Saoirse
I let out a low breath. The first I’ve taken since the animal appeared.
Then I roll over and lay on my back in the grass, face aimed toward the sky.
Cillian does the same. His hand lays right next to mine, but I resist the urge to take it.
“That was amazing,” I murmur without looking at him. “Thanks for showing me.”
“Of course.”
His head turns to me. I feel his eyes graze along the side of my face. But I can’t bring myself to look at him.
The vulnerability from earlier has resurfaced. With the hike and the stag behind us, there’s nothing to distract from the fact that we’re completely alone now.
Still clutching onto secrets we’re too scared to share.
“He was born the same year I was,” Cillian tells me. “The stag, I mean. It caused quite a stir. The first albino deer in generations. The locals named him Hail. A little on the nose, but I suppose it has a certain majesty about it.”
“Hail,” I mouth. “I like it.”
“The locals here like to believe that Hail is special. A protector of sorts that takes care of these parts.”
“Why do they think that?”
“Well, the normal lifespan of a deer is around sixteen to twenty years,” he explains. “And Hail…”
“Has lived over thirty,” I finish with awe.
Cillian smiles. “People need something to believe in,” he says. “It’s more likely that the stag we just saw isn’t Hail at all. Just his son. Or maybe a different stag that some local jackass spray-painted white.”
“That would be the logical explanation,” I agree. “But logical explanations aren’t the most romantic.”
“No,” Cillian agrees. “So the locals call him Hail. I do, too.”
I let my head loll to the side to look at him. Our eyes meet up and I feel that strange connection between us bend and flex, as though it’s not sure how to configure itself in this space.
“Hail it is, then,” I whisper.
There’s something about the way we’re lying. About the angle our necks are turned towards one another.
It makes Cillian look younger. A lot more like the man I met all those years ago.
I feel tears prick at my eyes and I know I need to stop looking at him. Right now.
I pull myself up into a sitting position, but my name falls from his lips almost immediately.
“Saoirse, wait.”
I don’t look at him as I get to my feet.
“Please.”
I stop short. Damn him.
But I still don’t turn around. I’m not in control right now and I don’t want him to see just how vulnerable I am. How vulnerable I’ve always been to him.
He seems to sense this, because he doesn’t force me to look at him. He just stands there, a few feet behind me. Waiting.