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.”

“Then, please, just listen.” She took an audible breath before continuing, “First, I am sorry. What I said to you, it wasn’t right. I had no right. My son…he is just like his father in so many ways, but he is also very different. I didn’t have the easiest time with his dad. I never quite belonged, and I think he knew it; but I loved him very much.”

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you don’t need to tell me this. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“But I do. I do need to tell you—because you love Ronan, and he loves you. Most of the shite printed by the media is just that, shite. But pictures don’t lie. The way you two look at each other, I can see it. It’s obvious to everyone that you care about him deeply.”

I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips; this was not a conversation I was ready to have. “I can’t—”

She interrupted me again. “He told me about your past, about how you grew up.”

I had no response for that, though I sat down and released a quiet sigh. Unaccountably, my chin began to wobble.

“I know something about feeling unworthy, Annie. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

I shook my head. “You were right. He deserves better. He deserves better than me.”

“No, he really doesn’t.” She laughed lightly. “The way you’ve taken care of him, helped him, put yourself out there in the public eye. I’m not sure there is better than you. And, anyway, he wants you. He loves you, Annie.”

“I know,” I half sobbed.

“Then let’s start over. Let’s be friends.”

I was crying now but silently, and I hiccuped ungracefully as I said, “Friends?”

“Yes. Friends. I’m a shitty mother—poor Luce will tell you that—but I think I can be a good friend.”

I sniffled, “Oh, Mrs. Fitzpatrick—”

“Please, call me Jackie.”

“Jackie, if you knew what I—”

“None of that. Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

“But—”

“Please, promise me. Please. For Ronan’s sake?”

I took a calming breath and forced my voice to be firm. “Yes. For Ronan’s sake, I would do anything. But also…I want to start over, too.”

“Good! It’s settled. Luce will be so happy; she…well, she’s a good girl. We’ll be back in the States next week, and I know Ronan is on his way now. We’ll all get together.” Her tone shifted, and I felt certain she was anxious to end the conversation—likely not wanting to push her luck.

“Wait, Jackie, you should know that…I don’t know how to tell you this, but—”

“Tell me on Thursday. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll ring you when we arrive. Talk soon!”

“Wait—”

It was too late; she hung up, leaving me feeling like I’d just been tossed about by a hurricane. I shook my head and pressed the “off” button. A great, giant swelling of remorse filled every inch of my chest and radiated outward, numbing my fingertips and buzzing behind my ears.

Then the phone rang once more. This time I checked the caller I.D. The display told me the call originated from Davidson & Croft. I figured it was Gerta, so I answered.

“Hello?”

“Annie. You’re back.”

It was Joan.

“Uh, hi, Joan, I know I wasn’t supposed to be back until—”

“Well, we have lots to discuss! I’m taking you off the Fitzpatrick account.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because my mind couldn’t quite comprehend the words Joan had just spoken.

“Annie…?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry, I’m here.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No—I mean, yes. At least, I think I heard you, but I don’t understand what you mean.”

“We’re assigning Beth as the primary liaison for Mr. Fitzpatrick. You’ll take back The Starlet. Also, feel free to keep the clothes, but please do dress as you like. Obviously, I don’t really care one way or the other….”

I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips again, feeling acutely frazzled, and tried to make sense of what Joan was saying. She was prattling on about my pink cardigan and how it was a shame that I should choose to wear navy blue and brown when red and jewel tones suited me so much better.