No.
No fucking way.
It can’t be.
I close my eyes again and turn away.
It’s not her. It can’t be. The coincidence is too insane to be real.
I spent the entire flight thinking about her. It makes sense that my mind has manifested a mirage of her to taunt me as I step foot on Irish soil.
When I look back up again, I see a redheaded woman being put into the back seat of a cop car.
She’s cuffed and rigid with tension. Her back is to me, so I can’t see her face.
She looks so much like the first and only girl I’d ever loved.
But it’s not her. No fucking chance.
Why would Saoirse be getting cuffed and thrown into a cop car like some goddamn criminal?
I swallow the burning need to move forward, to peer into the car, and catch a glimpse of her face. Mostly to prove to myself that it’s all in my head.
Instead, I turn and walk away.
* * *
The car’s waiting just outside the airport.
Kian’s already in the back seat when I slip in beside him.
I don’t recognize the driver. But then again, I’ve been gone a long time.
I do notice how he glances at me every few seconds, though. I can practically see the gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
The prodigal son returns. It’s newsworthy, I suppose.
“Home,” Kian says at the exact same time I say, “The Free Canary.”
“The Free fucking Canary?” Kian asks, looking at me as though I’ve gone completely mad. “Seriously?”
“Just a quick pit stop,” I explain. “I need a drink.”
“We have a fully stocked wine cellar and several bars all over the manor,” Kian points out. “And Ireland hasn’t run out of liquor since you left home, believe it or not.”
“Come on, kid,” I argue. “I’ve been away thirteen fucking years. Give me a chance to adjust. Before going back… there.”
The fight goes out of Kian’s eyes as he eyes me cautiously.
“Fuck,” he groans under his breath. “You asshole.”
I grin. “Atta boy.”
“We’re only staying for one drink,” Kian tells me. “That’s it.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, saluting him dramatically. “You’ve really fallen into your role, eh?”
“Bite me, wanker.”