Page 67 of Heart Strings
And I hear what I said at the end of the outburst. “I don’t,” I quickly correct myself. “I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.”
Aidan’s arms tense slightly, but he knows it’s true. Other than Lark and Oisín, I’m not close with many people. I could get by on my own. But Aidan, here in this enclosed space with me, encumbered by luggage, forces me to acknowledge that sometimes, you find someone you can trust to share some of your burden.
Aidan swallows thickly. “Lo. There are people in your life who don’t want you to do it all on your own because they love and respect you.”
Before the elevator opens, I run my hand along his stubbled jaw and give him a soft kiss.
I spent the last of my energy lashing out at my dad. The spike of adrenaline from the discovery of my lab results wore off long ago, leaving nothing but a simmering sense of dread. If my mom and Aunt Sharon hadn’t already made plans, I’d be tempted to hang aDo Not Disturbsign on the door and hide under the covers of that four-poster bed with Aidan. Instead, we lug the suitcases out to the parking lot together.
A porter from the castle is assisting my mom and Aunt Sharon with bringing their bags down to my car. My mom looks Aidan up and down. Of course, she’s been giving him the stink eye ever since she noticed his tattoos. Never mind the fact thatAidan has been nothing but polite in her presence. He stuffs Lark’s luggage and my bag into the trunk and lingers after it slams shut.
“I’ll call you later,” I say.
“I’ve heard that before,” he replies. Fair point.
Kissing in front of my mom isn’t going to happen, but I step into Aidan’s arms for a hug. I greedily inhale his sandalwood warmth, but I remind myself that this isn’t a final goodbye. Not yet. He’ll be in town for a while longer. He might even decide to stay. I move out of his arms far sooner than I feel prepared for. I wait until our eyes meet before softly reassuring him, “I’ll call. Promise.”
He’s going to stand there and wave as we drive away, isn’t he?
“You know him well?” my mom asks the instant I shut the driver’s door. She didn’t even wait until I’m buckled in and the car is in motion before starting the inquisition.
Aunt Sharon lowers her sunglasses on her nose. “He’s got a great aura.”
Eew.“Please stop looking at Aidan’s aura.”
My mom scowls at him through the mirror. And yep, he’s waving all right. “What does he do for a living, again?”
She remembers. She grilled him about his work history like he was interviewing for a job. Aidan described himself as a recording artist.
“He’s a professional musician.”
“I don’t know Irish Gaelic, but ‘musician’ universally translates to ‘unemployed.’ ”
“He was nominated for a big music award a few months ago, Mom.”
“You’re awfully defensive over this man.”
“Yeah, well, he hasn’t done anything worth attacking.”
Thank god I never told her the truth about us. She’d never forgive Aidan if she knew how badly he’d shattered my heart.
Aunt Sharon takes out her phone and starts rattling off the itinerary. I simply don’t have it in me. For weeks, I’ve been feeling run-down during my rotations, which I now know may be the cancer coming back. In this instant I’m exhausted on a spiritual level. This morning’s email was a wake-up call, imploring me to listen to my body. When we arrive at Eyre Square, where she wanted to begin, I inhale through my teeth as we pull into a parking spot near the iconic display of colorful tribal flags.
“Listen, Mom, I’m not feeling so great. I’m kinda sensitive to all that patchouli, remember?”
“We’ll be out in the fresh air,” she counters. Her tone is sharp, but the disappointment on her face is unmistakable.
“Sorry. I need to lie down for a while. I can meet you for dinner after you do a little exploring by yourselves?”
Now that I’ve run my dad off, my night is free.
Chapter 25
Aidan
A skein ofyarn rolls to a stop at my feet when I let myself into my parents’ house. I pick it up and gently toss it at my mam, seated on the couch and working on another piece. The braided rope commemorating my parents’ handfasting ceremony thirty-odd years earlier hangs from the mantel, just like always. This house is far nicer than the one we left behind in Cork, but my parents brought along the best parts—well, except Da’s ugly chair, where Mam stacks the yarn balls in a teetering pyramid. A Saint Brigid’s cross fashioned of rushes still hangs over the main doorway year-round and awkward school photos litter these walls, too. By comparison, my flat in Peckham feels like the sterile showroom of a car dealership.
“How was the wedding?” Mam asks.
