Cillian
The moment I clear the police station, I find a cab.
I’m lucky enough that one is just parked by the roadside, waiting for its next passenger.
I tap on the window. The cabbie rolls it down.
He’s probably in his mid-forties, but he looks a lot older. The gelled combover doesn’t help. “Hey, fella.”
“You waiting for someone?” I ask.
“Nah. Hop on in.”
I clamber into the back seat. The cabbie twists in his seat to give me a cheery smile. This is the first time in a long time that returning a smile has felt like hard work for me.
“Where to, mate?” he asks.
I hesitate.
The correct answer is on the tip of my tongue, but it’s clinging on, refusing to let go.
Da’s words are fresh in my head. Don’t be a fool. Go straight to the airport.
“Mate?”
“I… I’m not sure yet,” I admit.
He raises his eyebrows. “Well, I’m gonna start the meter then.”
“Go ahead,” I mutter.
I don’t give a fuck how much this ride costs. It’s gonna be my last one in this country.
Mycountry.
My home.
The cabbie punches the meter on with a shrug. Then he picks up his phone and starts to play a game as if he’s got all the time in the world.
I guess, since I’m paying, he does.
The clicking of his thumbs against his phone is distracting.
Go straight to the airport. Those are the instructions.
But how can I leave, knowing that Saoirse is out there with no explanation?
If I disappear on her now, she’ll assume our entire night together was meaningless.
She’ll believe the worst. She’ll hate me forever.
And what’s worse—she’ll hate herself.
For believing the picture of the future, of our future, that we painted together.
For leaping when I told her I’d be there to catch her.
“Finglas neighborhood,” I tell him. “Take me there and I’ll direct you the rest of the way.”