Page 30 of The Secret We Keep
Ican’tbringmyselfto tell my father that thoughts about sticking the perfectly sharpened pencil on the desk I was sitting behind in my eye were more interesting than the interview I just had.
If I were a more confident woman, I would have rejected this whole charade before it got this far. But after last week, hearing Paddy talk to my dad, rather than push against it, I played along to keep everyone happy.
Everyone except myself.
Since Holly’s party, normality has resumed in Stoney Grange. Although, it feels like Paddy O’Keefe never left. I can still feel his touch on my arm and the way I felt when he made me laugh.
I can also hear my dad telling him to leave me alone, that the likes of a man like Paddy are no good for me. Of course, I wouldn’t know because I haven’t really ever dated anybody. But the irony that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night is hilarious.
I’m going to call it the reignition of an old flame. An old flame that I was confident only I knew about until a week ago. Until I confessed to my parents that I once liked Paddy. Naturally, Holly has been on my case about him, but if she hadn’t been, I would have thought something was wrong with her.
The simple truth is, Paddy has intruded on my thoughts every waking second since he left, and I need to get over it.
Standing outside the café at the lower end of the small high street in the town centre, I take a seat, feeling the weight of the world suddenly on my shoulders. Venturing out of the village may seem like no big deal, but I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally.
Okay, so I don’t have a plan, but every part of me hopes I don’t have to work in the office. The job might only be three days a week, but it was cold and crowded, and for the life of me, the grey on the walls reminded me of a prison. Even though I’ve never been inside one, the cold chills and icy sweat I broke out in would have suggested otherwise.
Deep down I know it would be a good thing, but the reality is I’m only in this position because people feel sorry for me. I don’t want something new to start on that basis. There’s no way this is the right thing for me. I can feel it.
I’m going to make changes, once I figure out how, of course. And once I know where to actually start, I’m sure I’ll feel differently about everything.
“Morgan?”
My head darts up, seeing Mrs O’Keefe.
“Everything alright, dear?”
I swallow my anxiety of having an existential crisis, holding my hand up to block out the sun beaming down on me. “Fine, thank you,” I lie, hating how loud it is all of a sudden. I don’t know what else to say. Fortunately for me, Mrs O’Keefe is too distracted. “How’s Kevin?”
The puppy thrashes in her arms.
She huffs, and I chuckle, craning my neck to get a better view of him.
“He’s a bloody handful to tell you the truth.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Why do you carry him?”
A few people walk past us, making me tense slightly.
Mrs O’Keefe gives them a kind smile before frowning down at Kevin. “Vets say we can’t walk him until he’s around fourteen weeks. He has his boosters in a few days, then he can be set free. Isn’t that right,” she says in a high-pitch tone, fussing him. “Which is why everyone was so worried when you ran away.” She looks at me. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to hold him still for that.”
I gasp when he leaps, my arms naturally jutting out to catch him from across the table.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
I hold Kevin against my chest.
“This dog will be the death of me,” Mrs O’Keefe sputters, her voice shaking.
“Mrs O’Keefe—”
“Call me Siobhan, dear. How long have you known me?” She straightens herself out.
I offer her a gentle smile, finding her Irish accent endearing. “Sorry, Siobhan. Would you like me to hold him for a moment?” Because even I can tell that Paddy was right: dead-uncle Kevin here appears to like onlymeholding him. Stupid as that idea may be, the little ball of crazy stops wriggling and begins licking my face.
“Oh, now that’s the best idea anyone’s had all day.”
A chuckle leaves me. Closing my eyes, I can’t say I’ve ever been comfortable with something licking the make-up off my face. However, his warm tongue is adorably fuzzy, and although it might be considered gross, the more I let him fuss, the more I feel my earlier anxiety slip away. I can’t explain it. It just washes away like an unwanted stain or a dream that you can’t quite remember. His connection with mecomes without judgement. Even though I can’t make sense of why that makes me feel so downright happy, I’ll take it.
