Craving Resurrection
Page 115
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Yer not ruined,” he replied gently but firmly, lifting his fingers to my cheek. “Ye were never ruined. Yer de strongest woman I’ve ever met. Kind and funny and so gorgeous dat sometimes it hurts to look at ye. Ye were never ruined, me love, just cracked open for a bit. Took a while for ye to piece it back toget’er, but ye did it.”
He swallowed hard, running his fingers down my jaw. “Ye’ll never know how sorry I am dat I wasn’t dere to help ye find all of dose pieces ye lost.”
“I don’t think I can leave you.” I murmured quietly.
“I don’t deserve for ye to stay.”
“What about what I deserve?”
“Ye deserve everyt’in’. Ye deserve everyt’in’ I promised ye and didn’t give ye.”
“Give it to me now.” I whispered, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Yer de best part of me. Ye know dat?” His eyes searched my face. “Yer de best part, and dat means ye’d be gettin’ de worst parts if ye stayed wit’ me.”
“Would you ever leave me again?”
“Me love,” he said tenderly, “I can’t even imagine ever lettin’ ye out of me sight again. But I’ll do it, I’ll sign de papers, if dat’s what ye want.”
“I’ve missed you so much—” my words cut off with a painful sob.
“And I’ve ached for ye. I’ve never stopped, wife. Not for one moment.”
I lurched forward, and he caught me.
He caught me.
“Shhh, don’t cry sweetheart,” he murmured into my ear, his own voice full of tears. “I’ve got ye. I know I’m late, me love, but I’m here now.”
Chapter 54
Patrick
I sat with Amy on the old cement floor, refusing to move a muscle even as my back began to ache and my feet fell asleep.
I didn’t understand why she was still there, why she’d curled against me and cried into my chest.
I was the reason for everything terrible in her life. Every hurt she’d endured and silent pain she’d felt fell on my shoulders. I didn’t know if I could bear the weight of that.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to live with myself, knowing what I’d done and what I hadn’t.
She continued to hiccup as her tears finally came to an end, but I was afraid to say a word. I’d once told her that I wasn’t a writer because I lacked the talent to string a sentence together with any sort of eloquence. That fact was still true as I sat silently with the love of my life in my arms, praying that she wouldn’t leave me, but unable to beg her to stay.
“Do you ever wonder how our lives would have turned out?” she asked timidly.
“Every single day of me life.”
“I don’t know if I would change it,” she whispered.
“I love our children,” I replied, kissing the top of her head. “But if I could go back, I’d never leave ye in Ireland.”
“Then I wouldn’t have Phoenix—”
“Ye don’t know dat, me love.” I argued, pulling her tighter against my body. “He may have still existed… just a bit smaller and wit’ red hair.”
“I’m afraid, Patrick,” she confessed.
“Of what?”
“That you’ll leave again. That my son hates me. That your daughter is going to hate me. That we’ll never figure this out.”
“Dat’s a lot of fears.”
“That’s the condensed version,” she said tiredly with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Let’s lay some of dose to rest, eh?”
“Your accent fades in and out.”
“What?” The change of subject startled me.
“When you’re upset it gets thicker, and then it sort of fades away as you calm down.”
“Aye. I’ve tried to master it for years. Sometimes I can keep a handle on it, but it’s actually harder to keep Mum’s accent out of me voice on a daily basis.”
“Why would you try to get rid of it?”
“Seemed like a good idea when I got here, and now it’s a tell, yeah? Not good to show emotion when ye do what I do.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“Now? Mostly I keep an eye on de boys, make sure everyt’in’s runnin' smooth. Used to do it all, and none of it ye want to hear about.”
“Malcolm called you something—The Butcher? Something like that.”
My stomach clenched at the bastard’s name, but I tried not to show any reaction, and made absolutely sure that my accent didn’t slip. She needed to feel comfortable talking about it if that was what she needed, without fear of me losing my shit. “It’s not somet’in’ I’m proud of.”
“You killed people.”
“Aye. Only men.”
“Bad men?”
“Some of dem.”
“Good men?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you could take it back?”
“I try not to t’ink on it.”
She nodded in understanding, then grew quiet again.
“I’m not going to leave ye. Not ever,” I said after a few moments.
“You promise?”
“I’ll not promise, dat word has little meanin’ between us now.” I leaned back and tilted her face up so I could meet her eyes. “Know dat I’ll never live a day wit’out lovin’ ye. De day I leave ye is de day dey put me in de ground.”
He swallowed hard, running his fingers down my jaw. “Ye’ll never know how sorry I am dat I wasn’t dere to help ye find all of dose pieces ye lost.”
“I don’t think I can leave you.” I murmured quietly.
“I don’t deserve for ye to stay.”
“What about what I deserve?”
“Ye deserve everyt’in’. Ye deserve everyt’in’ I promised ye and didn’t give ye.”
“Give it to me now.” I whispered, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Yer de best part of me. Ye know dat?” His eyes searched my face. “Yer de best part, and dat means ye’d be gettin’ de worst parts if ye stayed wit’ me.”
“Would you ever leave me again?”
“Me love,” he said tenderly, “I can’t even imagine ever lettin’ ye out of me sight again. But I’ll do it, I’ll sign de papers, if dat’s what ye want.”
“I’ve missed you so much—” my words cut off with a painful sob.
“And I’ve ached for ye. I’ve never stopped, wife. Not for one moment.”
I lurched forward, and he caught me.
He caught me.
“Shhh, don’t cry sweetheart,” he murmured into my ear, his own voice full of tears. “I’ve got ye. I know I’m late, me love, but I’m here now.”
Chapter 54
Patrick
I sat with Amy on the old cement floor, refusing to move a muscle even as my back began to ache and my feet fell asleep.
I didn’t understand why she was still there, why she’d curled against me and cried into my chest.
I was the reason for everything terrible in her life. Every hurt she’d endured and silent pain she’d felt fell on my shoulders. I didn’t know if I could bear the weight of that.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to live with myself, knowing what I’d done and what I hadn’t.
She continued to hiccup as her tears finally came to an end, but I was afraid to say a word. I’d once told her that I wasn’t a writer because I lacked the talent to string a sentence together with any sort of eloquence. That fact was still true as I sat silently with the love of my life in my arms, praying that she wouldn’t leave me, but unable to beg her to stay.
“Do you ever wonder how our lives would have turned out?” she asked timidly.
“Every single day of me life.”
“I don’t know if I would change it,” she whispered.
“I love our children,” I replied, kissing the top of her head. “But if I could go back, I’d never leave ye in Ireland.”
“Then I wouldn’t have Phoenix—”
“Ye don’t know dat, me love.” I argued, pulling her tighter against my body. “He may have still existed… just a bit smaller and wit’ red hair.”
“I’m afraid, Patrick,” she confessed.
“Of what?”
“That you’ll leave again. That my son hates me. That your daughter is going to hate me. That we’ll never figure this out.”
“Dat’s a lot of fears.”
“That’s the condensed version,” she said tiredly with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Let’s lay some of dose to rest, eh?”
“Your accent fades in and out.”
“What?” The change of subject startled me.
“When you’re upset it gets thicker, and then it sort of fades away as you calm down.”
“Aye. I’ve tried to master it for years. Sometimes I can keep a handle on it, but it’s actually harder to keep Mum’s accent out of me voice on a daily basis.”
“Why would you try to get rid of it?”
“Seemed like a good idea when I got here, and now it’s a tell, yeah? Not good to show emotion when ye do what I do.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“Now? Mostly I keep an eye on de boys, make sure everyt’in’s runnin' smooth. Used to do it all, and none of it ye want to hear about.”
“Malcolm called you something—The Butcher? Something like that.”
My stomach clenched at the bastard’s name, but I tried not to show any reaction, and made absolutely sure that my accent didn’t slip. She needed to feel comfortable talking about it if that was what she needed, without fear of me losing my shit. “It’s not somet’in’ I’m proud of.”
“You killed people.”
“Aye. Only men.”
“Bad men?”
“Some of dem.”
“Good men?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you could take it back?”
“I try not to t’ink on it.”
She nodded in understanding, then grew quiet again.
“I’m not going to leave ye. Not ever,” I said after a few moments.
“You promise?”
“I’ll not promise, dat word has little meanin’ between us now.” I leaned back and tilted her face up so I could meet her eyes. “Know dat I’ll never live a day wit’out lovin’ ye. De day I leave ye is de day dey put me in de ground.”
