And the reality is that Cillian’s a different man now. I’m a different woman.
We’ve both got baggage. We’ve both held onto a shared memory for over a decade.
But things are different now.
And I’ve just got to accept that.
“Saoirse?” Cillian’s voice is muffled on the other side of the thick door that separates us. “Everything okay?”
He sounds so calm.
No, that’s the wrong word.
Unaffected.
That’s the right one.
I bite down on my bottom lip and will myself into a state of composure before I reply, “Sorry! I’ll be right out.”
I’m proud of the fact that my voice doesn’t shake when I speaks.
I get up and exchange the dress for a pair of high-rise jeans and a light, long-sleeved white sweater. I keep my hair loose. I tell myself it’s because I like it that way.
But the real reason is because I know Cillian likes it that way.
I check my reflection in the mirror before I leave the room. The puffiness in my eyes lingers slightly, but hopefully, it’s subtle enough that he won’t notice.
I splash some cold water onto my face for good measure and head out of the room.
Cillian is standing there waiting for me. He’s changed clothes, too. He’s wearing dark boots, dark jeans, and a henley shirt in a muted, earthy brown that brings out the sunshine brightness of his blond hair.
He looks like he’s stepped out of a portrait himself.
“So what do you wanna show me?” I ask, to distract from the fact that he’s got his intense eyes right on me.
“You’ll see,” he says evasively as he leads me down the broad corridor.
Given that we never actually made it past the first room, much less an entire tour of the castle, I look around with awed eyes.
As castles go, it’s relatively small. It’s also surprisingly homey.
That being said, it still reeks of luxury and wealth.
The furniture has the authentic patina of stuff older than the country it’s in. Lovely little details carved into the woodwork in the armchair feet. Intricate stitchwork softened throughout the centuries.
The walls are made of ancient, massive blocks of rough-hewn stone. They’ve shifted colors over the years. Some bleached by the sun, others stained by the shadows.
It’s a far cry from the O’Sullivan Manor. That place was a galaxy of glass and marble, of smoothly undulating curves and crisp details.
Here, even the light has a different kind of quality to it. It’s older. Gentler. Subtler.
We walk for a long time, but I’m not really aware of how long it takes us to get from the third story to the ground floor. I’m too busy gazing at everything I can find.
When we get to the studded double doors, I almost crash into Cillian because I’m looking up at a panel of stained glass up in the wall above me.
“You okay?”
“Sorry,” I mumble self-consciously, stepping back to put as much distance between us as possible. “This place is amazing.”