Page 4 of Dirty Eoin

PADRAIG

Private Dining Room, Palace Hotel, Manhattan

Serendipity.

There’s no other word to describe it. Fate has brought us together. Right here. Right now. For reasons known only to himself.

Jaine Jones. My cliché blonde. My Disney Princess. My Holy Grail of women and the one I have been in love with since I was nineteen years old.

Too beautiful. Too breathtaking. Too perfect in every way.

Standing in front of me. She’s not a dream. She’s not a mirage.

That heart-shaped face of hers, those bright green eyes, her upturned nose and pouty lips. Jesus Christ, God really did make perfection when he crafted her.

For me. Or so I once hoped.

They say a picture speaks a thousand words. I’m waiting for the look that speaks a thousand emotions. A sign that confirms that I got it all wrong. That itisreciprocated. That she does love me.

Always has. Always will.

My heart pounds in my chest. I’m drowning in a sea of raging emotions I’m struggling to contain below the calm surface of the mask of indifference I have no choice but to wear. I don’t speak. Even if I could, words would fail me. What is there to say to the woman who was the constant in my life?

To my soul mate.

To my fated other.

To my one and only.

So I wait and wait for just one sign. For the connection we shared to make itself known. To let me know it was all just a misunderstanding.

Just this one fragile moment in time, I pray that she admits she lied. I pray that she gives away the truth. I pray that she lets me see inside her very soul.

And I pray that it’s filled with love for me.

“Irish.” She whispers her name for me on an outward breath. I’ve waited so long to hear it fall from her lips.

A lifetime.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

I love her. God, how I fucking love her.

Jaine Jones. My end game that never will.

I want to sink to my knees and roar my frustrations at the heavens. I want The Almighty to tell me what I’ve done that I’m deserving of this never-ending pain.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I allow the tears of regret and self-pity to prick my eyes, but I keep my expression impassive because I have no choice.

There’s a flicker of something that crosses her face. Is it love? It’s so fleeting, and then it’s gone.

I guess I was mistaken.

There’s nothing. No outward indication. No sign. No grand reveal that the foolish hope I’ve been clinging to these past two years hasn’t been in vain. It’s true. She doesn’t love me after all.

Never has. Never will.

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