I bury my face in my hands. What am I doing? A month ago, I didn't know this man existed. Now I'm in a foreign country, in his apartment, married to him, and all I can think about is how it felt when he kissed me. How much I want him to do it again.
I'm so confused. About him, about us, about what I want.
There’s less physical space between us than ever, but I’ve never felt so alone.
—
I don't sleep well.The bed is comfortable, but it's not mine. The city sounds outside are different from Boston—different accents in the voices drifting up from the street, different sirens, different rhythms. And I'm hyperaware that Sean is just down the hall, probably not sleeping either.
By morning, I'm exhausted and restless.
I find Sean in the kitchen, already dressed, coffee in hand. He looks like he didn't sleep at all.
"Morning," I say quietly.
"Morning." He gestures to the coffee pot. "Help yourself."
I pour a cup and add cream, painfully aware of the awkward silence. This shouldn't be so hard. We're married. We already live together. But every interaction feels loaded, weighted with everything we're not saying. The sudden lack of space feels palpable.
"I have to go out for a few hours," he says. "Flynn will be here soon. Don't leave without him."
I nod. "Okay."
"Maeve." He sets his mug down and looks at me. "I mean it. Don't leave. It's not safe."
"I understand."
He looks like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods and leaves.
I stand in the kitchen, listening to the door close behind him, and fight the urge to cry.
Flynn arrives an hour later with pastries and a cheerful smile. "Morning, Mrs. Flannery,” he says teasingly, exaggerating the surname. “How was your first night in Dublin?"
"Fine," I lie.
He gives me a knowing look but doesn't push. "Sean's got you on lockdown, I take it?"
"He said not to leave without you."
"Good man. Though I doubt anyone knows you're here yet." He settles at the dining table and opens the pastry box. "Come on, eat something. You look like you need it."
I sit with him and pick at a pastry, not really hungry. Flynn chatters about Dublin, pointing out the window at various landmarks I can see from here, trying to make me feel welcome. It's kind of him.
"He's not always this difficult, you know," Flynn says eventually, his tone more serious.
I look up. "What?"
"Sean. He's not usually this..." He waves a hand. "Closed off. Well, actually, he is. But not like this. This is different."
I frown. "I don't know what you mean."
Flynn laughs. "Sure you don't." He leans forward. "He cares about you, Maeve. More than he wants to. More than he knows what to do with. It scares the hell out of him."
My throat tightens. "He has a funny way of showing it, then."
"Yeah, well. Sean's not great at feelings. Never has been." Flynn's expression softens. "Give him time. And maybe don't give up on him just yet."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod and take another bite of pastry I don't taste.
