Page 51 of Distant Shores
“It’s Ireland,” she said, her indigo gaze still on mine.
I barely held back the shiver that skirted my spine.
Delly released her from the hug and frowned. “What is?”
“My name,” Ireland replied in that dry, deadpan tone.
“Well, Ireland,” Delly said, not missing another beat. “If you want to change rooms with me, just say the word. I am open to negotiations.”
Ireland’s gaze flitted from the bedroom Delly had claimed, then traced a path across the back wall of the living room, a calculating gleam in her eyes.
She hummed, then cocked her head to the side, sending the short strands of her ponytail glancing off her shoulder. “Show me your room?”
Delly hooked arms with Ireland and carted her off.
I didn’t follow.
Instead, I hurried—as fast as my crutch and aching ankle allowed—into the hallway. There were three extra-wide closed doors—one in the middle and one on each end.
I opened the room directly in front of me and peered inside.
It was a white-tiled bathroom adorned with more seahorses and white wooden furniture. An accessible,oversized shower with a built-in bench seat. A double vanity with a big framed mirror mounted above it. There were three more doors inside the bathroom, two of them extra-wide like all the others and one smaller.
I walked inside and opened the smaller door, confirming it was a closet. Then I did the math about the other two doors.
This was a Jack and Jill bathroom. What was my sister thinking, claiming the other room and leaving Ireland to share a bathroom with a stranger?
I hobble-marched back to the living room, ready to set this right, just as Delly came out of the bedroom with a triumphant smile. Ireland walked in behind her, a wry turn to her lips that wasn’t there before.
“You’re sure, roomie?” Delly asked. “We can always revisit the rotating bedroom idea.”
Ireland smoothed her expression. “I’m sure.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that we’d be sharing a bathroom, but then closed it.
She was a grown-ass woman. I didn’t need to mansplain this.
Plus, there wassomethingabout Ireland’s expression that made me want to wait. A faint glimmer in her tired eyes that I wanted to help spark and catch, not stifle.
Delly squealed in delight—her forty-seventh one so far, if I were keeping count—and Ireland patted her on the shoulder, then scrunched her nose and dropped her hand, clutching it into a fist at her side.
I could make watching this girl a full-time job if I weren’t careful.
“All right,” I started, “How does unpacking and then a grocery run sound?” I made a point to meet Ireland’s gaze so she knew she was included in that offer.
Surprise flickered across her tired expression, but she masked it quickly.
“Boring,” Delly said. “That’s how it sounds. I counter with dump bags into rooms, go see Pops, then tacos at the beach.”
I smiled at the idea, then directed the expression to Ireland, who was frowning at me. “You in?”
“Oh, um….” Her gaze flickered out the living room window. “Next time. I have a class to teach soon.”
“Class?” Delly asked, bless her.
“Adult tap class. At the Locc.”
“Oh my God! New plan. Can I come?”
