Page 92 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

I understand.

In a week, I’ll tell him that Finian’s his son. It seems wrong to keep it secret since his wife already knows, but I agreed to the two months timeline with the family.

Will he hate me? I can’t change the choices I made back then. Would I if I could?

Yes. No.

I’ve had to live with my decisions. He’s had to live with them too, even though he wasn’t party to any that concerned him.

The same feeling of déjà vu washes over me as I face the ancient grey stone walls, my gaze dragged to the sky by the proud spire sat atop. This time, the earthy smell of freshly dug soil is absent.

Is the small graveyard with the uneven headstones finally full?

I make my way toward the imposing entrance, my hand connecting once again with the black circular handle before turning it and pushing the door forward. I switch on the lights, blinking as my vision adjusts to the contrast of the darkness I leave behind.

My eyes then glance over the tall, vaulted ceilings, the ancient wooden pews, and the abundance of stained-glass windows that no doubt look breathtaking with the sunlight streaming through.

Maybe one day I’ll get to see this place in the daylight.

My gaze drops to the scaffolding over the altar. Are they renovating? Is Father O’Reilly here? I curse inwardly when I realize I have no idea where the safe room is.

Who can I ask if not him?

God himself?

I walk around, my hand skimming over each surface like Irish’s would have done his whole life. I smile when I think of his son growing up and doing the same. Of his small hand touching all the places his daddy’s did as a boy. Will Finian grow to love this place as much as Padraig does?

I reckon he will.

I raise both hands to my cheeks.

More tears. More regrets.

He never cheated. Life could have been so different for us.

I walk past the confessional booth, and that’s when I notice the reflective glass window. I remember it from last time.

More tears. More memories.

I think back to Sarah and Cillian’s wedding. Irish surrounded me then.

Watching. Listening. Ever-present.

Kiss Mewas playing, and I was so sure I could feel him behind this very window.

It was just wishful thinking, idiot.

I walk toward it, gazing at myself in the reflective surface as I step forward. I take in the blonde biker who will always be too thin no matter how hard she tries to gain weight. She has a few more scars and lines these days, but she’s relatively unchanged. On the outside, at least.

She’s a single parent now. She’s also a widow.

Self-pity causes my eyes to well up again.

More tears. More grief.

Holding my breath, I reach out and touch the surface of the glass. Nothing.

Cold. Hard. Unfeeling. The connection gone.

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