“I would have,” he snarls, his expression hardening at the mere suggestion that regret is a reasonable emotion for him to feel. “It was the right thing to do, Saoirse. And not just because I loved you.”
Loved.
The word jumps out at me as though he’s screamed it.
First, I’m floored that he’s admitted to having ever loved me at all.
But then my joy simmers…
Loved.
Past tense.
Which is completely understandable. Even if we hadn’t parted the way we had, it has been thirteen years. No one can blame him for moving on. Least of all me.
And still, it feels like a dagger’s been lodged between my ribs.
“Did I ever thank you?” I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “For giving up your entire life for me?”
“There’s no need to thank me,” he sighs. “I didn’t do it for the gratitude.”
The funny thing is… I believe him.
He looks so fucking beautiful sitting next to me. Even shrouded in shadow and half-light, the brightness of his hair and eyes can’t be cowed.
“That’s new for me.”
“What is?”
“People doing nice things for me just because,” I explain. “Every man who has ever helped me has expected something in return. And that includes my father.”
“How is old Padraig?” Cillian asks.
“I think this is the longest I’ve gone without thinking about him,” I admit. “And I feel horrible for saying this out loud, but it’s been kinda great.”
Cillian smiles empathetically. “Yeah?”
“Ever since my mother died, I’ve been his caretaker. I’ve had to look after him. To fight off all the creditors that showed up on our doorstep demanding their money. To pry the bottle from his hands night after night. I’ve defended him through it all.”
He keeps looking at me. Saying nothing. Just inviting me with those honest eyes to confess things I’ve never confessed before.
“And yet,” I continue, “every time I had a fight with Tristan, he’d tell me to stay quiet. ‘Don’t fight back. Let Tristan have his way.’” I scoff, but it’s more bitter than haughty. Laced with sadness I’ve carried for a decade. “Even in the small things, it’s like he’s scared to take my side.”
Cillian’s voice cracks out like a whip. “He doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.”
I shake my head. “The irony is that I love him anyway. Love is like a drug in that way. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
“It’s that much harder when it comes to parents,” Cillian says. “I know. I’ve got my own father issues.” He gestures to his own gravestone. “As you can see.”
It’s my turn to smile sadly. “I’m sorry.”
Cillian shrugs. “Don’t be,” he says. “Da being who he is made me who I am. I used to think I had nothing in common with him. Counted myself lucky.”
He pauses and strokes the cat behind the ears.
“But lately,” he murmurs, “I’m realizing I’m more like him than I thought. It’s not as bad as I always feared, either.”
“No?”