The Long Walk

by Jill Cox

  I could feel my cheeks burning, but it didn’t stop me from smiling. “Bonehead frat boy, huh? Who taught you that expression?”

  “Who else? Molly Sullivan.” A grin lit up his whole face. “Your mother thinks I spend too much time on the Twitter and that it’s affecting my language.”

  “You’re on Twitter?”

  “Of course! How else will we attract young Americans to our tiny corner of the world? And before you mock me, I’ll have you know that I’m quite good. My tweet about McNeely’s chickens went viral this week!”

  “What? How did I miss that?”

  “You’ve been too busy flitting around in Paris,” he grinned. “Listen, darlin’, while you’re home, I’m going to need your help. Your mum’s serious about my language. She’s written down a list of acceptable substitutes, and if I don’t use them, she charges me.”

  “What, like when we were kids? Whenever someone curses, he or she has to put coins in a jar?”

  “Yes, exactly!” He pretended to grit his teeth. “But she only charged you and Ian a quarter per word. She charges me a whole euro! It’s outrageous!”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh so hard that I couldn’t breathe, and before I knew it, we were both laughing so hard that we cackled the rest of the way home. When we pulled into the Juniper House driveway, I grabbed my dad’s elbow.

  “Hold on a second – you never told me what happened to McNeely’s chickens.”

  “What? Oh, nothing. Not yet anyway.”

  “So why did your tweet go viral?”

  He smirked. “I simply let the Twitterverse know that if McNeely let his chickens on our property again, the Juniper House would be serving coq au vin for days. Oddly enough, we haven’t seen a stray bird since.”

  FORTY-THREE

  One week later on Sunday, the first of July, I pulled on Ian’s Kiss Me I’m Irish t-shirt and slipped the Fee charm onto a long silver chain. Digging under my bed, I snagged the flash card out of Ian’s camera, packed my own SLR in its bag, and hopped the first ferry over to Inishmore.

  But this time, I took a shuttle across the island instead of a horse-drawn carriage, and when I reached the top of Dún Aonghasa, I spread out a blanket near the cliff edge. The same cliff edge where Ian had attempted to give Kate our family’s claddagh ring.

  The same spot we’d visited last year after we’d scattered Ian’s ashes across Galway Bay.

  I sat near the cliff’s edge, staring west across the Atlantic as though I could see America. After half an hour, I pulled the camera from my bag and began clicking through the two-year-old images. After the accident, I’d never had the courage to look through either of our flash cards. But as I clicked backward through my own images, I couldn’t help but smile at the memories.

  Like the four of us posing together next to the horse-drawn carriage. Or Pete in his aviators, smiling softly at the redhead reflected in the mirror shades. Or Kate feigning disgust at Ian’s cheesy tourist shirt – the same one I was wearing now.

  I’d just clicked past a macro shot of a four-leaf clover when a shadow crossed the screen. “Well, would you look at that?” A familiar voice said. “If I’d known you could take such gorgeous photos, love, I might have insisted you teach me a thing or two. I’m rubbish with a camera.”

  I lifted my head. “Jack?”

  “Hi.” He took a seat beside me. “Look, I know this is a private moment for you. But I didn’t like the idea you’d be alone today, so I caught the ferry earlier. Are you angry?”

  “Of course not. But how did you know where I would be?”

  “I’m a details man, love.” He reached over to brush a stray hair off my face. “You changed your Facebook cover photo to Dún Aonghasa. It’s today, right? The anniversary of Ian’s death?”

  My throat constricted, and as I nodded, Jack settled in behind me, his legs on either side of me as we both faced out to sea. He took the camera from my hands but kept it outstretched in front of me so I could still see each shot. And when the tears began to fall, he didn’t say a word. He just kissed my cheek and clicked left to the next frame.

  An image of Pete photo-bombing a prissy-looking shot of Kate and Ian popped up, and Jack and I both laughed at the same moment. “Well, hello there, All-American Luke,” he said softly next to my cheek. “Or at least I assume that’s him.”

  “It is.” I chewed on my lip. “But his name isn’t Luke. It’s Pete Russell, actually. And for the record, he was in Paris last weekend.”

  “He…” I felt Jack’s muscles tense against me. “Did you know he would be there?”

  “No.” I twisted to face him. “I swear I had no idea he’d be there, and I know I should’ve told you when we talked Saturday morning, but I just didn’t want to tell you something that weird over the phone. I’m so sorry.”

  Jack’s cheeks lifted into a sad smile. “You don’t need to be sorry, love. I’m pretty sure I understand how it feels when your not-so-fictional past reappears in your present.”

  It was true, of course. He absolutely understood, but for some reason, that made it worse.

  Gesturing back to my camera, Jack continued clicking through the next twenty images – each one a zoomed-in portrait of Pete’s gorgeous, smiling face. “Wow, mate,” Jack laughed. “Spoiler alert: you’ve got a bit of a crush on the photographer.”

  “Stop that.” I stole the camera back from Jack’s grasp and powered off the preview screen. “Never forget my flatmate has an entire photo album featuring your most cringeworthy moments. If I asked, she’d happily hand it over to me.”

  “She hasn’t already?” He chuckled to himself for a moment, then suddenly went still behind me. “Hey, Meredith?”

  “Yeah?”

  He slipped his arms around my waist. “I’ve known you for more than six months. In all that time, I’ve never once asked you Luke’s real name. I never even asked to see a photo of him.”

  “Yeah, I know. Why not?”

  Jack didn’t respond for a very long time. And the longer he took, the more tears slid down my cheeks, because the truth was, we both knew the answer to my question.

  “I never lied to you, Meredith,” he finally murmured, pressing a kiss against my hair. “Everything I told you that day at the Claddagh is true. I do love you, and you did give me hope. I’ve been so happy every single day I’ve known you.”

  “Me too,” I whispered. “So happy. But is it enough?”

  Jack lowered his forehead to my shoulder. For what felt like a week, the two of us sat there on the edge of Dún Aonghasa, our arms and legs tangled up together for the last time. For months, we’d devoted every ounce of energy to protecting one another. From our pasts, from our own broken hearts… and from that liar called Fear who’d ruled both our lives for far too long.

  I wouldn’t hurt Jack Kelly for the world. No doubt he felt the same way about me.

  We hiked the seven miles back down to Kilronan harbor, and when we got there, passengers were already lined up for the ferry back to Galway. Jack glanced over at the people queuing up, then back at me. “Listen, love, I had a six-month anniversary gift made for you. I ordered it a while ago, and it seems a bit silly now, but it’s yours all the same. Here you go.”

  He opened the flap on his messenger bag and slid out a leather-bound book. Embossed in gold on the front cover and the spine was a title: The Long Walk by Jack Kelly.

  I opened the front flap to the first page: a laser-printed color image of Galway’s Long Walk. In the center of the image stood the red façade of McIntosh’s Print Shop, minus the name. All of the buildings were decorated for Christmas, and from the left side of the image sprinted a young woman, her ponytail and light blue scarf trailing behind her.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Is that me? Wait, Jack – is this your new novel?”

  A conflicted smile crept into his lips. “I have at least two more rounds of edits to go before it’s ready, but the County Down team was so clear on their vision for the cov
er that they mocked it up immediately after I signed the contract. That’s a printed copy of the PDF they sent me.”

  I trailed my fingers along the rooftops. “It’s so beautiful, Jack.”

  “I agree.” The smile on his face softened a bit. “I wish I had a better draft ready for you to read. If I’d known… um… anyway, I’m sorry.”

  I laid my camera bag on the ground, balancing The Long Walk on top. “Tell me this, Jack – did you sell Time To Go to those producers last weekend?”

  “Um…” He scrunched up his face. “No. I did not.”

  “Good.” I slipped the claddagh ring off my finger and placed it in his palm. “One of my favorite qualities about you is that you protect what you love. Which is why you need to get on that ferry, hop on the next flight to Heathrow, and place this ring on your true love’s hand. She loves you too, Jack. No one in her right mind would wear that Pogues t-shirt unless she was trying to send you a message.”

  He stared down at the ring in his palm for a very long time. Then he pulled me against him, his arms so tight around me that it took my breath away. When he finally lowered his chin to kiss the top of my head, I couldn’t help but smile.

  Yes, I’d just thrown away a good thing. A very good thing, and for what? For some bonehead frat boy I’d lindy-hopped with once upon a time? Where was that erstwhile Darcy now? I mean, sure, he’d inspired a book-slash-love-letter, but had we actually spoken since I left Paris? No. Why not? Because he had a Brooks.

  And yet, I stood by my decision. I might be a miserable sack of bones, but at least I’d set Jack back on the right path. Purveyor of Hope isn’t such a bad gig, is it? That’s definitely a solid runner-up to soul mate, I don’t care what anyone else says.

  At least, that’s what I told myself as I boo-hooed my way around Emma’s flat the following Wednesday.

  And again on my drive back to Doolin with all my earthly belongings in tow.

  And, you know, every second of the day, every day in July. And all right, fine. Maybe a few days into August. Or eighteen.

  But then one morning, seven weeks after our goodbye, I pulled Jack’s book out from under my bed and began to read. Our entire beginning was there – from that meet-cute at the print shop on Christmas Eve to our first date in the pub and more. He’d switched out his nieces’ St. Stephen’s Day visit to make it his own, but the periwinkles were still there, and so were the northern lights.

  Only instead of carrying forward six months like our real story, Jack’s novel ended on a cliffhanger, with ‘Schuyler’ and ‘Colin’ standing in the Shannon airport on New Year’s Day. Schuyler’s headed back to America to take care of her dead brother’s estate, and Colin has just realized it’s the end.

  “You’re never coming back, are you?” Colin says, his thumb tracing her jaw. “This is the end. Of you plus me, I mean.”

  “Why is everyone so obsessed with the ending?” Schuyler replies, flattening Colin’s palm against her cheek. “Why haven’t we learned yet that the ending is the least important part of a story? The ending is depressing, you know? The pages stop and you’re left with more questions than answers. But the middle? Now that’s what counts. The middle is what keeps us going.”

  I’d never told Jack what Dan had said to me on my birthday. In fact, I’d never mentioned Dan one single time in the six months we’d been together. But there on the page, Jack’s words held the same gift Dan had given me once upon a time. Words I would carry forward for the rest of my life.

  Don’t get stuck back at the beginning. And while you’re at it, stop chasing that perfect ending, too. The middle is filled with a billion magical days.

  Okay, more like ten thousand, give or take a few. Eight thousand if you count all the time wasted on standardized tests and memorizing multiplication tables.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Summer in Ireland never lasts long. As autumn began to creep back into the trees, I packed my bags and headed west to Delaware for Labor Day weekend. My Treehouse roommate Braden Hopkins was marrying the girl of his dreams – Rebekah Stroder, twin sister to our roommate, Ben. After a decade of fighting the feels, Braden had confessed his truth the previous Christmas. Eight and a half months later, Dan and I had the privilege to witness a true love miracle.

  The morning after their gorgeous wedding on the Gatsby coast, Dan and I boarded the Acela high-speed train headed northbound to New York City. One of us had a full week of interviews at his employer’s international headquarters, and the other would spend the next month traveling up and down the East Coast attempting early promotion for her debut novel. Which meant we only had half of Sunday and all of Monday to play tourist before real life began again.

  But by the time the train stopped in Philly, my jet lag kicked in. And for the first time ever, Dan Thomas plucked my last nerve.

  “Stop that frenetic leg-bouncing,” I commanded. “Stop this instant if you value your life.”

  “Sorry.” Dan shifted himself in the chair facing me, then proceeded to bite his nails. “I can’t stop thinking of interview questions I’m not prepared to answer. Like, why is water such an important resource? That seems like an obvious question a water well organization might ask, right? But every answer I come up with sounds ridiculous inside my head.”

  “Oh, Dan. Don’t be silly. They would never ask you such a mundane question. People always ask important questions during interviews, like what’s your favorite band?”

  “I don’t have a favorite band.”

  “Everyone has a favorite band, Danny. And for the record, yours is Queen.”

  “What?” A huff of a nervous laugh escaped him. “No, it’s not.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is me you’re lying to, Daniel. Thanks to you, even the trees between our two former pods know every single word to Queen – The Platinum Collection.”

  Dan’s ears went pink. “Since when are you so observant?”

  “Since your voice surpassed Freddie Mercury’s as the most beautiful baritone I’ve ever heard.” I reached inside my tote, and pulled out a paperback. “Here. Put this to good use and distract yourself for a little while, okay? I don’t want to go to jail for breaking your kneecaps.”

  Dan scanned the cover image, then looked up at me. “Dude. Your name is on the cover.”

  “I know. Go ahead and open it.”

  He flipped past the copyright information and landed on the dedication page. “For the West Coast boys and the East Coast girls,” he read aloud. “You dedicated your book to us?”

  “Of course I did. You were my inspiration, weren’t you?”

  “But, Meredith…” Dan furrowed his brow. “What about your brother? Or your parents?”

  “Who do you think came up with the idea? My dad even pulled out his Paris map and for the millionth time, I had to show him the route each of us took from our respective apartments to the Centre Lafayette. And then he showed me for the millionth time how we should have gone.”

  Dan stared down at the dedication for a few more seconds, then smiled. “Thank you, Meredith,” he said quietly, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, knocking my knee against his. “Now listen, Reardon only sent me three of these bad boys because we’re still in copy edits, which means there are still an embarrassing number of mistakes. I gave the first one to my parents, of course, and the second has to go with me on this festival circuit. But that one is yours to keep forever and always.”

  “What? Meredith, I can’t –”

  “For once in your life, don’t be polite, okay? If anyone deserves a copy of that book, it’s you. I was in bad shape that first week senior year. Like, on-the-edge-of-a-breakdown bad shape. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say you probably saved my life.”

  “What? That’s not true. You just needed a friend.”

  “No, Dan. I needed a brother, so that’s who you became. You quit French with me and made me take creative writing, despite the massive
blow to your GPA. And even though you forced me to learn all those Queen lyrics, you made sure I felt safe every second of every day. You made me laugh whenever I started to cry, you kept me fed and caffeinated…”

  “Technically, Braden did that.”

  “Yes, well, whatever – the entire world thanks you on my behalf, okay? Now, stop arguing with me, because this copy is yours. Thank you in advance for not judging the number of words I’ve left out. But please let me know if you find any because the countdown is on.”

  Dan flipped the book to the back cover and began reading the blurb. When he looked back up, his eyes went soft. “How does it feel to see your whole heart in an eight-by-eleven inch package?”

  “Six by nine,” I corrected. “And it feels like skydiving naked on live TV.”

  Dan lifted an eyebrow. “Nice imagery.”

  “I thought so. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything better as time marches forward.”

  He placed the book in the empty seat beside him, then he leaned forward on his elbows. “What would you say if I told you I’ve fielded no less than a hundred questions about your book this summer?”

  “A hundred questions from multiple sources?”

  “The same source.”

  I crinkled my nose. “The Highgate alumni magazine?”

  “What? No way. Why would I –”

  “I’m kidding. It was the Addison girls, wasn’t it? Because I didn’t get a chance to answer all of their questions about the book this summer, but –”

  Dan shook his head. “Not Kelly, Harper, or Anne. But you’re getting warmer.”

  If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn the blood stopped pumping through my veins. “Um… Marshall Freeman?”