The apartment has never seemed bigger, colder, or lonelier. Every time I pass the damn Christmas tree, the desire to tear it down rises like a spring tide. It’s a perpetual reminder of Cillian, of the time we spent together, of when things were perfect. Of when the future bloomed with hope.
I spent the last two days swigging way too much champagne and pretending to my family that my heart isn't in ribbons. Thankfully they were too preoccupied with Nate, Holly, and Harriet to pay much attention.
The radio silence is killing me. The need to know if Cillian wants to at least try and work things out is eating me alive, but with each hour that passes I’m beginning to get the feeling this case is already closed.
He asked for space. If I don’t give it to him, it might push him over the edge.
Though, what’s that well-known saying? Something about setting a bird free and if it doesn’t come back, it was never yours in the first place?
If Cillian wasn't mine, why did every fibre of my body scream that he was?
We belong together, I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. I just wish he’d find the courage to give us a chance.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Panda-like rings circle my eyes. My vagina isn't the only one missing its post-orgasmic glow, my complexion is ashen. I’m going to need a crate full of concealer to get through this morning. And an even larger number of tissues.
Cillian might have asked for space, but Phoebe asked for security. I promised Cillian that whatever happened between us, I’d always be there for his daughter. It’s a promise I intend to keep, which is why I’m going to her nativity play, even though it means coming face to face with the man who has my heart and doesn’t know if he can handle it.
Because that’s what this boils down to.
He couldn't stand the heat, so he legged it out of the kitchen.
I get to work with brushes and liquids and powders until I look half human, run a brush through my unruly hair and apply my trademark Plum Passion lipstick.
I opt for a simple belted dress and boots.
Grabbing my bag, I shove in my phone and a wad of Kleenex.
A horn sounds from outside of the window, long and low. And again. And again.
Someone’s got a serious case of road rage. I put my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, scramble around for my coat, and spray on an extra couple of squirts of Chanel for good measure.
The horn continues to blare from outside.
Jesus Christ. Ballsbridge is supposed to be one of the quieter areas in the city.
I stalk towards the balcony. The morning traffic is at a complete standstill, backed up as far as the eye can see.
I blink hard.
And again.
A white convertible blocks the road below. In the driver’s seat is a white-haired man who looks suspiciously like Giles.
Cillian Callaghan is standing on the passenger seat clutching an embarrassingly large bouquet of crimson velvety roses, Richard Gere style. His face is angled up to my window, that square jawline taut with tension.
His silver eyes search upwards, those full lips moving like he’s willing me outside.
I unlock the sliding door and step out onto the frost-covered balcony. Horns continue to beep from every direction. ‘Get a move on!’ an irate driver calls.
Everyone else fades away apart from the man in front of me. The man who exudes strength and vulnerability in equal measures.
‘It’s no Cadillac limo,’ I shout down to the ground, wishing my brother had bought me any other apartment but the penthouse. Laughter bursts from my chest. I can’t believe my eyes.
My grumpy divorce lawyer boyfriend seems to be hell bent on making his very own romcom-worthy grand gesture. I’m half embarrassed, half ecstatic, and one hundred percent emotional. Thank God he’s not blasting classical music. The horn is attracting enough attention as it is.
‘You could have just called. All this is pointless just for me. Please don’t even think about attempting to scale the building!’ I shout down. ‘You already know I love you.’ Thank God Dublin’s penthouses are a fraction of a size of the ones in the movies, or else I’d have to call him to have this conversation.
‘I told you before baby, nothing is pointless “just for you”.’ He places a hand humbly over his chest. ‘You wanted fairy tales and forevers … I figured it’s only fair I deliver.’
