He closed the door behind him, throwing the lock. Leaning against it for support, he answered Emmy’s questioning gaze. “You’re not walking home alone. It’s dark as sin out there tonight.”
She glanced around. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Not sure I should leave you alone like this anyway.”
He shook his head. “Not couch. You can…have…my…bed…” As he spoke, he slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor. He looked around. “I’ll sleep here.”
She laughed and reached down to him. “Nope. You’re sleeping in your own bed. It’s closer to the bathroom, which might be something you need later.”
He accepted her proffered hands, but rather than letting her pull him up, he tugged her down until she was sitting on the floor next to him. “It’s comfy down here, right? You’re a sexy strawberry.”
Emmy rolled her eyes. “And you’re a sweet, if sloppy, drunk farmer.”
Seamus came over, clearly confused but delighted to have them on his level for once. He licked Emmy’s face affectionately as she giggled.
“He loves you,” Padraig mused. “He loved Mia too.” The words came easily, without the typical flash of pain, which told Padraig exactly how wasted he was.
“Come on, Farmer Collins. Let’s pour you into bed.”
This time, he let her drag him to his feet. Wrapping an arm around his waist, she steadied him as they walked down the hall to his bedroom. Once there, he sank down on the edge of the mattress and fought with the buttons on his flannel shirt.
The blackout had ended a little while earlier, but neither of them sought to turn on any lights. He lived on a city street, so the streetlamps outside provided just enough light for them to see each other and the room through the gray dimness.
Emmy smacked his fingers away and efficiently unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off, then pointed to his dresser. “Second drawer down,” he directed. “T-shirt.” She opened it, grabbed one, and held it out to him.
He shook his head as he gripped her hips and turned her away from him. Sliding down the zipper at the back of her dress, he said, “For you. Dress is pretty but not to sleep in.”
“Thanks,” she said softly. “I’m going to run to the bathroom to put it on. Don’t pass out yet.”
He remained on the side of his bed, struggling to sit still, and he realized Emmy was right. The swaying was coming from him.
Shit. Or maybe not. Now the room was spinning. That wasn’t good.
He fought with his boots, letting out a small cheer for himself when he finally managed to kick them off.
Emmy was only gone a moment or two. When she returned, she was wearing his T-shirt, the soft cotton hanging to just above her knees.
He chuckled. “The shirt is as long as your dress.”
“You’re a big guy,” she pointed out.
“Naw. You’re tiny. Naught but a wee fairy,” he said with an Irish accent, “as my Pop Pop would say.”
“Here.” Emmy handed him three Advil and a cup of water. “This might help stave off some of tomorrow’s hangover.”
He took the pills and chugged the water. Placing the cup on the nightstand, he rose on unsteady legs and started to strip off his jeans.
Emmy took a step away. “I’ll just grab a blanket and—”
“No. Wait.” He reached out and grasped her wrist for just a second, making sure she stayed put. Then he shed his jeans, leaving his boxers on, as Emmy—the adorable woman—tried to look anywhere but at him.
Padraig pulled down the comforter and climbed into bed, his gaze landing on the empty side next to him. “Would you…can you sleep in here with me? Just until I pass out,” he added quickly, when it was clear she planned to say no. “I’m tired of sleeping by myself.”
“Seamus is already in there,” she said, her tone laced with humor as they both looked at his mutt, sprawled out on his back at the foot of the bed, snoring.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
Emmy considered his request for a moment, then crossed to the other side. “Okay. Just until you pass out.”
She lay down next to him—on top of the covers—and he turned to look at her, his eyes suddenly heavy.
“Thanks for taking care of me tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, the words somewhat slurred.
“That’s what friends do,” she whispered.
“Friends,” he repeated, thinking she’d used the wrong word but too drunk to figure out the right one. Of course, he didn’t have too long to ponder it before sleep claimed him.
The next morning, he’d woken up in bed alone, Emmy sacked out on his couch. While he’d felt like shit that next day, the darkness that had been swirling inside him had lifted and remained at bay.
Padraig tried once again to swallow down the tears, rubbing his eyes roughly, refusing to let them fall.
Then he recalled the remainder of the holidays that year. Eating a huge turkey dinner at Friendsgiving, and again on Thanksgiving, with Emmy by his side, both of them groaning in agony due to overeating. Emmy celebrating Christmas with his entire family for the first time, him cracking up at her overwhelmed, wide-eyed expression as she took it all in. He and Emmy hugging in the pub when the ball dropped on the New Year. Him giving her Conversation Hearts for Valentine’s Day, joking that she could use the mushy-gushy lines in her next romance novel. Her stepping behind the bar on St. Patrick’s Day to help him and his dad by working the taps until the crush of partiers thinned out.
She’d found a way to keep the darkness away. Simply by being there.
Cervical cancer.
The words rushed back in, accompanied by a wave of nausea.
“Fuck,” he said. Then louder, “Fuck!”
Lifting his head, his gaze landed on the photograph of him and Mia on their wedding day. And the dam broke.
12
Padraig lay on his couch, not bothering to watch the highlights of a hockey game he had on mute. Instead, his gaze rested solely on the picture of him and Mia on their wedding day. Today was the third anniversary of Mia’s death. It had been the first thing he’d thought of when he woke up this morning.
In truth, the date had been looming in the back of his mind for the past week or so. Part of him wondered if that knowledge had influenced his reaction to Emmy’s test results. God knew that ever since he’d essentially lost his shit and walked away from her, he’d struggled to separate the sudden deluge of guilt he felt.
Guilt over moving on when Mia didn’t have that chance.
Guilt over hurting Emmy so badly.
He couldn’t stop seeing Mia’s smile that last night just before she died or Emmy’s eyes Thursday night when he’d broken her heart.
It had been three days since he’d walked away from her, telling her he needed time. Both of them had read those words for the lie they were.
He’d known when he walked into her apartment, it was over. That he couldn’t keep dating her, not if there was even a slim chance that he might lose her. But, like a coward, he’d avoided saying those words.
No. Avoided was the wrong word.
He hadn’t been able to say them. They’d gotten lodged in his throat, strangling him until all he could do was turn tail and run, dropping that bullshit “I need time” line on her.