“I’m not sure.”
Quinn opens his eyes slowly. “Barely.” He rubs his face, sits, and then leans against Rory’s shoulder. “Still tired.”
“Should you go to bed?” Rory asks.
“Probably.” He tries to stand but collapses before he gets fully upright.
Rory catches him. “Let me help you.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Rory loops Quinn’s arm over his shoulders and then holds his hand to keep him there. “Stay put,” he says to me. “I won’t be long.”
I stroke the base of my thumb as I wait for Rory to return. My thoughts are a mess. Quinn’s solution seems impossibly out of reach, yet he made it sound so simple.Move here. As if I could.
I look up as Rory returns. “Is Quinn okay?”
“I don’t think he was fully awake. Stefan’s got him now. You should think about what he said.”
I laugh. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” I shake my head. “I can’t move to London, Rory.”
“Why not? They need electricians here too.”
“I know, but it’ll take me time to find a job and somewhere to live. I’ll need to give notice to my boss and landlord, and I can’t do either of those things until I have replacements lined up.”
“All right, maybe you can’t move here right now. But you could in a month or two.”
“Why does that sound like such a long time?” I stare at nothing, blinking slowly. “How much will the baby change in a week? In a month? In two months? How much will I miss out on?” I rest my elbows on my thighs, run my hands over my hair, and clasp them at my nape.
“Stay,” Rory says.
I lift my head enough to stare at him.
“Stay here until you’ve got a job and a place of your own.” There’s a desperate insistence in his voice that stirs my heart in the strangest way. “Fraser won’t mind you staying in the top room as long as you don’t mind him nipping in to get clothes from time to time. You can look for a job, a more permanent place to stay, and spend time with Niamh and the baby. You don’t have to go back to Dublin.” He sucks in a breath. “Unless you want to.”
“I—” I drop my hands and push the heels of my palms over my thighs. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. Stay.”
I press my thumb against my opposite palm hard enough to make my bones ache. “My therapist is in Dublin,” I whisper. “It took me a long time to find anyone I trust enough to talk to. I’m not sure I’ll find that again. But I still need help. I might always need help.” I tap my foot.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I need a drink. A tumbler of whiskey would go down a treat right now.”
I can practically taste the sweet, amber liquid as I lick my lips. I close my eyes and shake my head. Drinking isn’t the answer, but the fact that my thoughts turned to that proves I’m still on a knife edge. I’m also too tired and emotional to make life-changing decisions, but with the clock ticking, I might not have the luxury of taking my time.
“Could you arrange remote sessions with your therapist?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“At least ask.”
I nod. “I will.” I check my watch. “In a few hours.”
“After some sleep?”
I chuckle. “Aye. After some sleep.”
