If I had the strength, I’d bolt upright in confusion. But I don’t, so I settle for a weak scoff. “Why? Is Immigration still sniffing about?”
He holds his breath as his fingers slip closer to mine. They stop just before they touch me. “No, it’s nothing to do with our… arrangement.”
“Then what, Donnacha? You were so desperate for me to leave a month ago. You didn’t want to complicate things, remember?”
“Yeah. That’s the other thing I want to talk to you about.” To my surprise, he looks… almost vulnerable. Almost shy. Almost human. “I’m so sorry for how I acted, Violet.” My name rolls of his tongue like a lullaby, and I have to stop myself from closing my eyes in pleasure. “I wasn’t being honest with you. I wasn’t being honest with myself, either.” He draws in a deep breath and finally reaches out to touch my hand. “The truth is, I was scared.”
“Of what?” I manage.
“Of falling in love with you.”
This time, I do shut my eyes. In an attempt to make sense of his words, without being distracted by his handsome face.
I can sense that he’s even closer now; I can feel the warmth of his skin and the tickling of his thick beard on my cheek. “But it’s too late, Vi,” his whisper vibrates right through me. “I already have.”
Do I dare open my eyes?
Because I know what I’ll see.
I’ll see his ocean-blue eyes just inches from mine. His chiseled jaw tense and expectant.
And I know what I’ll want to do.
Run my hands through his dark hair, curl them around the nape of his neck and pull him closer. Feel the curve of his soft lips against mine.
And when I do eventually open my eyes, I’ll be facing more than just him. I’ll be facing the truth:
I’m in love with him, too.
33
Atlas
THREE MONTHS LATER
I can hear the laughter floating down the hallway, filling the large open rooms and reaching all the way up to the high ceilings.
My jaw aches from my perma-smile. It creeped across my face three months ago, when Violet agreed to move in and be my girlfriend, and it hasn’t left since.
“Shh, he’s coming!” I hear a child’s voice say, followed by a loud clanging noise and stifled sniggers.
When I round into the kitchen, it’s empty — apart from the flour smeared over the counter and the egg yolk dripping onto the floor. “Hmm,” I say slowly and loudly, stomping my feet heavily as I open cupboards above the oven. “Where could Daisy and Violet be?”
The pantry door flutters, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Daisy has always been shit at hide-and-seek, but she’s six. Violet has no excuse. “Daisy?” I call. “Violet? Hmmm.”
I creep over to the pantry and hold my breath. Pressing my ear against the door I can hear the giggling on the other side. Suddenly, I yank it open to the sound of screaming and laughter. “Boo!” I shout.
I sweep Daisy up into my arms and place her on the kitchen counter. “Phew! I thought I lost you guys for a minute,” I say, pretending to wipe my brow. Daisy’s cackle ripples through the air, her cheeks flushed with the adrenaline of it all.
I turn my attention to Violet. Flour is dusted across her face, taking the shape of a cat nose and whispers. “Good morning,” I murmur, snaking my hands around the waist of her apron and pulling her closer by the strings. She smells like pancake mix and the soft vanilla scent of her perfume.
“Good morning, baby.” she greets me back, pushing against my chin so my mouth is low enough for her to kiss. “Me and Daisy have been making pancakes.”
I scan the mess. “Is that what’s going on in here? Looks like more of a weird science experiment.”
“Rude!” Daisy barks. It’s her new favorite expression, and she screams it as loudly and as frequently as possible.
Violet thumps her fist against my chest. “No pancakes for you then, huh?”
“No, no,” I grin. “I take it back!”
“Come on Daisy,” she says, picking Daisy up and swinging her onto her hips. “I’m gonna teach you how to flip like a pro!”
I slide onto my usual seat at the breakfast bar and pour myself a coffee. Taking in my girlfriend — technically wife — and my daughter laugh and joke together.
If Immigration came knocking, there’d be nothing fake about our relationship.
If they asked me if our relationship was real, my answer would be truthful.
If they questioned if we were in love, I’d have no doubt about my reply.
Violet may have come into my life as my pretend wife, but everything about our happiness is real.
34
Violet
SIX MONTHS LATER
“Come on,” I laugh, stretching my fingers out and seeing what they touch. Soft leather seats. A hard bicep. I slink my hand a little lower and squeeze an instantly recognizable thigh. “It’s been three hours, my eyes are gonna go funny if I keep this blindfold on for any longer.”
Large hands wrap around my shoulders and give me a reassuring stroke. “We’re nearly there, baby. Just a few more minutes and you can take it off.” I feel a wet kiss on my cheek.
Donnacha told me to keep the weekend free. He wanted to celebrate me finishing my first year of nursing school. I thought we’d be going out for dinner or to see a show. But when he handed me the blindfold, walked me up some steps, and I heard the sound of plane propellers whirring, I knew it was going to be a little more extravagant than that.
The quiet humming of an engine quickens, growing louder and louder, until there’s a small thump that lifts me out of my seat a little.
“Okay, you can take it off now.”
He slips off my blindfold gently, before smoothing down my relaxed hair. I recoil against the natural daylight, but when I blink a few times, I realize I’m on a private jet.
“Jesus,” I murmur, taking in the tan leather seats and beaming air hostesses. “I finished my first year of studying, not landed on the moon!”
He laughs a deliciously throaty laugh, brushing his thumb over my cheek. All the windows have the blinds drawn over them, and when I go to lift one up to get an idea of where we are, he swats my hand away. “Patience, Vi!”
After a few more minutes, the captain makes a mumbled announcement, and Donnacha takes it as his cue to click off both of our seat belts. He takes me by my hand, a mischievous grin in his eye. “You ready?”
“Uh… I think so?”
The plane door whirs and hisses, opening up slower than an old tortoise. It raises upwards, bit by bit, revealing what’s on the other side.
Acres and acres of green, far as the eye can see.
“Wow,” I smile, “this is really pretty. Where are we?”
Donnacha doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes my hand again and helps me down the steps. The warm rays of the morning sun wash over me; a stark contrast of the gloom we’ve left behind in New York City. It feels almost tropical, humid. But we haven’t been on the plane long enough to be anywhere outside of the States.