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I don’t want to make you fall.

I grew up being told that falling is a part of skating. I’m sure we’ll teach Caitlin the same when she starts riding lessons, soon. But this kind of falling has always scared me.

No one told me how good falling could feel when you’re holding on to the right person.

27

Killian

Ronan

Any ideas when you might be coming home? Or when you’re going to talk to Mom?

I made a mistake. Bringing my laptop to the diner to work while Caitlin’s at school, James is at pre-school, and Scarlett is working seemed like a good idea until I realized how hard it would be to focus on my screen while Scarlett is walking around, doing her thing.

My to-do list is staring at me, but I’m too busy staring at Scarlett as she refills the coffee cups at a table full of older men playing chess, laughing at whatever they’re saying, lighting the whole place up like sunshine. But this is a problem I’m happy to have.

Thankfully, I got the bulk of my work work done this morning, before the kids woke up. The last thing on my list is to send the email I’ve been procrastinating sending to my boss. It’s written; all I have to do is add a subject line and hit send.

I’m not sure what exactly is stopping me. Guilt, probably—the same thing that’s stopped me from answering my siblings’ messages or picking up the phone to speak to my mom for the past week. I came here for them, to do what I could to stop my dad from shirking his responsibility to them. Officially, anyway. Was there a part of me that just wanted confirmation that he was the asshole I thought he was? Maybe. I got a lot more than I bargained for in that department. And then I just … stayed. And shirked my responsibility to them. Granted, I initially stayed because I had eight years of responsibility to make up to Scarlett and the kids, but responsibility isn’t what drove me to write the email on my screen.

Coming here, finding out the truth, falling for Scarlett—it all has the capacity to tear my family apart. How am I supposed to talk to them when I don’t regret any of it? Maybe my family needs to be torn apart so we can rebuild into something better, something more honest. But that’s easy for me to say when I’m here, enjoying every second of my time with Scarlett and the kids.

There’s also a part of me that wants to protect them from my family. It’s not fair of me, and it’s wholly unnecessary—I know they’re going to embrace Scarlett and the kids once they get over the shock of them existing—but I can’t help but want to shield them from anything and everything.

It’s too soon for me to feel as strongly as I do, too soon for me to be thinking of uprooting my life, but it doesn’t feel like uprooting. It feels like the opposite.

And sure, an email is just an email, but it feels like a big step. A step I want to take.

I peer over my laptop as Scarlett exits the kitchen with a plate of pancakes in one hand, and a sandwich in the other. Her eyes meet mine, she smiles, and the doubt, the guilt, the worry all get a little quieter.

Looking back at my laptop, I take a deep breath and type the subject line:

Relocation Request: Vancouver Office

I hit send before I lose my nerve, and close my email on the non-existent chance my boss happens to respond immediately. Having offices in so many places across the globe and the opportunity to transfer between them is a benefit the company talks about from day one, but not one I’ve ever shown any interest in until now. Why would I have? My uncle owns the company, and several of my family members, Ronan included, are based out of the Dublin head office, though we all work remotely. Thankfully, Uncle John is pretty hands-off these days—I’m not sure I’d like to explain to him why I’m trying to move halfway across the world before my mom even knows, especially when I have no idea when or if they’ll approve my request.

Sending the email is a weight off my shoulders until I remember the next thing on my to-do list. My dad has used the same log-in and password for everything for as long as I remember—bold, considering his extracurricular activities—and I’ve helped him with work stuff enough to make logging into his company portal much easier than it should be. They really should review their security protocols.

My dad told Scarlett he worked at sea, which makes a little sense, given he’s an energy consultant with a focus on hydropower. They also have offices and power stations all over the world, but their Canadian stations are on the coast, so I’m still not sure why he was in Edmonton the day he met Scarlett. Right now, though, I’m more interested in their New York office.

I click through his portal until I find the company directory, and filter by office before searching: Sally. The screen idles for a second before she pops up. I assume it’s her, anyway, since she’s the only search result.

Sally Lawrence, HR Manager. Her company profile is vague, but her staff picture tells me she’s closer to my dad’s age than Scarlett’s—thank god. I open a new tab, log into Facebook, and search her name. She’s the third search result, and her profile is wide open. Which is how I see her most recent post, my stomach twisting.

Happy 25th wedding anniversary to my amazing hubby, Frank! Here’s to 25 more!

It’s good to know my dad has no respect for other people’s marriages either, I suppose.

Scarlett drops into the seat opposite me, pulling her apron over her head, and slides a latte—maple, if the smell is anything to go by—across the table toward me.

“Thanks, love.”

“Anytime. How’s work going? Sell lots of … bulldozers?” She frowns. “You know, I don’t think I understand what construction sales actually are.”

I snort. It’s amazing how quickly her presence lifts my mood. “I mostly oversee client accounts and liaise with different departments to make sure the clients have the materials, equipment, and everything else they need for a project. Including bulldozers, yeah.”

“Huh. Can you drive one?”