Chapter 25
POV: Maeve?
“Tell me the truth then, Liam,” I pleaded, squeezing his hand in mine.
Liam looked shocked, confused, even a bit scared.
But despite my own feelings—feelings of fear—of admitting feelings for a man, who might never be ready to act on his own, I powered through, despite the terror that lived inside of me.
“Liam–” I began, heaving in a breath of courage but my words ended there.
His grip around my hand weakened.
Here goes nothing.
“Liam—I love you!” Relief flooded over me as I spoke the words out loud.
It was the truth. I did love him. And I’m glad I said it.
But as I waited for his reply, I looked over his face.
Fear lived within his gaze. His mouth was partly open but no words came out, his eyes were wide with confusion, and his grip on my hand weakened, falling back to his side.
He didn’t know what to say—after I had just poured my heart out to him—after I had bared my soul—after I had taken a risk. I was going to be disappointed by a man, yet again.
“I knew it,” I scoffed, shaking my head and taking a step back from him.
And Liam remained frozen in place, staring at me and not speaking a single word.
My entire body burned from his silent rejection. “I knew you were too cowardly to admit the truth. Because even if you won’t say it, Liam, I know you feel it, too.”
“Stop, Maeve. Just stop!” He rushed out.
I went quiet.
Because a part of me believed that maybe—just maybe that he would have enough courage to realize that he’d lose me if he didn’t.
His lips curled but he didn’t speak, “I—” he began, giving me hope all over again. But my hope ended right there when he shook his head and took a step back from me and looked down at his feet. “Go home, Maeve. Go home before I ruin your life.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “That’s so like you, Liam—to hide from the truth and to let it control you.” I turned on my heels and walked away from him.
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I forced them back as I made my way home.
The walk felt long and cold. I held my arms around my chest but they brought no warmth, because nothing could after his rejection. His words replayed inside of my head on an endless loop. They wouldn’t fade and they wouldn’t quiet. And I’d give anything to have them do both.
I wanted to do anything but think of him at the moment.
My heart felt like it was breaking into a dozen little pieces right now and I couldn’t collect them all in time.
It felt like I was leaving a part of myself there, as I walked away from him and from all of the feelings I had for him.
But one thing was clear to me, I couldn’t remain in Ireland any longer. There was no place for me here, not in this godforsaken town and not with Liam.
When I made it to my cottage, I slammed the door behind me and let my back slide against the closed door and let everything out. I let the tears fall. I let my mascara ruin. I let my skin turn pink.
I cried loud—like a wailing banshee would—to the sky—to the cottage—and I cursed every bit of Ireland and every memory of Liam. I cursed the man I loved. I cursed the way he made me feel. I cursed everything that was good about him. I even cursed his cowardice.
But it didn’t help. At all.
If anything, it only made matters worse because by cursing him, I remembered him and the hurt and pain he had inevitably caused me.
Because pain lingered. Pain stayed. Pain didn’t forget.
And I knew there was a part of me that would never forget Liam, no matter how hard I tried—no matter how far I went away from him—no matter how many men I dated and slept with—even if I one day married someone.
I knew that Liam was my first and last love.
Once I’d pulled myself together, wiped away my tears, and mapped out a plan, there was only one choice left—packing.
I packed up as quickly and carelessly as I could, throwing unfolded shirts, jeans, dresses into my checked baggage, tossing in shoes, half open makeup bags, and anything else that I could hastily pack.
Then I booked a one way airline ticket back to Boston for tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 pm.
And after I was done, I fell to the floor and placed my hands over my eyes and let out a heavy breath.
I couldn’t stop thinking of him.
About the way he had stood there when I confessed my love—silent, unreadable, offering nothing in return. Instead of saying it back, he told me to go home, as though it were that simple, as if the memories between us could be wiped clean, as if everything we shared and felt could just be erased from existence.
And I knew even if my memories let me forget him—then my book surely wouldn’t.
My book was about him—every word, every page. Even if it became a bestseller, landed on store shelves, went viral on booktok, or climbed the New York Times Bestseller list for virtual and audiobooks, it would come with a cost. A permanent reminder of him—of us—haunting me for the rest of my life.
And just like that, my thoughts went rogue.
I could imagine it now—sitting at a book signing, delving into the history of my characters and the experiences I wrote about.
I knew readers would ask who or what inspired the book, and I’d have to choose either to be honest and tell them about Liam, or hide behind ‘imagination’.
It was a slippery slope and one that I was sliding down without having psychics on my side.