Chapter Thirty-Two
Ciara
The panel goes viral. I know this because I look it up at a service station halfway home, not able to wait until I get back.
Frank Sheridan’s daughter to write final Ravian book.
I suppose it’s kind of funny. I was so worried about my name getting out there and in half the posts they don’t even use it.
I thought she died, someone wrote under an article. Didn’t she die?
I think that’s another chick.
Christ.
I sit in a McDonald’s just off the motorway, listening to the rain fall against the window as I read take after take and watch reel after reel.
It’s as though every image ever taken of me with my father is now plastered around the internet.
And some teenage years just shouldn’t be unearthed, you know?
They shouldn’t even be touching it.
She can’t write for shit.
In it for the money.
I replay one of the clips from the panel, getting angry all over again as I watch Austen smirk at the audience. “…his hand was forced in order to bring in that female audience.”
That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.
And I would know. I was in the room next to Dad as he moved in and out of his office, muttering storylines out loud while checking I was doing my homework.
He wasn’t forced to do anything. He ignored the naysayers and tore apart drafts and had long conversations on the phone with Casey at a time when international calls were not cheap, and he did it because Sam was right.
My father loved Finn and Maeve. And as soon as he realized they loved each other, that was all he needed.
The video finishes, flicking automatically to the next, and I’m unable to look away as Austen appears again, speaking to someone off-camera.
“Nepotism. That’s all it is. Nepotism, pure and simple.
Both his daughter and his publisher clearly just want to make some money and think that all it takes is slapping the Sheridan name on the cover to say their job is done.
I don’t even believe what they said about the outline.
If it exists, then let us see it. Let us know what Frank wanted these books to be before we—”
I pause the video, unable to watch any more.
It’s not as though I can say they’re wrong. It’s why I said yes in the first place. Because I wanted the money. I needed the money. I wouldn’t be able to keep the house otherwise. It was the only reason I replied to Casey. That’s what I told Maddie. That’s what I told myself.
But it wasn’t the truth.
It was never the truth. It was a defense mechanism. A way to protect myself from people just like Austen Mitchell. If I was doing it for the money, then I wouldn’t care. And if I didn’t care, then I couldn’t be hurt.
I love these books. I love these characters. And I wanted to write their ending more than anything. Not just for my father or his fans, but for me too.
I wanted to prove that I could do it.
I wanted to say goodbye.
And that’s what this is, isn’t it? A way to move on.
Because as I sit here on this hard plastic stool, running away once again, I know that I haven’t.
Hell, everyone knows that. That’s why everyone treats me with kid gloves.
Why Maddie drives out of her way to see me every day.
Why Ronan lets me run up a bar tab. Why Casey sends an editor across an ocean just to give me the help I need.
Because I refuse to admit it.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, staring out at the gathering storm. Pathetic fallacy. That creative writing teacher would eat this shit up.
Still, it’s apt.
I start to wonder if Sam’s flight got out okay, only to stop myself before I can feel even worse.
Now that I’ve had some time to calm down and get some food to eat, my anger has just left me feeling hollow.
But there’s no point in even trying to talk to him until he’s landed.
And even then, I don’t know what I would say.
I crumple my food wrappers and toss them in the bin, knowing I should get home before the storm gets worse.
There have been no more weather warnings other than to stay away from the coast (i.e.
, don’t be an idiot), but there are already reports of fallen power lines and electricity cuts.
I usually love the rain. But this is almost tropical in its chaos, and uneasiness fills me as I get back on the road.
It’s late afternoon, but the clouds are so dark it feels like night, and I drive extra-slowly as the rain shows no letup. Despite there being no traffic, the final hour’s drive takes me two, and I’m about ten minutes from the house when I come across a Garda van parked in the middle of the road.
The poor lad on duty waves me down, but whatever he says is lost on the wind and I have to roll down my window so I can hear him.
“You’ll have to turn back!” he yells. “It’s not safe. Storm’s making the branches fall.”
“But I live up—”
He just backs away, motioning for me to turn around, and, not wanting to make his job any worse than it is, I follow his instructions.
Still my anxiety churns, an unsettling sense of dread leading me to cut across the bridge by the village, aiming for the coast road. The wipers work overtime as I circle back, coming at the house from the other side. There’s no patrol this way, no one to stop me but nature itself.
I’ve never been much of a daredevil. Never not played it safe when it comes to the important things in life. And, right now, I know the safest thing to do would be to drive back and take refuge at Ronan’s until the storm passes. But be it intuition or what, I can’t.
Something’s wrong.
I’m halfway up my drive when I find out what.
My headlights sweep across the grass, and I brake immediately, slamming to a halt as I stare up at my home.
The large oak tree in the middle of the garden, the one my father bought this house for, has been uprooted by the wind and crashed directly into the house, ripping through the east wing. Through his office and mine.
I can’t speak. Because, while I may be alive, I’m not well.
I’m not well at all, and as I stare at that place where the oak once stood, there’s a pain in my chest that’s worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.
That’s almost unbearable. And before I know what I’m doing I’m out of the car and then I’m running.
I’m running and the alarm is blaring as I throw open the front door and go up the stairs, nearly tripping in my haste.
I’m down the hall in the time that it takes me to draw a breath.
Someone shouts my name, but I barely pay attention to it as I shove open the door.
The rain hits me first. A blast of it on the wind, striking my whole body, and making me stumble back before I push forward into what is left of my father’s favorite room in his favorite place.
It looks even worse than it does from the outside.
The hole that’s ripped through the wall is so large that it’s taken out half the roof.
His armchair has disappeared, his lamp too, and I can’t see the garden beyond; my view is blocked by the top of the oak tree, which now takes up half the room.
Everything that’s left is in chaos. Books lie scattered among notebooks and broken picture frames, all destroyed, torn apart by the elements.
I take two steps inside before the walls groan ominously.
The tree hasn’t fully collapsed, its fall broken by the house, and I have no idea if I have minutes or seconds before it might keep going, crashing through the floor.
Another horrific creaking sound shudders around me, and my legs give out, the shock making them collapse under me, and then I’m crawling, grabbing whatever’s within reach. Saving what I can.
I’m horrified at the thought of losing anything. But to lose it all?
My name is called again. Closer now. But I keep moving, scrambling further inside as I try not to look at the gaping hole where the wall should be.
Splinters dig into my bare knees and something stings sharply against my cheek, but I ignore it all, barely feeling the pain.
I’m frantic. Desperate. And when I catch sight of a lined yellow page filled with my father’s writing, it’s as if my whole world centers on it.
It’s snagged on the tree, fluttering violently, but, once upon a time, he sat down and wrote it.
The paper is his, the ink is his, and I clamber toward the gap, dropping whatever is in my arms as I stretch out my hand as far as it can go.
The floor beneath me seems to tilt as my fingers graze the page’s edges, but before I can shuffle another inch I’m yanked backward, strong arms encircling my waist, pulling me from my prize.
“What are you doing?” Sam yells in my ear. Because Sam is here. He’s here, and he’s holding me so tight I can’t move. “You almost went over!”
I struggle against him, not listening as he tugs me back further, and I watch in horror as the paper disappears, snatched by the wind as if it were never there at all.
Another one follows. And another and another as the storm whips around us, screaming into my face and stealing the breath from my lungs.
“We’ve got to go,” he says, his voice barely audible even though he’s shouting at me. “It’s not safe up here.”
“But his work!” He, of all people, has to understand what’s in this room. What we’re about to lose. “It’s important! We can’t just—”
“You are important.” He cups the side of my face, forcing me to look at him. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You matter. Come with me. Come on.”
He keeps talking at me, not taking his eyes off mine as he drags me out into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him.
The alarm is still blaring as he brings me down the stairs, but I can barely hear it over the howl of the wind. A rental car sits just outside, the engine running and the driver’s side thrown open. Sam doesn’t stop until he pushes me in and slides into the passenger seat.
He whirls on me as soon as he slams the door.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he explodes.
He’s furious. More than furious. Incensed. There’s a panicked, frenzied air about him that I’ve never seen before, and my own hysteria fades at the sight of it, leaving me strangely numb.
“It looks as though it’s about to collapse,” he continues when I don’t say anything. He grasps my shoulders, turning me to face him as he scans my body, looking for injuries. “You could have—” His hand goes to my cheek. “You’re bleeding,” he says, horrified.
I move willingly as he tilts my head, his touch turning impossibly gentle as he examines the scratch.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
He finally starts to calm, some of that manic energy leaving him when he sees that the scratch is the worst of it.
“Never do that to me again,” he croaks.
“I won’t.”
“You could have fallen.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking. I was—”
I break off as he pulls me into a rough embrace, and I instantly wrap my arms around him, clinging to his soaked-to-the-skin shirt.
The rain hammers the roof of the car, as hard and fast as his heartbeat, and when I turn my head to press a kiss to his neck he feels unusually cold.
Guilt lances through me when I realize just how much I scared him, and I pull back a fraction so I can see his face.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask. “Your flight—”
“I couldn’t leave you like that.” He runs two hands through his hair, straightening as best he can in the cramped space. “Everything got so messed up, and I’m sorry. About all of it. You have to believe I never wanted to—”
“I know,” I say, hushing him. I’m the one comforting him now, which is all sorts of ridiculous, but I’m a sucker for when he gets all sincere like that. A sucker for him.
He reaches up to cradle my jaw, fingers delving into my hair as his thumbs sweep my cheeks.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says. “But I promise I’ll be there for you when it does. No matter what you need, I’ll be there. For as long as you want me to.”
The tears come then, and I don’t think he’d believe me if I said it was the rain, so I just let them fall. Let them fall, and let him kiss them away until there are none left.
Something flashes in the corner of my eye, and I flinch, thinking it’s lightning. But lightning isn’t blue and red. And it doesn’t make a noise like that either. A wailing siren that grows louder and louder as the first emergency vehicle screams up the driveway.
“The house,” I whisper, because that’s all I can say. All I need to. And as more lights flash, and a fire engine pulls up beside us, Sam wraps me back in his arms, holding me so close I feel as if he’s never going to let me go.