“Told you I was talented.”
“You did say that,” she agrees. “Numerous times.”
“Did I mention I’m also exceptionally modest?”
Her smile gets brighter and her eyes grow softer.
I can sense that the small talk for the evening is well behind us now. Silence floods the air between us, filled with all the moments we’ve missed from each other’s lives. Little distances yearning to be closed.
“Where’d you get that scar?” I rasp quietly.
Saoirse glances down at her chest unnecessarily. She flinches a little at whatever memory I’ve pulled up.
I put my hands on my knees so that she can’t seem them clench into fists.
“It was nothing.”
“Did he do that to you?” I ask immediately.
She flinches again.
It’s the clearest answer she could have given me. But I still need to hear her say the words. Even as my fists tighten harder beneath the tablecloth.
“Saoirse.”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“How often does he hurt you?”
“Cillian…”
“How often does he hit you?” I demand, my tone losing any semblance of warmth.
She sighs and looks down at the spot on the table where her plate had been a moment ago. “Can we just… not?”
“No,” I seethe. “We’ve avoided this conversation for long enough, Saoirse. I want some fucking answers.”
“You’re acting as though I owe you an explanation,” she says almost accusingly.
“You do.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?” she lashes, her voice growing fiery. “How do you figure?”
Before I can think twice about it, I blurt, “I think I deserve to know why you chose him over me.”
Silence. Brutal, endless silence.
She leans back against her seat, her eyes turning glassy with pain.
“It wasn’t like that,” she says eventually.
I’m still fuming. “No?”
“No,” she sighs. “I chose my father.”
“That’s not what you told me.”
“Of course not!” she says with frustration. “If I’d told you the truth, you’d never have left Dublin. And staying meant risking your life. I told you what you needed to hear to get you out of the country.”