Chapter 11
Aidan
Fresh lyrics and melodies have spilled out of me in the days since the boat outing when Cielo and I shared a moment.
And the songs are good . Emotionally loaded and as lively as the waves that shimmered around us.
Yes, her resentment for me burns hot, but now I know the glowing ember of our connection is still very much alive.
If I tend to that cinder, it just might warm us both once more.
I have to try. I want her back.
Beams of concentrated malice aren’t shooting from Cielo’s eyes when I arrive at her flat, so that’s a start.
She answers the door in a simple top and jeans.
Shiny lipstick accentuates her modest smile in the most distracting way.
In the past, I would have greeted her by tugging her close and testing just how colorfast her lipstick was.
I clear my throat and stow my shoes by the entrance. “Hey.”
“Um, hi.”
Her meticulously tidy flat hasn’t changed.
Big Thief spins on the turntable under a framed Austin City Limits poster.
Notebooks are stacked on the couch, as if she’d been studying.
An example favor sits in the center of the kitchen table: a jar of homemade bubble liquid wrapped in fabric, tied with a double bow, and finished with a stamped name tag.
Lo holds up another bundle. An absolute mess. Lark’s and Callum’s stamped names and wedding date are crooked on the label, the guest’s name crammed onto a tag that hangs from a limp ribbon. This one’s definitely hers and I know the perfectionist in her hates it.
“You’ve made hames of it, haven’t you?” I tease.
“I’d like to see you do any better. The fabric barely fit and if you even look at one of these favors wrong, it pops out of the wrapper.” She scowls at the bubble jar favor. “So, how do you want to do this? Assembly line?”
“Works for me.”
She’s all business, and while it’s…civil, it just won’t do. Lo was embarrassed when the boat ran aground, but we’d shared a moment there…before and after the mishap. The chemistry between us is still electric, even if she’s doing her best to ignore it. But I won’t let her ignore me.
Silence feels loud when there’s so much to say. It’s overwhelming. Adrianne Lenker’s raw, timeless voice laments how all the money in the world can’t buy forgiveness. It’s the reminder I need.
We collect the supplies Lark left us and line them up on the table.
“Okay.” I sit down beside Lo. “Show me how to make one.”
She starts with the label that wraps around the tiny plastic jar.
There are individual stamps for each letter of their names and each number in their wedding date.
She lays out only the letters and numbers we’ll need, putting the rest of the set aside.
Two stamp pads: black for the text and gold for the claddagh.
It’s slow going, and by the time I’m finished with one, I’m sure this is going to take all day.
Perhaps that’s the point. Surely, Lark knows they make custom stamps and printed labels for these sorts of things. It feels like a deliberate choice, just like pairing us together for the task. I have to admit…I’m not upset about it.
“How about we focus on the stamping first? All the labels and tags.” Lo pulls up a guest list on her phone.
“Fine by me.”
She grabs the tags; I take the labels.
We go about stamping in silence. The faint rosemary scent of Lo’s shampoo catches my attention and I inhale greedily.
Memories of tea in bed on Sunday mornings swirl in my mind as Lo moves brusquely in my peripheral vision.
I watch for a sign that our proximity affects her, too, but she’s unreadable.
We reach for the same stamp and our hands bump.
“Sorry—”
She yanks her hand back. “No, you go ahead—”
“I insist—”
I reroute, reaching for the gold pad instead at the same time she does. We freeze mid-motion and I huff at the synchronicity.
“You can talk to me,” I say. “This doesn’t have to be awkward.”
Lo sighs. “I…don’t really know what to say.”
“Well”—I dab the stamp onto the ink pad—“we can start with the basics. You had clinicals today?”
“Yeah, most days on top of coursework. But I took the afternoon off for an appointment,” she says, keeping her hands moving.
“My da and I went fishing at Salmon Weir Bridge this morning. The season’s nearly over and it was the first time I’ve had a chance to go with him.
” From the old stone bridge, we watched a pastel sunrise against the cathedral’s impressive green dome.
Da’s a decent angler, and the River Corrib had been generous.
“So, Marie picked up ventriloquism last year—”
Lo pauses. “Like, a talking dummy?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s…pathological.”
“The whole family has been pranking me with them ever since! This morning, my da asked me to get his tackle box from the shed and the awful thing was sitting on top of it.”
A light laugh escapes her. “Fantastic.”
“You would think that.”
We find our rhythm. I sync the inking of the stamps to the bassline of the song, looking up to see a glint of amusement in Cielo’s face. We match each other’s pace, stealing glances at each other. She speeds up; I follow suit.
Next thing I know, we’re racing. Lo is a blur of motion, frantically spelling out the names of the bride and groom. She slaps her tag down in the center of the table with a triumphant grin. I want to kiss it off her face. God, I’ve missed her.
“Best out of three?” I ask. Anything for this easy energy to continue between us.
Cielo purses her lips as she considers. “Only if we raise the stakes. Loser stamps ‘loser’ across their forehead.”
“You’d do that?”
“I won’t be the one who loses.” She’s always shit-talked with extreme confidence.
Now it’s war. I open a one-minute timer on my mobile.
“Bring it on, babe,” I say nonchalantly as the countdown begins.
Fire flares in her eyes. “I’m not your babe.”
Ignoring her outrage, I start the timer and we’re off. I’m stamping three letters at a time when she pulls the ink pad out from under them.
“Cheat!” I reach for it, but she passes it to her other hand and playfully holds it out of my reach. Of course, I could just stand up and take it, but where’s the fun in that? “Give that back right now.”
“Not a chance.” She starts furiously stamping.
I grab her by the wrist and her eyes dance with mischief.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she says.
I lunge for the supplies.
“Get”—she stamps my arm with a letter L —“off.”
Now it’s on. I snatch the ink pad and press a big gold blob to her arm as she bats me away with shrieking laughter. She presses the stamp into my forehead just as the timer interrupts the playful tension. Sixty seconds went by far too quickly.
Lo’s eyes widen, as if she’s just realized how easy it was to sink into that familiar comfort. As if she’d momentarily forgotten the past. She pulls away and turns off the phone’s beeping timer.
I’d finished one favor and got three-quarters of the way through another. Lo got two and a half done.
“Okay, you got me.” My chair makes a honking noise as I scoot closer. “Get your kicks.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I assumed she’d relish the opportunity to brand me a loser, but Cielo hesitantly taps the wooden stamp.
“Get on with it, then,” I dare her, voice soft.
“You asked for it, pretty boy.” Amusement fades into an intense expression. Scrunching her nose, Lo presses each letter into the ink, then onto my skin. L-O-S-E-R .
“You’re taking this more seriously than the favors,” I mutter to break the tension.
She snaps the ink pad closed but doesn’t lean back to appreciate her work. She stays in my personal space, breathing in the same air as she stares at my marked forehead, then lingers on my mouth. After a moment, her gaze drops back to the ink pad.
“Um, Aidan? This doesn’t say ‘washable.’ It says ‘highly pigmented, artist-grade permanent ink.’?”
“Very funny.”
She holds the ink pad up, her face equal parts chagrin and glee. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
The last thing I hear is her cackle as I race to the bathroom. To hear that mirth in her voice, even directed at me—it was worth it.