Page 74 of Faithless Vows

Grandmam and Grandda are sitting across from one another at the kitchen table. I set the basket down by my feet and bend to work my boots free, the soles wet with mud and the last of the melting snow. “Aunt Maeve sent enough to feed half the parish,” I say, carrying the basket to the counter once my boots are off. “There’s tea cakes for after supper, a bit of soda bread, and the pie tin she said she’s been meaning to send back for a week.” I start unpacking it all, still talking as I set each thing on the counter. “Oh, and raisins. She said to tell you those are for the ones she borrowed, though I don’t think anyone was keeping count.”

It’s only then I realize neither of them has said a word. I turn from the counter, wiping my damp hands on my skirt, and find them staring at each other across the table. Grandmam’s hands are wrapped tight around her teacup, her eyes fixed on Grandda, while he looks back at her with a face so serious it makes my stomach drop. I move closer to the table and notice the small parcel lying between them. “What is it?”

Grandda reaches for it, but Grandmam’s hand comes down over the box first, and she gives him a sharp look. “Maura,” he says, low. For a moment, neither of them moves. Then Grandmam reluctantly lifts her hand, and Grandda picks up the box, holding it out to me. “A package came for you today, Alannah girl,” he says.

Grandmam looks up at me, the skin around her eyes tight, her mouth barely moving around the words. “From Boston.”

For one foolish second, my mind goes to Mam and Da. It shouldn’t. They haven’t written once since I left Boston. But the thought is there anyway as I pull out the chair between them and sit. When I reach for the box, I realize my fingers are twisted tight in my skirt, and I have to untangle them before I can take it from him. Then I look down at the label.

Ronin Byrne.

Beneath his name is the address of the house we bought together. Our house.

I turn the box over in my hands, still looking it over. It’s small, no bigger than one of Mam’s Yardley soap boxes, and so light it almost feels empty.

“You needn’t open it if you don’t want to, pet.” Grandmam’s voice pulls my eyes from the box. She holds her hands out toward it, close enough to take it if I let her. “That lad has hurt you enough.”

I look back down at the box. “Thank you, Grandmam,” I murmur, but I don’t hand it over. If anything, my fingers tighten around the edges. I don’t know what’s inside or why he would have sent me anything, but I know I need to see what it is.

I lift my eyes to Grandda. “Is it all right if I go up to my room for a bit?”

Grandmam makes a small sound low in her throat, but I keep my attention on Grandda. He shoots her a look, then turns back to me, his expression softening. “Of course, Alannah girl,” he says. “Take all the time you need.”

Upstairs, I close the door behind me, but instead of sitting on the bed, I move around to the far side of it and sink down onto the floor, my back against the frame and the box held between my knees. After peeling away the brown paper, I lift the lid and stare down at the whitetissue paper inside. Tucked on top is a folded square of paper.

I stare at the folded paper, afraid to touch it and more afraid not to. When Ronin came all the way to Ireland saying he wanted to talk to me, some foolish part of me had still been waiting for something. An explanation. A reason. Words that might help me understand how the man I loved had turned into someone I barely recognized.

He had tried, eventually. He apologized. Tried to explain. Told me he loved me, even while he was still destroying what was left between us.

But it was too late. By then Finn was already bleeding in the snow, and Ronin had dragged me away from my grandparents’ house, trying to force me back to Boston with him. All those words he finally found… they came too late.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I close my fingers around the folded paper and open it.

Alannah,

My mam once told me about an old Irish tradition called a parting coin. Two people split it when they’re separated, and each keeps half. The idea is that it’s only whole when they’re together.

I don’t have a coin to send you.

What I have is half of the Celtic knot you chose for me. My ring, which would still be whole if I’d been the man you deserved.

I keep hearing your words from the day you chose it. No beginning. No end. Our lives woven together, you said, so one thread couldn’t be pulled without the other following. I didn’t understand then. Not the way I should have. But I do now, because even with everything broken between us, I still feel tied to you.

But I ruined what it was meant to stand for long before it ended up in two pieces.

When I went to Ireland, I told myself I was going there to fix everything. To fix us. I thought if I found the right words, if I gave you whatever you wanted, I could make up for what I’d broken and bring you home. Then you asked me about the other women, and with everyanswer I gave you, I saw that same look on your face. The one from our reception. The hurt and the heartbreak I’d put there the first time. You deserved the truth. Every ugly part of it. But the more I told you, the more I had to watch what it was doing to you, and I couldn’t handle it. So I panicked. I got angry because I was ashamed, and I took it out on you again.

I’m not telling you this so you’ll excuse it. There is no excuse for what I did. I owed you the truth long before that day in the shed. Before the church. Before the vows. Before you ever put that ring on my hand. You should have known exactly who you were binding yourself to. I let you stand beside me and promise yourself to me while I was still carrying things you had every right to know.

I’m sorry for so many things, Alannah. I’m sorry for the other women. I’m sorry for the lies. I’m sorry I hurt you when all I should have done was love and protect you. Most of all, I’m sorry I destroyed our future.

When I signed the annulment papers, it was the only decent thing left for me to do. Not because I wanted to let you go. I need you to know that. If wanting were enough, I would have fought for us until there was nothing left of me. But wanting you never gave me the right to keep hurting you.

So I signed. Because you asked me to. Because it was your choice. Because setting you free was the only way I had left to love you without taking anything more from you.

I’m sending you half of my ring because I need you to have it. What you do with it is completely up to you. Keep it. Throw it into the sea. Put it away somewhere you never have to look at it again. I have no right to ask anything ofyou, and I won’t. I just couldn’t keep both halves when one of them belongs with you.

I’m not asking you to write back or to forgive me. I only wanted to give you the truth you deserved and tell you I’m sorry.