Page 18 of Blindsided
“Thank you, Patrick,” I say, genuinely touched by his concern.
As the taxi disappears down the lane, I’m left standing at the gate, suitcase at my feet, the sea wind tugging at my clothes. The enormity of what I’ve done hits me all at once—I’ve fled across an ocean, to a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with no plan beyond hiding from my problems.
I take a deep breath of salt-tinged air and push open the gate. The path to the front door is lined with purple and pink cosmos bobbing and waving in the breeze as if welcoming me. I pull the keys Jen gave me from my pocket and unlock the door.
The door creaks open, releasing a stale smell. The cottage is cold but welcoming, with the sun streaming through the windows. I step inside, pulling my suitcase over the threshold, and close the door behind me. The silence is absolute, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the sand beyond the back of the house.
Nothing has changed since my last visit. The grand stone fireplace with intricate Celtic carvings dominates one wall, and I’m itching to start a fire in it. A sheet-draped sofa faces it, framed by antique side tables with brass oil lamps. The dining area boasts a mahogany table beneath a crystal chandelier, positioned perfectly by the window, thatlooks out to the sea. A chef’s kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack opens off to one side, while a sweeping staircase with hand-carved banisters curves gracefully to the floor above. It’s way too big for my needs, but I’m not complaining.
I pull off the nearest sheet, releasing a cloud of dust that makes me sneeze. Underneath is a comfortable-looking armchair that I vaguely remember curling up in during that college trip, reading by the fire while Jen and our friends played cards at the table.
One by one, I uncover the furniture, fold the sheets, and pile them on the floor to launder later. With each revealed piece, the cottage seems to wake up a little more. By the time I’ve finished, my nose is plugged, and my eyes are watering.
I head into the kitchen, wet a paper towel, and wipe the dust off my face. My stomach grumbles, and I head over to the refrigerator, pull it open. It’s empty, as expected, but there’s a pantry stocked with non-perishables—canned soup, pasta, tea, sugar. Jen mentioned that Mrs. O’Malley comes by weekly to check on things, and it seems she keeps the basics stocked for unexpected visitors.
I find the circuit breaker and flip it on, relieved when the lights flicker to life. The water runs clear after a few minutes of rust-colored sputtering. I head back into the living room to the fireplace and toss a couple of logs into the hearth along with somekindling and scrunched-up newspaper. A box of matches sits on the mantel, and I strike one against the striker. I watch as the flame licks along the paper and pray that the chimney isn’t full of birds’ nests.
As darkness falls, I curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, a bowl of soup, and crackers. While I eat, I sit there watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The phone Jen had given me lies silent next to me on the couch.
For the first time in years, I answer to no one. No husband expects dinner at a specific time. No sister called to chat about her latest date, all while sleeping with my husband behind my back—no perfectly maintained schedule of social obligations.
I think of that family on the plane—Kane, with his too-perceptive eyes despite being drunk, and Wren with her matter-of-fact kindness. They were all headed somewhere in Ireland, too, chasing their own family drama. I wonder briefly what brought them here, what secrets they have.
Outside, the wind picks up, whistling around the eaves of the cottage. Rain begins to patter against the windows, a gentle rhythm that soothes my frayed nerves. I’m exhausted—emotionally and physically drained—but for the first time since seeing those photos, I feel a peace settle over me.
Tomorrow I’ll need to walk to the village for groceries and figure out how to live in this isolated place. But tonight, I exist in this moment—a womanalone in a cottage by the sea, nursing a broken heart.
I fall asleep on the sofa, the fire burning low. Instead of having nightmares of Mark and Lana together, I dream of ocean waves and a man with tattooed hands who sees sadness from across an airplane aisle.
Chapter 7
Kane
I wake up at the crack of dawn. Not because I want to, but because Declan dumped a bucket of ice water on my head.
I jolt upright, fists poised to do a number on his face, but somehow, in my hangover, I remember just who he is. A man who with one order can end my life faster than I can blink, and I rather like my booze, thank you very much.
“You fucking asshole!” I sputter, as tiny men with hammers pound inside my skull.
“Get up. We’ve got work to do.” He glowers at me like a parent would at their petulant teenager who’s late for school.
And then he spies the empty bottle of tequila sitting on the nightstand.
He picks it up by the neck and looks at me. “What the fuck is this?”
I shrug a shoulder. “A nightcap.”
I put a hand to my head as he barks, “I told you to stay sober!”
“Yeah, no. That’s not gonna happen,” I mutter, gripping my hair in my hands.
“Rory.”
That’s all Declan said, and called me crazy, but I knew shit was about to hit the fan.
I look up to see the two of them looking directly at me while talking in hushed tones. And then, they smiled.
But it wasn’t just the smiles on their faces; it was the fact that they lunged at me in unison.
