“We’ve considered it, Hannah,” he says. “Many times. We’ve considered the Quinn of it all.”
I nod. Because I know that he thinks he has. Owen and Nicholas both think they’ve considered the Quinn of it all, as he is saying. But this is why I keep coming back to Quinn. Because every time I look at Bailey in the rearview, I know what I would do. I know what I’m still doing for her.
And I know that Nicholas and Owen didn’t consider that part of this equation—because they can’t.
You can’t begin to properly consider it. It’s impossible to consider the lengths a woman will go if she thinks she’s protecting her family.
Shortly before 3 p.m., we pull off A8 at exit 44. The exit for Antibes.
We pull into the turnaround in Old Antibes—the historical district stretched out before us; the stores and restaurants busy with the afternoon crowds, the farmers’ market shutting down for the day; and a tall castle visible from its perch on the top of the hill.
A tall and quite beautiful old castle—hundreds of years old—that is now the home to Musée Picasso.
Bailey’s destination.
I turn around to face Bailey. I want to go over it with her again, everything that is going to happen now. But Bailey is looking out the window and taking in the museum, readying herself. She pulls herhair back, putting her messenger bag over her shoulder. Seth is out of the car already. He is waiting for her.
She turns toward me. “Seth won’t get too close?” she asks.
“Not unless you need him to.”
“I won’t need him to.”
“I know you won’t,” I say. Because I feel sure of that. I feel entirely sure of that, or I wouldn’t be letting her out of the car.
And still to be apart. To be apart from her when everything in my body wants to keep her near.
“Do you have any other questions?” I ask.
“Since five minutes ago?” Bailey asks. “No. I think I’m good.”
But she says it with a smile, as if convincing me she’s got this.
She watches for my reaction, eager to leave the car—asking, in a way, for my permission to do so. But then I feel her energy shift as she turns toward her grandfather.
She leans in to hug Nicholas goodbye, moving herself into the crook beneath his shoulder. Maybe it’s the whiplash of thinking she had lost him for good. But she doesn’t let go of that embrace, breathing into it, breathing into him longer than she should, her eyes getting red and foggy.
“Please be careful,” she says.
“That’s my line for you, kid,” he says.
Then he pulls back. She holds on to him for so long that he’s the one who pulls back from her.
I watch as he does. And I can see the way he starts holding his hands against his thighs, grasping his palms together a little too tightly—as if to stop himself from reaching for her again. Reaching for her and not letting go. He fights it though because he doesn’t want Bailey to see how much this goodbye is hurting him.
I get out of the car and Bailey follows suit. Her bag is on hershoulder, her eyes holding on mine. I force a smile and meet her gaze, so I can give her the reminder—so I can give us both the reminder—that it’s safer for her out of the car than in it.
It’s safer for her away from me and what I need to do here. For all of us.
I lean in to give her a quick hug—to give her that strength.
“You’ve got this…” I say.
I leave out the part I’m sure she hears.You’ve got this, even without me.
Then I let her go.
The Sirens Have a Story to Tell
