CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Meredith? Hey, Sunshine, wake up.”
For some reason there are tiny building blocks wedged under my cheek. My eyes fly open and I’m greeted by black plastic. My computer keyboard? What the—
I bolt upright, my head smacking into something solid behind me. The ‘something’ makes a grunting sound, followed by a quiet, “Ow.”
“Ow,” I echo, rubbing the back of my head.
Kieran moves into sight and kneels beside my chair. “You fell asleep at your desk again.”
I glance at my black computer screen. The first time this happened I thought I’d killed my computer with some weird combination of buttons pushed by my face while I was asleep. Turns out I’d managed to hit the Sleep button and my nosedive onto the keyboard only resulted in a few odd letters in the document I’d been working on.
“Come to bed,” Kieran says, straightening to his full height.
“Oh, but I should—”
“Come to bed, Meredith,” he says more firmly. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt with a worn logo for some pub in Dublin. His hair is mussed, telling me he must have fallen asleep waiting for me. Again. He’s been sleeping over a few nights a week since late evenings are one of the few times we’re both free and can squeeze in a few hours together.
My bleary eyes return to the blank computer screen. I heard from my friend Fiona in London again a week or so ago. She asked me one more time if I’d reconsider coming to work with her. When I said I couldn’t, she offered me something else: a paid position writing travel pieces.
“I was browsing travel articles the other day, and imagine my surprise when I noticed a post about Scotland had a byline by a certain fellow Canadian I met once upon a time,” she’d said, a smile evident in her voice. She went on to tell me On the Go Adventures is looking for seasoned travel writers to contribute to their blog. She told me she’d shown some of my articles to one of her bosses and they asked her to contact me. The pay is enough that I no longer have to hold my breath, cross my fingers, and hope sites will accept my freelance articles.
“Come on, Sunshine,” Kieran says, gently gripping my arm and helping me to my feet. “Time to get off that merry-go-round and get some sleep.”
After my meeting with Ivy week before last, I told Kieran about my personal analogy of feeling like I was on a merry-go-round and Ivy’s analogy of rowing a boat with help from others. I also confessed I still hadn’t told my friends what a difficult time I’ve been having coming to grips with my mom’s illness. Kieran urged me to confide in them; he’s right, of course, but actually working up the courage and finding the time to do it is another story.
As if on cue, Kieran asks, “Have you talked to Ivy yet? Or Hugh?” The four of us went out for dinner together last week, and my friends loved Kieran as much as I knew they would. The feeling was mutual, and apparently Kieran and Hugh have even made plans to hike together in a few weeks.
I groan and stumble toward the bed, flinging myself face down.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Kieran,” I whine. I just want to go back to sleep. In my bed this time, with my head on his chest instead of plastered to hard plastic.
“Aye, I know, I’m a terrible boyfriend for suggesting you talk to your two best friends about the things weighing on your soul.” The bed dips as he sits on the edge. A moment later, he flops back and I raise my head to peek at him. His arms are open and his eyebrows are high on his forehead. With a sigh, I scoot toward him and settle myself against his chest.
“You’re thebestboyfriend,” I tell him, my voice thick with sleep.
“Mm, I know. And that’s why I’ll say again I think you should talk to them. Not only is Hugh your friend, he’s a trained psychologist. I’m sure he could help you in a lot of ways. And…”
“And what?”
His breath ruffles the hair on top of my head. “And they’ve both lost their parents. They know what you’re going through.”
I must be getting used to talking about this with him because his words don’t make sadness wash over me. There’s a little niggling in my mind and a pinch in my heart, but it’s not all consuming like it was when we first started talking about my mom.
“It’s not good to keep it all bottled up, Meredith,” Kieran says softly, pressing his warm lips to my forehead.
“I’m not anymore, though. I have you.” The man is a saint. We were together for all of five minutes before I dumped my whole life story on him, and I’ve shed more tears in front of him than I have in front of anyone else in my entire life. He’s so patient and understanding, sometimes I half wonder if all of this—reuniting with him, being with him—is a beautiful dream.
“You do, and I willalwaysbe here to listen to you. But you need your friends too.” His arms tighten around me. “And I know what you’re going to say next: you don’t want to burden them. You’re never a burden to true friends, though. Ivy and Hugh wouldwantto be there for you. You know that, yeah?”
“Yeah.” With a gusty sigh, I bury my face in Kieran’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of fabric softener. Tonight’s exciting date included him doing laundry at my place rather than at the laundromat downtown. At least here we could also eat dinner and drink beer.
“Once again, with a little more feeling this time.” He digs his fingers into my side and I squeal, wriggling away from him.
“Yes!” I laugh breathlessly. Between the squealing and my yelled affirmative, I’m grateful Celia’s room is at the opposite end of the hall. “You’re right, okay? You don’t have to be so damn smug about it.”
