“You’re improving,” she teases.
“I’m motivated. Can’t have my wife thinking I’m useless in the kitchen.”
We eat and talk more. I want to know everything about her—books she loves, places she’s never been but wants to see, small dreams she’s kept tucked away.
She shares them all, and I listen like every word is scripture.
“Why do you love me?” she asks later, on the couch.
The question stops me. “Because you’re you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I consider it. Really consider it.
“You’re kind. Even after everything that’s been done to you, you’re still kind. You see the good in people. You make me want to be better.”
“I’m nothing special.”
“You’re everything special.”
How do I explain to her that I’ve never met a woman like her before? One who isn’t angling for something—money, power, prestige. She’s a breath of fresh air, and with every inhale, I only crave her more.
I kiss her to stop her protest. The kiss deepens, and I lay her back on the couch.
Nora
Sunday morning arrives too soon. Our last full day.
I wake with dread pooling in my stomach. It’s ending. Tomorrow we go back.
But I push it away. We have today.
Lazy morning—breakfast in bed, making love, talking. Cillian traces patterns on my skin.
“I don’t want to go back.”
I look at him. “Me neither.”
“We could stay. Not go back.”
He’s half-joking, but half-serious.
“You have responsibilities.”
“Screw my responsibilities.”
I laugh, and he grins at the sound.
We spend the day doing nothing. Reading, napping, walking the beach again. It’s perfect.
This is what it could be like.
I allow myself to hope. Maybe we can make it work. Maybe I can be enough.
Late afternoon, he turns his phone on, and it immediately rings. He ignores it.
It rings again.
