Chapter 6
Kori
Dublin sprawls before me as I exit the airport terminal, the morning sky a canvas of shifting grays.
My head throbs from lack of sleep, and the wind flutters my hair, making me feel even more disheveled.
The humidity instantly curls the edges of my hacked job, and I run my fingers through it self-consciously.
I join the taxi queue, shuffling forward with my single suitcase. When it’s finally my turn, I give the driver Wavecrest's address.
“County Wicklow?” he confirms, eyebrows raised. “That’s a fair journey, miss.”
“I know. I’m prepared to pay.” I slide into the backseat, grateful to be moving forward—literally and figuratively.
The driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes, introduces himself as Patrick.
He tries making small talk as we leave the airport behind, but my short responses eventually discourage him.
Instead, he turns on the radio, filling the car with soft Irish folk music that somehow fits my miserable mood perfectly.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass, watching Dublin pass by.
Georgian buildings with colorful doors line the streets, people hurrying along cobblestone sidewalks, umbrellas at the ready as the sky threatens rain.
It’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache—this place that has nothing to do with Mark or Lana or my broken life back home.
As we leave the city behind, the landscape opens up. Rolling hills in impossible shades of green stretch toward the horizon, dotted with sheep that look like tiny white clouds that have fallen from the sky. Stone walls crisscross the countryside, ancient boundaries still standing after centuries.
“First time in Ireland?” Patrick asks, catching my awestruck expression in the rearview mirror.
“Second,” I reply, finding my voice. “But it’s been years.”
“What brings you to Wavecrest? It’s a bit remote this time of year.”
I hesitate, not wanting to share my humiliation with a stranger. “Just needed some time away.”
He nods knowingly. “Sometimes distance is the only cure.”
I don’t respond, but his words settle over me like a warm blanket. Distance. Space to breathe. To think. To figure out who I am when I’m not Mark’s wife.
The road narrows as we approach the coast, winding through small villages where colorful cottages huddle together against the sea wind. Patrick points out landmarks and shares bits of local history, and I find myself listening despite my exhaustion.
“Almost there,” he announces as we turn onto a gravel lane that cuts between two grassy hills. “Wavecrest is just around this bend.”
The taxi crests the hill, and suddenly there it is—a stone cottage perched on a bluff overlooking the Irish Sea. Gray stone walls, a slate roof patched with moss, windows like watchful eyes facing the water. It’s smaller than I remembered, but no less magical.
He pulls up to the gate and helps with my suitcase. “You sure you’ll be all right out here alone, miss? The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, though my voice wavers slightly. “I have the caretaker’s number if I need anything. And look,” I point across the road where cows graze in the tall grass. “They can keep me company.”
He looks skeptical but doesn’t press the issue. I pay the fare—wincing slightly at the cost—plus a generous tip that earns me a warm smile.
“If you need a ride back to civilization, here’s my card,” he says, handing me a slightly bent business card. “Direct line, day or night.”
“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, that looks 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 some kindling 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 woman alone 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.