“So you cut your wrist?”

“I didn’t cut my wrist. I was walking and thinking of all the times I gave in, didn’t fight. And I saw this sign. Express You. And wasn’t that what I needed to do? Express me? So I went in, and . . .”

She puffed out her cheeks, blew out air.

“Jesus my ass, Breen. You got a tattoo!”

“It was impulse. It was temper. It was revenge or something. And by the time I calmed down, it was too late to stop.”

“What’d you get? Lemme see! Why didn’t you text me to come? We would’ve gotten one together. That was the plan.”

“We never had a tattoo plan.”

“We would have if you’d ever said you wanted one. What is it? When can you take the bandage off?”

“It’s not really a bandage, and I can take it off now. I started to get it on my biceps, then I thought no, if I have it on my wrist, I can turn it over and look at it whenever I need it. Which is more stupid.”

She took the protective gauze off, turned up her right wrist.

“It’s beautiful lettering, like what they carved in old stones, and I like the color—dark, dark green that’s almost black but isn’t. But what the hell is misneach?”

“It’s pronounced ‘misnaw.’ It’s Irish for ‘courage’—I looked it up. And it’s your fault I have a tattoo on my wrist.”

He had her hand, turning it this way, that way, his big, beautiful eyes examining each letter. “How’s it my fault?”

“It’s what you texted me just as my mother got home. Courage. It’s what I needed, and it’s what I thought of when I saw that damn sign.”

“I’m taking the credit because this is so cool. Let’s go back tomorrow so I can get one. No, wait. I’ll get one in Ireland—cooler yet. And you can get another.”

“I don’t think I’m up for another. You go right ahead.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I was too mad to notice, then yeah, some when I came back down. By then, too late. Maybe I am irresponsible.”

“You are not. You made a statement. I love it. Why don’t you come into work with me, show it off?”

“I’m going to stay right here, do my lesson plans. And I’m going to start looking for a cottage for rent in County Galway.”

“We’re really doing it.”

“We’re really doing it.” She turned her wrist over, thought: Courage.

Dutifully, as Breen believed in duty, she went to school every morning and did her best. She graded papers, found some satisfaction when she saw some improvement in certain students.

In the evenings, on the weekends, she prepared for the trip of her lifetime. She found a cottage in Connemara—a district in County Galway—exactly what she was looking for. It was just a few miles from a quaint village and there were acres to explore, and it even had a bay and mountain view.

She considered it another sign—like the tattoo parlor—that previous bookings fell through. So she snapped it up for the summer.

And struggled against the anxiety of making so big a commitment.

Before she could falter—courage!—she booked three nights in Clare at Dromoland Castle, then booked the flights.

Done.

Now she had to wait for her passport and Marco’s to arrive, buy some Dramamine. She didn’t know if she got airsick, since she’d never flown. But better safe than sorry.

She bought guidebooks and maps, rented a car—and spent a sleepless night worried about driving in Ireland.

She had two meetings with Ellsworth, who arranged for a thousand euros—dear God, a thousand.

It all seemed like a strange dream, even the packing.

When she walked out of school for the last time, she felt as if she walked through someone else’s dream.

She walked to the bus stop, another last time, and thought it was like closing a door. Not locking it, not pretending it wasn’t there, just closing it and moving into another room.

No, like moving out of a house where you’d never felt quite right, and hoping the next one fit.

And at this time the next day, they’d be on their way to the airport. They’d fly through the night to another world. And, for the first time in so long she couldn’t remember, she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone but herself. No schedule, no lesson plans, no alarm set for work.

What the hell was she going to do with herself?

Find out, she thought. And turned her wrist over. Gut up and find out.

She pulled out her phone when it rang.

“Hi, Sally.”

“Breen, my treasure. I have to ask you for an enormous favor. I know you’re busy.”

“Really not. Everything’s done.”

“That makes me feel less guilty. I’m in a bind. Could you give me a few hours tonight? I’ve had three servers call in. Some sort of stomach bug, and I’m short-staffed.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Bless your heart. I had to ask Marco, too. I’m so sorry, but—”

“Don’t be. It’ll be nice to see everybody before we leave. What time do you want me?”

“Can you make it by six?”

“Sure. I’m about to get on the bus home now. I’ll obsessively check my travel list, again, change, and be there with Marco at six.”

“I owe you both, big. Love you, girl.”

“Love you back.”

And good, Breen thought as she got on the bus. It would keep her mind off air travel, airport security, crashing into the Atlantic, driving on the wrong side of the road, and every other worry she’d conjured up over the last weeks.

She’d work the six to two, go home and drop into bed, and, please God, sleep and sleep late.

Before she knew it, she’d be on the plane and gone.

She started to settle in, glanced out the window.

There he was—the man with the silver hair. Just standing on the sidewalk, smiling at her. She’d lost track of the number of times she’d seen him since that first day.

At the market, outside Ellsworth’s offices, even at Sally’s one other night she’d helped out.

Every time she worked up the nerve to go closer, he just vanished. Not like poof, she thought. That was ridiculous, but he simply evaded her.

Just someone from the same neighborhood—and yet, she’d seen him in the city, too.

It didn’t matter, she assured herself. She’d soon leave him behind—thousands of miles behind.

One more day, she thought as the bus rumbled along. Just one more day before the rest of her life began.

CHAPTER FOUR

Back in her apartment, Breen did just what she’d said she’d do. She obsessively checked everything.

Suitcases, recently purchased on sale—a half-price sale, maybe because they were turquoise. Neither was close to full, but she’d have room for souvenirs, gifts, and whatever else she purchased on a nearly three-month stay.

She’d opted to use her backpack for her carry-on—one she’d had since college. Though battered and worn, it would come in handy for hiking. At the moment, it held her guidebooks, maps, eye drops, Dramamine, ibuprofen, Band-Aids, her tablet, laptop, charging cords, pens, a notebook, two books, a toiletry and makeup bag.

She had a small, efficient cross-body bag that organized her passport, tickets, ID, credit card, cash.

When she reached the point she had to admit she had nothing left to do, she set the alarm on her phone for thirty minutes and stretched out to take a nap, since she’d wait tables until after two in the morning.

She had to turn off her mind first, as her thoughts insisted on conjuring worst-case scenarios.

Either she or Marco would contract a serious illness—or have a terrible accident—overnight and have to cancel.

They’d learn all flights to Ireland had been canceled indefinitely because . . . reasons.

They’d fly all the way to Ireland only to learn their passports were invalid. They’d be deported immediately.

The aliens finally invaded.

The Walking Dead became reality.

As she wasted nearly five minutes entertaining all the tragic possibilities, it was hardly a surprise her short nap was neither quiet nor restful.

She found herself alone walking on thick green grass under skies the color of pewter. Though gray, the sky carried a glow as if the sun pressed and pressed its light and heat behind those layered clouds.

A kind of inlet wove, a slow snake, between the land and the wider bay. She could see stubby green knuckles punching up through the still water, and fuzzy white sheep with black faces on the far hills.

The air, moist and cool, fluttered through the trees, shivered over a garden alive with bold, almost insolent color.

She heard birdsong and the musical notes of the chimes—dozens of them—hanging from the branches of a tree at the verge of the woods.

She walked that way, where the thick grass led to a soft brown path, narrow as a ribbon, and the light turned to a wonderfully eerie green. Moss, thick as a carpet, blanketed the wide trunks of trees, coated their curving branches, smothered rocks that heaved out of the ground.

A stream rushed by, burbling and spilling over rock ledges. She thought she heard murmuring, and laughter.

The water, she thought, or the wind chimes at the start of the path.

She walked on, caught up in wonder and delight.

A bird whizzed by, green as an emerald. Then another, ruby red, and a third, like a sapphire on the wing.

She’d never seen anything like them—so jewel-like, so iridescent—and followed the path of their flight.

And in the green shadows and light she heard them call, a young sound and somehow fierce. With it came the drumbeat of water striking water and rock.

The waterfall spilled from a dizzying height, had her heart leaping at the sight of it.

A thunderous fall, white as snow into the winding stream, where it turned pale, pale green.

The birds swirled around the fall of water, the three and more. Topaz, carnelian, amethyst, cobalt in a dazzling display. Dipping, diving, dancing.