Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aidan
The cursor hovers over the Upload button. For what feels like the thousandth time this month, I make sure all the photographs are there, all edited properly and all in the correct order.
Someone knocks at my door, and I minimize the window as Cara enters the house.
“Danny, I’ve brought us dinner!” she calls. I catch the sound of paper bags rustling, and the scent of rosemary and roast chicken lures me straight to the kitchen.
“No Yaz?”
“Not tonight. Has to work late but sends her love.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Ah, come on.” Cara hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. “Your mind’s on leftovers and nothing more. Can’t fool me.”
I pop one of the roasted potatoes in my mouth with a mischievous grin. We set the table, and as Cara scoops out food onto my plate, I salivate. I spent the whole day editing photos, so I forgot to eat lunch and I’m ravenous.
“Send in a response yet?”
“No,” I reply.
Last week, I received my acceptance back into university. They want me. If I accept, I’ll enroll in classes for the spring semester.
“You at least tell your folks?”
“They’re glad.” I spear some greens with a fork and pop them in my mouth, satisfied. “Said they support it.”
“Your own mam fired you, so I’d hope so. I’m sure she’s pleased that it wasn’t for nothing.”
“Christ,” I say. “That’s harsh.”
Being unceremoniously let go from the pub unlocked something for me. For ages, I’d been the youngest McCarthy—Michael’s younger brother, Noah and Sarah’s son, the presumed future owner. Now I’m just a man who stops in for a drink. The resentment has dissipated, and the expectations have been lifted from my shoulders. The pub still reminds me of my brother, and it always will, but the memories are more joyful now.
“Submitted work anywhere?” Cara asks.
“Soon.”
Not clocking in at the pub means I’ve had more time to plan shots and loads more time to edit. Not that I’ve done anything with all those photos yet. While I’ve found some publications open to working with freelance photographers around the world, I freeze when I sit down to upload a sample of my work. I’ve gone through the motions countless times, but I never hit that last button.
“How’s married life?” I ask, hoping to deflect the attention her way.
“Paradise,” Cara says with a blush. “Celebrating one month today.”
“I forgot. Congrats.”
“I don’t expect anyone to remember except Yaz.”
“Still, a month.”
“I know,” she says, pouting. “The wedding already feels like ages ago.” She grabs my empty plate, and I follow her to the sink so we can clean up. “Have you given any thought to New York?”
My whole body stiffens. Cara hopes I’ll join her and the O’Sheas for their New Year’s trip—a New Year’s trip to visit June. Cara doesn’t know I’ve got a much sooner trip purchased that I’m agonizing over, unsure whether I should cancel the flight altogether or…what? Show up at June’s in some grand romantic gesture?
The plane takes off tomorrow.
“I won’t join. I shouldn’t.”
“Who says? Besides, that’s not what matters.” Cara playfully bumps me with her hip. “What matters is if you want to.”
Want to? My heart says yes, of course I want to see June. I can’t get her out of my head. Her laugh, her scent, her touch—all of her has stayed with me. One of the reasons I’ve added so many new photos to my portfolio is because I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I don’t keep busy. Cara’s continued messaging her, daily, I think, and I’ve thought of asking a million times how June’s doing. The temptation to text her, call her, or hop on that plane in twenty-four hours—I can hardly fight it.
My head, though…my head tells me no.
“I admire that you’ve moved past what she did. I do. Even if I might like to see her, she wouldn’t care. It’s been weeks. What we had is done.”
“But you want to?”
I furiously scrub a bowl clean, ignoring my best friend’s question.
“Did you read her piece?”
“I don’t want to—”
“Christ, you’re impossible.” Cara sets a dish on the dish rack and turns toward me, scowling. “She made a mistake. June didn’t tell you or me or anyone because she liked us too much. There are worse reasons.”
I focus on the dirty dishes, keeping Cara’s reasoning at bay.
“You’re being an eejit,” she goes on.
“I know!” I exclaim, accidentally dropping a bowl in the sink. “Christ, I know.” I rub my forehead with the back of my wrist, and Cara places a hand on my back. “I’ve spent the past month waking up every day wondering why I’m like this. And with each day that goes by, she’s forgotten about me more. But what I want, I can’t have. She said so herself—she doesn’t do long-term stuff. And what I want with her…” I pick up the broken ceramic pieces and chuck them into the bin. “Going to her and making up so we can be just friends…see each other on holidays, or send the occasional text. I can’t handle that.”
“Danny.” Cara snatches one last dish and rubs it dry. “I don’t think she wants to be just friends.”
Cara shows me her mobile, displaying an article in The New York Times . An article written by June.
“She did this for their Modern Love section. Would you read it?”
I take in a big breath, aware that these words could eviscerate me.
After a lifetime of loveless family and loveless relationships, I discovered love of more than one kind in a matter of only two weeks.
And then I lost it.
Luckily, I found that some love can be broken and put back together, piece by piece. Unluckily, once some other love shatters, it may lie on the ground of your memory forever, with no chance of repair.
June’s writing stuns me. She’s far better than that shite website ever gave her credit for. As I read about her experience, her words grip me tight and won’t let go. They’re vulnerable and they’re heartbreaking. Even though I’m already plagued with indecision about whether to cancel my flight, this article has made the choice even harder.
I continue through her piece as she details what happened, but she focuses on what’s happened since then too. She’s going to therapy. She’s experimenting with mindfulness—meditation just stressed her out, but she’s enjoying yoga. She’s getting to know folks in her building and reminding herself of what it’s like to build trust in a healthy way with new people.
I’m an incredibly imperfect person. I convinced myself I didn’t want any kind of love, but once I got a little of it, I wanted it all and lost sight of the very concept of it. So I’m learning how to have compassion for the wounded woman who went to Ireland with her defenses up, as misguided as she was. She’s left me with a lot to process and a lot to miss.
What I did was wrong in so many ways and to so many people. To be given a second chance at sisterhood is one I want to deserve, and I’m doing my best to earn it, every day. I will carry that love with me the rest of my life.
And as for the man whose trust I betrayed beyond repair, I fear I’ll never see him again. The thought hurts in a way I never realized was possible. But the love he gave me—I’ll carry that for the rest of my life too.
I read the entire piece three more times, overwhelmed by the rawness and realness of it. My chest swells with pride because she had grand dreams of writing for more prestigious places, and she got one of the most prestigious of them all. As I hand the mobile back to Cara, that frustration and fury over what June did has washed away, and something else has taken its place.
Fear. Because what if I’m too late?
“What June wrote—that’s not the way someone writes when they want to text now and then. ‘The love he gave me’? And you’re mad about her still. I can tell.”
I lift a brow in her direction, not willing to verbally deny what she’s said.
“Whenever my phone buzzes, you look over my shoulder to see who’s texting. Which is rude, by the way.” She shakes her finger at me in fake fury. “You haven’t touched the guest bedroom, not even made the bed, since she left, probably because the sheets still smell like her. It’s disgusting. And when I mention June, no matter how hard you try to look all angry and upset like you’ll never forgive her, there’s this light in your eyes. This kind of hope.” Cara rests her hands on my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake. “You might be fooling yourself, but you’re not fooling me.”