Ireland by nine—twop.m.local time. According to Saoirse, Lo’s appointment is at four forty-five. I just might make it.
I shove my card toward the ticketing agent. “Sold.”
While I’m waiting to board, I head to the bathroom and splash water on my face. My reflection is haggard with worry and sleep deprivation. I hardly look like myself.
Cielo’s eyes lit when I’d shaved for Lark and Callum’s wedding. She’d caressed my smooth cheek, admitting that she’d missed my dimples. I want her to look at me like that again. I march to the nearest convenience store in the terminal and buy myself a razor.
When we landfive hours later and I take my mobile off airplane mode, there is still no response from Lo.
Either she received my messages and is choosing to ignore them, or something is terribly wrong. I follow the route through the terminal toward the rental cars, scrolling through my contacts. Saoirse doesn’t pick up. When I try the flower shop, the lad at the register tells me she’s out on a baby shower delivery. Adjusting the strap of my mandolin case around my shoulder, I send a text for her to call me back and round the corner.
Holy mother of all queues.
The line of restless travelers snakes back and forth in front of the car rental counter manned by one frazzled employee. A little girl lays on the floor, whining about the dead tablet in herhands. The man behind her loudly complains that they’ve been waiting an hour without moving any closer. Every self-service kiosk bears a printed sign apologizing that the system is temporarily down and redirecting them to the counter.
All right, plan B: There’s bound to be a train. I jog to the ground transport section and find a schedule. The next one headed toward the Atlantic Way leaves in an hour. The earliest I’d arrive would be well after six, and that’s assuming there are no delays.
