Finally, he stops and turns. “Yeah?”
The mirth is gone from his eyes. He’s the O’Sullivan don right now.
Cold. Decisive. Violent.
I shake my head. I’m too flustered to hide the fear in my eyes.
He reads my face for a moment and his newfound intensity seems to simmer, to recede ever-so-slightly.
He returns to me and cups my face with both his hands. His touch is ten points of heat on my skin, and it’s almost too much to bear.
“I’ll be okay,” he says, reading my thoughts. “I’ve done this before. More times than I can count. I know what I’m doing, Saoirse.”
I’m shaking like a leaf. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
He smiles sadly. “It’s gonna have to do for now,” he whispers. “You know I have to go.”
“I don’t care if you go,” I tell him. “I just want you to come back.”
Am I giving myself away with those words? I can barely tell up from down anymore.
But before I have a chance to find out, Cillian’s lips come down on mine.
I’ve spent thirteen years dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him again. No dream or fantasy came anywhere close to the lived reality of this.
His lips are soft and insistent. But there’s urgency in the kiss that’s new and frightening, even as the notes of familiarity amidst all the exciting newness have my head spinning.
My lips part ever so slightly. His do, too.
There’s only a tiny moment, a second of freefall, when our tongues meet and it feels like we’ll never break apart.
Until we do.
I don’t even know who breaks the kiss. All I know is that suddenly, I’m looking at his gorgeous eyes again and he’s looking at me with the regretful expression of a man who’s about to make an excuse he knows I don’t want to hear.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I can’t get distracted again. But I’ll come back, Saoirse. I’ll come back for you.”
And then he leaves.
I stand there with my fingers tingling and my heart thudding painfully against my chest.
Why am I always the one left standing there while he walks away?
Why am I always the one left grasping at thin air where he is supposed to be?
At first, I think it’s sadness I feel. The same longing I felt as he walked away down that hospital hallway thirteen years ago.
Then I realize, No, it’s not sadness.
It’s anger.
It takes me several more minutes to process what that means. To understand what I intend to do about it.
But when I finally do, when the last puzzle piece clicks into place…
My determination becomes razor sharp.
This time, I’m not staying behind.