19. Maeve
Maeve
The morning after the music, I find myself sitting on the balcony with a cup of coffee growing cold beside me.
The estate is quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet. There is a difference.
Peace feels like my father's office while rain taps against the windows and he pretends not to notice when I steal half the candy from the dish on his desk.
This feels like waiting.
The spring air brushes softly against my skin as I stare out across the grounds below. Somewhere, security patrols move through their usual routes. Gardeners work near the far hedges. Staff drift silently through the estate behind me.
An entire house full of people. And somehow I still feel lonely. The realization settles heavily in my chest.
I take another sip of coffee and immediately wrinkle my nose.
Cold. Perfect. Exactly how my week is going.
My gaze drifts toward my phone resting on the small table beside me.
Immediately I look away.
No. Absolutely not.
The temptation has become embarrassing.
Every time something happens. Every time Ronan ignores me. Every time I feel trapped inside this house. My mind drifts toward the text thread.
Toward Taibhse. Which is ridiculous. Dangerous.
And honestly a little pathetic.
I don't know his name. I don't know his face. I don't know where he lives. I don't know—My eyes narrow.
I slowly lower the coffee cup. A horrible realization hits me. I don't even know if he's a man.
I stare at the phone. Then blink. Then stare some more.
How have I never thought about that?
For all I know, I've been emotionally adopting somebody's grandmother.
The thought should not be funny.
Unfortunately, it is.
A laugh escapes me despite myself. "You're an idiot, Maeve."
Because who does this? Who starts getting attached to a mysterious stranger and forgets to establish basic information first?
Apparently me. The realization is deeply concerning. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone.
My fingers move before I can stop them.
Me:
Are you a guy?
The second I hit send, I regret it. I stare at the message. Then at the sky. Then back at the message.
"Oh, that was a terrible idea."
My phone vibrates almost immediately.
Taibhse:
This may be the strangest question I've ever received.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Me:
That wasn't an answer.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
I find myself oddly fascinated by them.
Taibhse:
I once hacked into a satellite network because somebody told me I couldn't.
I blink. What?
Another message appears.
Taibhse:
Nobody involved asked if I was a man.
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. I shake my head.
Me:
That sounds like something a sixty-five-year-old woman with unlimited free time would do.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Taibhse:
That's oddly specific.
Me:
Are you avoiding the question?
His response comes immediately this time.
Taibhse:
Yes.
I stare. Then another message appears.
Taibhse:
Wait.
Three dots.
Taibhse:
No.
I laugh so hard coffee nearly comes out my nose. For several seconds I can barely type.
Me:
You are unbelievable.
The response takes longer. Long enough that I imagine him actually thinking about it.
Taibhse:
I've been called worse. But the answer to your question is yes.
Me:
Good.
Taibhse:
Good?
Me:
It would've been awkward if I'd accidentally made friends with somebody's grandparent.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then come back.
Taibhse:
That possibility still exists.
I frown at the screen.
Me:
...what?
Taibhse:
I answered your question. I never answered how old I am.
I burst out laughing. Actually laughing.
The kind that makes me wipe tears from the corners of my eyes before I can even type.
Me:
You are impossible.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Taibhse:
Statistically probable.
I shake my head.
Me:
You're enjoying this way too much.
A few seconds pass before his reply arrives.
Taibhse:
Slightly.
Another pause.
Then—
Taibhse:
For the record… I'm not anybody's grandfather either.
Can I ask you something?
I hesitate.
Then type anyway.
Me:
Depends.
Taibhse:
Why Everlong?
I stare at the words for several long seconds.
Out of everything he could have asked...
That. My fingers hover over the keyboard while memories surface, unbidden, faster than I can push them down. Rain-soaked afternoons. My father pretending not to know I'd stolen his truck keys. Windows down. Music loud enough that neither of us could hear my mother yelling from the front porch.
A smile softens across my face.
Me:
Dad used to play it when I was little. Whenever we'd go for drives. He always said it sounded like freedom.
For a long moment...
Nothing.
No typing bubble.
No response.
Just silence.
Then—
Taibhse:
I like your dad.
I smile.
Me:
You've never met him.
Taibhse:
Didn't say I had.
Another pause.
Taibhse:
Still think I'd like him.