33
Cillian
She stares at me.
Her wild red hair sprawls out across the dark grass. Her azure eyes reflect the stars hanging above us.
I keep my hand extended.
And, after a long pause, she takes it.
Her fingers slip into mine and my hand converges around hers as I pull her up into a sitting position.
At the same time, I lower myself down onto the grass next to her so that we’re face to face.
“Saoirse,” I say softly.
Saying her name is a gift to myself. I’ve intentionally kept it off my lips for the last thirteen years.
She doesn’t smile. Her expression stays stagnant. As though she’s still trying to work out how she feels about seeing me again.
It strikes me that I know next to nothing about her life. Except the fact that she’s married.
My eyes skitter down to her hands instantly. I see no ring, but there is a noticeable indent of one on her ring finger.
She pulls her hands together and tucks them in her lap as though she knows exactly what I’m looking for. Her eyes are trained on a spot in the distance. But I know she’s not interested in the landscape.
She just wants to avoid me.
“You ready to talk?” I ask.
Her eyes swing to mine as though she can’t help it.
“Talk?” she repeats. “What, so we can pick up where we left off?”
I grit my teeth together. “Whose fault might that be?”
And then, boom—there it is.The fire in those sapphire eyes.
“Don’t pretend to know me,” she snaps.
“Right back at you.”
Our knees bump together and she shifts away from me pointedly. I can’t help smiling at that. It’s funny how the years can disappear in those tiny little gestures.
The little giveaways that remind you that, deep down, people mostly stay the same.
“What are you smiling about?”
The girl I knew is still in there. She may have changed some on the outside.
Wilder hair.
Skinnier body.
A lost, haunted smile.
But underneath is the girl from the rooftop. She’s just trapped behind the years we spent apart.