by Alys Murray
“I will fucking—”
“Dude. Get help.”
“Oh, you listen—”
No. The days of listening to him—or to anyone but herself—were behind her. “Goodbye, Reginald.”
And with nothing else to say, she ended the call, feeling better than she could ever remember feeling before. At least, as good as she could feel with one apology still left to make…
Chapter Twenty-Six
Everywhere Daniel looked, he saw Samantha. On the cover of tabloids with her father. In the pages of prestigious newspapers. Every time he opened any kind of social media. She was everywhere, cluttering his mind and tearing his heart apart.
Or rather, tearing his heart and his pride apart.
In his heart, he knew he needed to call her. He needed to say something. He needed… No, he wanted to talk to her. So much had happened that he itched to tell her about. He’d been signed to produce an EP for Icon Records. Angie had started seeing a girl regularly, the first long-term relationship she’d ever had. He’d been able to finally quit his job at the bookstore and now that he was making money with his music, he was finally—finally—looking into attending university. He wanted to ask her about her life, about her decisions, about what it was like to step out of Animos’s shadow and fight them instead of fighting for them.
He wanted to hear her voice.
Whether or not he wanted to admit it, part of him was still in love with her. Part of him still wanted her to love him. And that part of him knew that it would be as easy as picking up the phone, asking her to tea, and starting over.
But then…his pride (or his rational mind, he wasn’t quite sure which) knew and held one truth above the dense forest of feelings his heart was constantly trying to navigate: She’s never said sorry. Sure, she was changing. It was a transformation that played out in newspaper ink every day, one of sitting as a witness in lawsuits and raising money for Animos’s victims and (if the papers were to be believed) leaving Oxford’s school of politics to study social work. It was impossible to be anything but proud of her as he watched her rip off the costume she’d been wearing for her father. But that didn’t mean he needed to welcome her back into his life. At least, not when she hadn’t made any effort to see him. In the face of everything she’d done, an apology was such a small thing, but he couldn’t think about reaching out to her until he had one, so, he didn’t. They couldn’t start over if she felt the same way she did that night, no matter how many charities she started.
Even now, trudging through thin sheets of snow toward Crowdwell’s, he played out this debate in his mind. Though he didn’t work there anymore in any official capacity, Nan still called him for the occasional repair, and today, he’d been taken away from browsing through websites for London universities by a couple of broken lightbulbs. But he hadn’t been steered from thinking about Sam, not when every window on the High Street was plastered with tabloids bearing her face. Thoughts of her followed him all the way, nagging him with indecision, with want, with uncertainty. By the time he actually reached Crowdwell’s, his skull throbbed with the beginnings of a headache and he wished he’d just sent over a handyman to take a look at the stupid lightbulbs. At least in the safety of his own house, he didn’t have to see Sam everywhere.
Using his spare key, Daniel let himself into the shop, which bore an unusual CLOSED sign. Nan had opened once during a blizzard, but today she’d let a few burned-out bulbs stop her? The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
“Nan?” Stepping into Crowdwell’s and closing the door behind him, he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Total darkness. Not a single light in the entire shop was illuminated. He flipped the light switch just by the door, but still, no light. “Nan, are all the lights out? Hello?”
Nan didn’t answer him. No one answered him. Not verbally, at least. Plunged in darkness, he couldn’t see the response, but he heard it. A single chord struck on a piano reverberated through the air, and a voice—unsteady and shaking, raw and afraid, full of ardor and yearning, the one voice who swore a million times she would never be caught dead doing this—began singing, tentative piano chords humming underneath her song. He recognized the voice. He’d only heard it sung once, but it wasn’t a memory anyone would have forgotten. Last time, it was singing the Beatles. Now?
“Oh, Danny Boy…”
His breath hardened to lead in his throat. The song, the voice… He blinked through the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything. There was nothing but the voice, the sound, and his own beating heart. That traditional melody he’d always loved moved through the darkness, wrapping him up in a melodic embrace.
“The pipes, the pipes are calling.
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer’s gone and all the leaves are falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide…”
In the lull of the verse, another voice, a male voice, called out. “One, two, three, four!”
The darkness of the room shattered as a series of shoddily hooked up lamps and the heaven of fairy lights above him turned on, revealing a whole new world of his bookshop. It was like being drenched in gold. There, in the front, stood a huge grand piano, hastily squished between two bookshelves. Around the piano stood his friends, his neighbors, his jam partners and bookshop customers, all holding some kind of instrument. Whether it was Angie wailing on her found-again trumpet or Freddie pounding on a makeshift drum kit, they all played along in perfect time, shaping the grooves and slides of the song, carrying Daniel alone with the tune.
And there, behind the piano, sat Samantha, singing into a propped-up microphone and focusing on the keys like her life depended on it. The golden light from the fairy lights danced upon her skin and hit the corners of her hesitant smile.
He had seen her in ball gowns and in the light of the full moon, dolled up to the nines and drenched in autumn rain. This was the most beautiful she’d ever been.
The song, too, exploded, breaking from the traditional Irish ballad form into some sort of swing number, a real dance tune that brought him jiving back to their date at the Blitz Ball. It was a musical party, a parade of bright faces and carefree music.
It was an apology. And a love letter. And a celebration of everything that had been good and could be good again.
“But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow.
And when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.”
He stood in the back of the shop, not daring to go any closer to them for fear he would lose himself and fall into her arms.
“Oh, Danny Boy, Oh, Danny Boy…” With brave, uncertain eyes, she met Daniel’s unflinching gaze and finished the musical line with an unfaltering truth. A truth so precious and so dangerous and so, so impossible to deny. “I love you so.”
She bent back low over the keys, like Schroeder in those old Charlie Brown cartoons, her chest heaving for breath as the cobbled-together brass section wailed in a musical interlude, covering the quiet sins of her flawed, heartfelt piano pounding.
“But come ye back when all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead and dead I well may be,
Then you shall find the place where I am lying,
And you shall sing an avé there for me.”
His store was filled with light and hope and music again. A love song replaced the air. Magic hung from the ceiling, so close he could pluck it down and hold it to his chest.
In the musical rush, his mind and his heart took up arms and began battle once more. His heart wanted to soar and join her. His head kept him rooted to the spot. But his memory proved his heart’s unlikely ally.
I don’t want to do anything I’m not comfortable with, he once heard her say. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Yet, there she was, fighting through the notes of a piano score she clearly had only just begun to learn, singing which she was deathly afraid of, and indulging in mu
sic in public, something she swore she’d never do again, something he knew she absolutely hated.
“And I will hear tho’ soft you tread above me.
And then my grave will warm and sweeter be.
For you shall bend and tell me that you love me.
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.”
As the song drew to its close, as the band tightened and moved the song toward its climax and conclusion, Daniel wanted nothing more than to shut out the victory rising in him. He wanted to deny its powerful aura. He wanted to turn away and close his eyes to its light. He wanted to despise her. She’d cured him of love; if he believed anything else, it would mean he was still in love with her, that he’d always loved her and probably always would.
“Oh, Danny Boy, Oh, Danny Boy,
I love you…so…”
The song ended. The band huffed. Then, everything was silent. With promise in their eyes, they all waited for him to say something, anything.
Even knowing that, his mind came up blank. After an awkward silence, Angie got the hint and began shuffling for the exit.
“Well, we’ll take that as our cue. C’mon.”
A mass exodus of musicians made their way out of the shop, trickling out until only Daniel and Samantha remained.
“I have a lot of things to say,” she eventually blurted out, taking the final closing of the door as a green light to speak. “Do you mind if I just come out with it?”
“Yes. Because I have some questions to ask you first.”
She settled onto the piano bench. With her hands in her lap and her shoulders drawn in, she made herself small. “Okay.”
Dammit. There were too many questions to ask, to many variables and uncertainties. He considered his first move before asking the first thing that came to mind. “What the hell was that?”
“‘Danny Boy.’” Her eyes flickered with fear. Unlike when they first started dating, this time, she didn’t try to hide it. Such a small change in her, but one that lifted up the pieces of his cracked heart. “Didn’t you like it?”
“Like it? I…I loved it, but you can’t just waltz back into my life and expect—”
“No, I don’t expect anything.”
“Then why did you do it?” The war inside of him slung arrows and swords in every direction, threatening to tear him apart. He wanted to believe in this new Sam, wanted to open his heart and let her in. But how could he? “Why are you getting my hopes up—”
“Because I love you.” A pause. They locked eyes and he was lost in her. “I love you and I don’t expect you to ever give me another chance, but I love you and I had to tell you. And because I’m sorry.”
“You are?”
She didn’t ask if the question was about if she loved him or if she was sorry, probably because she knew he was asking about both.
“Yes,” she answered both unanswered questions simultaneously. “I’m sorry for what I did, for the ways that I hurt you, for all of the lies and deceit and selfishness. I can never erase it. And I can never make up for it. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be a woman who could one day be worthy of you, knowing every day that you will never take me back.” Nervous energy got the better of her; she rose from the piano bench and began pacing. “I didn’t want to come here until I had done something, you know? Really, really done something to change my life. And to make sure it never happens to anyone else, ever again. So, I came here today to tell you. Or, to sing it to you. I love you and I’m sorry and thank you for showing me that a life without love isn’t one worth living.”
Their eyes met again. This time, she was the first to pull away.
“I guess I’ll just go now. Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again.”
Samantha turned for the door, but he caught her hand in his. Soft eyes found his once again.
It wasn’t a decision, reaching out for her. But he didn’t regret it. Part of love—real love—was forgiveness. And in this moment, he loved more deeply than he ever had before in his entire life.
“Who says I would never take you back?”
“What?”
Pulling her close, he took her other hand in his, cradling them and drinking in their warmth. “You think I stopped loving you?”
“I—”
“Even when my heart was broken, it was still yours. Do you really love me?”
“Yes.” She sniffed a laugh, smiling through a fresh wave of tears welling up in her eyes. “Do you want me to sing about it again?”
“No.” He smiled, his own vision going blurry. “But I would like for you to dance with me.”
“Just dance?” She gazed up at him from under her eyelashes.
“No.”
Daniel dove in and kissed her, pulling her tight against him. This wasn’t a kiss. Not really. It was a meeting of souls, a breaking of heaven, and a vow of devotion all wrapped into one. She’d taught him how to live through heartbreak. He’d taught her how to love. Now, they could start all over. When he pulled away to catch his breath, she tried to catch his lips again, but he held onto his mischievous smile.
“But don’t think you’re getting out of dancing that easily.”
He pulled her to the front door, where he swung it open, revealing all of their friends. They stood in the snow, trying desperately to pretend they hadn’t heard everything the two said.
“C’mon in.” Daniel waved. “We need a band!”
And they danced. Daniel held Samantha in his arms. They were both a little older. Both a little wiser. Both ready to fall back in love.
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Acknowledgments
Writing Society Girl was a truly terrifying endeavor, and I couldn’t have done it without my family and friends who helped me along the way. First, I have to thank my fiancé, Adam, who has been incredibly supportive of my writing, even when it means spending days away from him on research trips to Oxford. My parents, who are all, thankfully, better than the parents in this book, have also been there for me through every hard writing day, revision, and success. I couldn’t do any of this without knowing that they’re all in my corner, cheering me on.
Also, a special thanks to Stephen, who inspired my love of history, introduced me to British society, and taught me the finer points of British firearm law.
I must also give a special thanks to two of my best friends: Shamariah, who answered countless questions on British slang and who listened to every whining Snapchat about how hard it is to write a book; and Andy, who gave me endless music suggestions for this book and encouraged all of my wildest storytelling impulses.
Finally, I have to thank my agent, Rebecca Angus, and my editor, Alycia Tornetta. Without these two, I would still be a frightened author who believed that her words didn’t mean anything and who believed she had nothing to offer the world. Thank you both for your love, your edits, your encouragements, and your help in making this book the best that it can be.
And thank you, dear reader, if you shared this book with me. I hope you found as much hope and joy reading it as I did writing it.
About the Author
Alys Murray is an author who writes for the romantic in all of us. Though she graduated with a degree in Drama from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and a Master’s in Film Studies from King’s College London, her irrepressible love of romance led her to a career as an author, and she couldn’t be happier to write these stories! Currently splitting time between her home state of Louisiana and London, she enjoys kissing books, Star Wars, and traveling. Tobey Maguire is her Spider-Man.
Her debut novel, The Christmas Company, will be adapted as a film in Hallmark Channel’s 2019 Countdown to Christmas. Alys loves connecting with readers, so if you want to get in touch, you can find her at www.alysmurray.com or on twitter at @writeralys.
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