“Yeah. Delirium. Seeing you again, it was… I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
I laugh scornfully. “You can say all the rubbish you want. I know you’re glad to see me.”
She stares at me in shock.
Then she sighs and relents. “I… Cillian… of course it’s good to see you,” she says softly.
The friction is the air between us seems to calm a little. Saoirse takes a deep breath. Her shoulders relax forward as she hugs herself a little tighter despite the warmth coming from the fire.
“So, what have you been up to the last thirteen years?” I ask casually.
“That’s a loaded question.”
“You gonna answer it, or just avoid me the whole night?”
“How successful do you think I’d be if I chose the latter?” she asks.
I smile thinly. “Not very.”
She nods. “As expected.”
“You want a different question?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to your smile, Saoirse?”
The question takes her off-guard. So much so that she actually looks me full in the face, right in the eye.
And I can see part of the story.
I see the hurt and pain and sadness that’s swallowed up her twenties. I see how hope and excitement and love and laughter have faded into the background of her life.
“Has it been that bad?” I murmur.
The tears are back, swimming across her eyes even as she tries to push them back.
“It hasn’t been easy,” she says quietly.
“I was sure when you insisted on staying that it was for something better.”
Saoirse shakes her head. “I had to stay—”
“For your father?” I interrupt.
“It was more than a matter of his health. It was more than about who would look after him,” she explains. “I was worried for his life.”
I sit and wait for her to continue.
“Tristan Rearden,” she says.
The way she says his name makes me dislike the fucker immediately.
“He is…?”
“My husband.”
“Ah. I knew I didn’t like him.”