And it was true. He’d spent twenty years or more being reckless, so cold he didn’t give a thought to anyone else’s needs or feelings, angry when he felt anything at all. God forbid Brendan should try to be like me.
He thought for the hundredth time of getting up, crossing the hall and opening Lia’s door. Would she turn him away if he walked to the bed and took her in his arms, started kissing her before she could speak a word of protest?
The old Conall would have done exactly that. He wanted her, and why shouldn’t he have her one more time?
This was a hell of a moment to make a new discovery about himself. The new Conall, it seemed, had grown a conscience. He’d already hurt her, and making love with her one more time would tear open a wound that had begun, however tentatively, to heal.
Knowing he was a bastard, wishing he was less of one, he stayed where he was even though it might be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
* * *
SAYING GOODBYE was unspeakably awful.
Jeff and Conall carefully packed their equipment in the back of the Suburban then threw in their duffel bags. Maybe with the intent of giving them a minute, Jeff went upstairs to check again that they hadn’t left anything behind, leaving Conall to face Lia and the boys.
He’d already said goodbye to Sorrel, even driving her out to the main road to meet her school bus earlier in the morning. Lia had no idea what was said, but he’d come back looking particularly blank, something she’d begun to suspect happened when he was unwilling to express what he really felt.
Now he went to the boys and stood with a hand on each of their shoulders, his head bent as he talked to them and listened to whatever they were saying. Lia stood a distance away, feeling as if she’d frozen up inside. That was a good thing; she’d melt eventually, of course, but for now this was safest. She was storing up the memory of these terrible few minutes, though, unable to look away from the man talking to the two boys. She saw the way he cradled the ball of each boy’s shoulder, his big hands careful, affectionate, strong. A lock of his wavy brown hair had fallen over his forehead. He wasn’t smiling. She wondered if he was any more capable of it than she was.
Maybe all he felt was mild regret. But she didn’t—couldn’t—believe that. How could he not have come to love those two boys, who loved him so much?
She saw him drop to his knees and take them into his arms. They clutched him and cried. When he lifted his head, his face was wet and Lia found to her horror that her own meltdown had already begun.
Not yet. Please not yet. Let him be gone first.
She heard the screen door bang behind her. Jeff’s heavy footsteps on the steps.
Conall stood, released the boys and was coming toward her. He had hastily swiped a forearm across his cheeks, erasing most of the visible manifestation of emotions he surely didn’t want to feel.
“Well,” she said.
“I guess this is goodbye.”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Lia…”
“I don’t regret anything,” she whispered. “But…please go, Conall.”
She was so devastated, she couldn’t have said what she saw on his face, only that no matter how viciously he’d clamped down on his emotions they were seeping out anyway.
He stepped forward, kissed her cheek without otherwise touching her, and walked away. Jeff thanked her politely for her hospitality, said he’d miss her cooking and she somehow responded with a “Thank you. Goodbye.”
And then—oh, God, then—they were driving away, Conall behind the wheel. The usual dust cloud rose, still hanging in the air after the Suburban had turned at the end of her driveway and disappeared. After she could no longer hear the engine.
A sob rent the silence and she recalled herself to her role in life. The role she’d chosen, eyes open. Lia opened her arms, and both boys flew into them.
* * *
CONALL WALKED INTO his condo on one of the cays reached by bridge from Miami and thought with irony, home sweet home. It felt like a hotel. A nice one—he’d gotten lucky and was subletting a high-end place in a development populated by young professionals. He probably would have felt more at home in Little Havana or South Miami, primarily Spanish-speaking, but here there was virtually no risk of meeting someone who’d recognize him under one of his many aliases. He was invisible to neighbors who didn’t notice when he went away or how long he was gone. He’d liked knowing he was truly alone here, in the midst of people.