“So, where are you off to this time? Wait, let me guess; it’s Mykonos again, isn’t it? You always were fond of the old Mykonos, Mick,” I said, taking the piss and giving him a nudge with my elbow. “They’ve got some fabulous nightclubs there, I hear. Great for when Gran wants to kick back with a good book and you can head out on the tiles, eh? Meet some like-minded male company.”

Marie was starting to become embarrassed, her eyes pleading with her husband to somehow get rid of me. Other people were starting to look, and if Marie Fitzpatrick hated anything, it was a scene.

“You’re being distasteful,” said Mick. “And my wife and I would appreciate it if you left.”

I slammed my hand down on the table hard, and he full-on jumped in his seat. It was hilarious, and I was a little bit drunk on the power. I didn’t need his approval anymore. Why hadn’t I realized this years ago?

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready,” I said, voice hard, making sure he heard the threat.

“Mick, call airport security,” said Marie, all high-pitched and squeaky. “This is harassment.”

“If this were harassment,” I began, my tone quietly sinister, “you wouldn’t still be sitting comfortably in your seats. Pair of fucking cowards, the both of you. You’re so preoccupied with what other people think that you’ve lived empty, lonely lives, and you’ve missed out on knowing your grandchildren. It’s your loss. Do you hear that? You lost.”

Mick had his phone out of his pocket now, fumbling to search for the number to the airport’s security department. I laughed and loudly pushed my chair back. “Relax—your scumbag grandson is leaving now, so you can go back to arguing and silently hating one another. I used to hate you. Now I just pity you.”

And with those parting words, I went.

I still had no clue what I was going to do when I got to New York. I had no clue what I was going to say to Annie when I saw her. I was so goddamn angry with her for giving up, for running away, for not trusting me, for lying about giving me a chance.

It wasn’t like with Brona. I respected Annie, I’d wanted to marry her, I was well and truly in love with her, and she’d thrown it all back in my face. She’d given up on us without a fight, like we didn’t matter.

But I did know that if by some miracle we found a way to get past all our shite, together we would never be anything like Mick and Marie Fitzpatrick.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Mugger: When one bumps into the subject, quickly snaps a picture, and runs away.

Best for: Close-up shots when the digital zoom on the phone’s camera will not suffice, low light.

Do not use: If the person is faster than you. You’ll never get away with it.

*Annie*

I was a coward and a hypocrite.

But mostly a coward.

I couldn’t quite manage a full breath or a complete swallow, not even when I walked through the doors of my building and on to the elevator. I thought for sure I’d start feeling better once I got home, less hunted. I didn’t.

Instead I felt…empty. And desperately alone. And foolish. And hypocritical. And cowardly.

I’d never had a problem with my cowardice before. Being a coward always felt like the smartest course of action; it felt like the surest path to sustained and guaranteed safety. But now that I’d been brave—even if it had only been for a few short weeks—being a coward felt like choosing to live underground instead of soaring through the air. I’d voluntarily given up my ability to fly.

I’d betrayed Ronan by lying to him and then judging and condemning him.

I’d betrayed myself by fleeing and not making every attempt to work through our—really, my—issues.

And I had no one to talk to about it because I was a fucking hermit!

My first instinct was to message WriteALoveSong and ask for help…but I couldn’t do that. I had pseudo-friends, people who commented on my blog, but no real-life confidants. No friend to call. No mother to have over. No gay BFF to cry to while he made me fabulous martinis. I’d started interacting with some of the wives and girlfriends of Ronan’s teammates while in Ireland, but I couldn’t call on them now, not about this.

I was alone with my cowardice and crazy internal monologue.

“Damn, dammit, dickless Donald Duck,” I mumbled, unzipping my suitcase, trying to sort through my hastily packed clothes while at the same time trying sort through my hastily stuffed feelings. Both were in complete disarray. Everything was wrinkled and tangled, and I was probably going to cry.

Then my home phone rang, and I jumped at the unexpected shrill sound. I blinked at it, recalling that my cell phone was still on airplane mode from the red-eye. My heart leapt, thinking that it might be Ronan, so I ran and grabbed the phone without checking the caller I.D.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Annie?”

My leaping heart fell to the rocks below, bruising itself. I stiffened and held my breath because the person on the other end sounded exactly like Ronan’s mother.

“Hello? Are you there?” she asked, and now I was certain it was her.

I closed my eyes to gather any semblance of mental armor I had left and cleared my throat before answering, “Yes. I’m here. Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. How can I help you?”

She was silent for a long moment. I thought I heard a door open then close. She blurted out, “I am so sorry, Annie. I am so sorry I was such a…well, such a cunt.”

I half choked, half laughed as my eyes flew open; I reached for the table behind me for balance. “Uh—I—um…I—” What does one say to a woman who’s just called herself a cunt with complete sincerity? Eventually, I managed, “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I don’t know what to say.”