by Mari Carr
The swimsuit was a little lower cut than she usually went for, but she’d decided what the hell. The shopping excursion for the trip had been Padraig’s cousin Yvonne’s idea. And Yvonne had promised Mia that Padraig’s eyes would bug out of his head if he saw her in this swimsuit.
At the time, Mia had assured Yvonne that wasn’t something she was trying to do. And this morning, when she’d donned it, she had still felt that way. Her headache had come at the perfect time, reminding Mia why pursuing anything beyond friendship with Padraig was a bad idea.
“True love, huh?” Padraig leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “That would be Allyson Murray.”
“Still in high school?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Met her two years after graduation. She waits tables at one of the local seafood places. Or at least, she did. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what she’s doing now. We dated for a year and a half, and I’m not going to lie, I thought she was the one.”
“What happened?”
“An old boyfriend hopped back on the scene. He’d graduated from college with his fancy business administration degree, and apparently that looked like a better future to her than a guy waiting tables in his family’s pub.”
“Seems like a silly reason to break up with someone if you’re in love.”
He shrugged. “You’re right. Once I stopped drowning my sorrows after she dumped me, I put two and two together and figured out my feelings were more engaged than hers. Sort of made it easier for me to move on.”
“Anyone else since then?”
“A few, but none of them stuck for one reason or another. One woman cheated on me. Another got a better job in New York and neither of us was ready to take it to the next level to stay together. Life takes funny turns sometimes. I think if Jenny hadn’t gotten that job in New York, she and I might have made it to the altar. But the job came too soon in the relationship and that was that.”
“Yeah. Funny turns.” Or unfunny turns, she thought, though she didn’t say it. She’d say her life had missed the turn and she was currently taking a Thelma-and-Louise style nosedive off the cliff.
“Okay. Your turn. First love.”
She grinned. “Schoolyard or serious.”
“Surprise me.”
Mia glanced toward the water, wondering where to begin. Her past relationships, though fewer and less serious, sounded a lot like Padraig’s. People meeting and connecting at the wrong time.
“I dated a lot of guys in high school. But none of them were serious boyfriends, and while we made out and stuff, I actually didn’t lose my virginity to any of them. At the time, my primary objective in life was to piss my mother off. So I’d bring these guys home, we’d make out on the couch, she’d get home from work and lose her shit. Always screaming that if I got knocked up, she’d make me get an abortion because there was no way she was raising another unwanted kid.”
Padraig’s smile turned to a scowl, and Mia realized she hadn’t really meant to reveal that. She’d never told anyone about her mother’s cruelty. Or the things she’d done to provoke it. She and her mother had always had a caustic relationship. When she was younger, it was easy to blame her mother for all the hate, but now, Mia could see she hadn’t done anything to help the situation. Most times she went out of her way to make everything worse.
“I hope I never meet your mom,” Padraig said darkly. “I’m not sure what I’d say to her, but I promise you it wouldn’t be nice.”
“You’ll never meet her.” She sighed and decided to get them back on track, move the conversation back to safer topics. “My first love was named Laurence. He was the manager of his dad’s ice cream store at the mall where I had a part-time job. We dated my whole senior year. He was twenty-one and had his own place. I was sleeping on a couch at my friend’s house, so a couple, three times a week, I’d spend the night at his place. My friend’s family was perfectly nice, but there was always this underlying atmosphere that told me I was imposing. So, I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible so I wouldn’t bother them or wear out my welcome.”
“Was Laurence a good guy?”
“I thought he was. At first. I was actually crazy about him. He was cute and charming and he swept me off my feet.”
“You said at first. What happened later?”
“Shortly after I graduated from high school, I suggested that maybe I should move in with him. He laughed and said that his other girlfriends wouldn’t like that.”
“What a prick!”
Mia laughed, loving Padraig’s heated response. “Yep. He was a total dick.”
“Please tell me there were some nicer guys in your past.”
“Just one. Mark. And he and I split for the same reason you and Jenny did. I got the job here in Baltimore and we just didn’t see a future together. Didn’t mean he wasn’t a great guy. We had a lot of fun together. It just wasn’t going to be anything more than dating.”
Mia wiped her brow, hot from lying in the sun so long. “Should we do the lazy river again? Cool off?”
Padraig nodded, taking her hand to help her up. However, he used that grip to tug her closer. Wrapping his arms around her, her breasts pressed against his chest, he lowered his head, intent on kissing her.
Mia pushed back, her retreat stopping him.
“Mia—”
“Please, Paddy. I don’t think we should kiss anymore.”
His frown grew. “Why not?”
She blew out a long, sad sigh. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”
Padraig’s voice was deep with something that sounded a lot like anger. “How are you hurting me?”
“Don’t make me say it. Don’t make me spell it out.”
He released his grip on her, his expression a mix of frustrated and sad. “I know what I’m doing, Mia.”
She dug deep, determined to hold to her resolve. The headache helped ground her, helped her remember why starting a relationship was wrong. She was going to die. Which meant Padraig would be left behind to deal with the aftermath. If they continued to grow close, her name would be added to the list of women who’d broken his heart in the past. She didn’t want to do that to him. There was precious little she could control in her life at the moment. But this she could. “Let me do the right thing.”
“This isn’t the right thing.”
She put her sunglasses back on, not because of the brightness, but because she hoped it would hide the tears she was trying not to shed. “I think it is.”
“Dammit, Mia,” he said loudly. “I care about you. God, I’m attracted to you. You’re everything I’ve been looking for in a woman.”
“Including the tumor?” It was a snarky, shitty thing to say, and she regretted it the instant it flew out.
“Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t do that.”
She turned away from him, watching the families, parents with their kids, laughing as they reached for noodles, racing toward the cave that served as an entrance to the lazy river. Padraig was made to be a husband and a father. She couldn’t give him that. “Happily ever after isn’t in the cards for me.”
“I don’t believe that.”
She gave him an incredulous glare. “You see this ending well?”
“I don’t think there’s a certain time limit you have to hit before you can use the words ‘happily ever after.’ You’re defining it all wrong. You seem to think a happy ending only comes after years and years of being with someone. My grandma Sunday died in her forties. Do you think if my Pop Pop had known the ending, he would have walked away from her, thrown away what they shared, what they felt for each other, simply because he was going to live fifty years longer than her?”
Mia stopped trying to hold back the tears. “Of course not,” she whispered.
She had only had a handful of conversations with Pop Pop, and he’d mentioned his beloved Sunday in nearly all of them, quoting something she always used to say, or pointing out how one of his ki
ds or grandkids was like her. Mia had always assumed Sunday had died an old woman, that her death had been more recent.
To find out she’d died so young…
Mia wasn’t sure what to do with that fact.
“No one gets guarantees in life, Mia. I could walk out of this park and get hit by a car. Boom. It’s not the end that matters. It’s the life you live before the end. I’m not walking away from you, from us, simply because we know the ending beforehand. You know, in some ways you can look at that as a curse, but in others, it might be a blessing. You’re not taking anything for granted like the rest of us, who just keep marching around aimlessly like we’ve got all the time in the world. You have the chance to make your days count. And not just some of them. All of them.”
She swiped the tears, swiping the back of her hand under her runny nose. “That’s just it, Paddy! I have days. You have years. Why would you sign on for certain heartbreak?”
“Heartbreak comes after love. If you want the love, you have to risk the hurt. I’m not afraid, Mia.”
Mia bit her lower lip, struggling to stem the tears. She still wasn’t willing to give in, but he’d punched a hell of a hole into her resolve.
“Mia,” he whispered, turning her toward him. She didn’t resist the soft kiss he gave her, but she didn’t move to deepen it and she didn’t reach out to touch him, even though she desperately wanted to.
He sighed as he pulled away. “Will you promise to at least consider what I’ve said?”
She nodded, her throat too constricted to speak.
“Good.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the edge of the water. “Come on. We’re not screwing up any of our days in Florida. We’re here to have fun, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Mia pushed her fears deep inside, desperate to give Padraig the vacation he deserved. He was right. They’d lost too much time to her illness. Hell, even when her head didn’t hurt, she was letting it impact things.
Enough.
She’d promised to consider what he’d said. She wasn’t sure how she’d be able not to. Everything he said was beautiful, sweet, comforting.
And terrifying.
9
April 25
Padraig stood outside the Musée d’Orsay and gave a fake groan. He’d been teasing Mia about his reluctance to spend a day at a museum ever since they’d begun preparations for their trip.
They’d spent the better part of the day before yesterday traveling, leaving Orlando in the afternoon, enduring a brief layover in Miami, then flying overnight to Paris. Rather than stay in a hotel, they’d rented an apartment for their four days in the City of Light.
Neither of them had managed to sleep much on the flight, something they’d considered when planning their Parisian excursions. They’d remained close to the apartment yesterday, napping until late afternoon, then heading to a local French restaurant for dinner.
Today was the beginning of their true Paris adventure. And they were here, Padraig sighed dramatically, at an art museum.
Mia rolled her eyes at him. “You know, a little culture wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You realize France is known for wine. I say we do a couple of wine tastings, get tipsy and make out in front of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Come on.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him up the stairs to the entrance.
He hadn’t tried to kiss her since their talk at Discovery Cove. He’d told Mia how he felt, what he wanted. Ultimately, the decision was hers. He certainly wouldn’t force her into something she didn’t want.
The problem was, he could tell she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was denying them the chance to take things to the next level because she felt like it was her job to protect his feelings. While he respected her for the attempt, it also frustrated the hell out of him.
They entered the museum, and Padraig was instantly taken aback by the size and sheer grandeur of the building.
“Whoa.”
She smiled at him, clearly pleased that he was as overwhelmed as she was. “It’s even better than the pictures online,” she said softly.
They grabbed a map, then started walking along the grand entryway.
The massive foyer was lined with huge marble statues. Padraig leaned down and whispered, “You didn’t tell me there was nudie art. I wouldn’t have complained so much.”
Mia giggled. “You’re terrible. Behave yourself.”
They stopped to look at anything that caught their eye. He was surprised to discover how much Mia knew about art.
“I took an art appreciation class online. It was the only course I took that didn’t have a darn thing to do with my associate’s degree. I found so much of it fascinating.”
They walked into one of the galleries and Padraig meandered over to where a large group of people stood, taking photos of a painting. Stepping closer, he read the plaque on the wall and his eyes widened.
Mia caught up, stopping next to him. “What is it?”
“Van Gogh,” he said reverently. “It’s a van Gogh.”
“Oh, I remember studying this in my class. It’s a painting of his actual bedroom.”
“I can’t believe I’m standing in front of an honest-to-God van Gogh painting.”
Mia clasped hands with him, squeezing his. “You made fun, but you’re an art fan too.”
“I didn’t think I was until this moment. I didn’t expect to be so…” He struggled to find a word to describe his sudden rush of emotion. “Excited. Moved.”
“And we haven’t even made our way to the top floor where the rest of the Impressionists are yet. I bet those paintings knock your socks off.”
“Show me,” he said, allowing her to lead the way. They climbed the stairs, making their way to the exhibit that had drawn Mia to the museum to begin with. He’d originally questioned her desire to come to the Musée d’Orsay, as opposed to the more popular Louvre across the river.
Her answer had been Renoir.
Padraig had Googled the artist that night, and he began to understand.
“Wow,” Mia whispered as they entered the large room that housed the paintings of so many famous Impressionists, artists even he’d heard of despite not being a fan of the medium—Monet, Manet, Cézanne, and Degas.
“It’s a Mary Cassatt.” Mia stopped before a large painting of a girl sitting in a garden. “I love the colors of this. Did you know she was a friend of Degas?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m basically a blank slate here.”
She grinned. “That’s kind of what’s great about art. You don’t have to know anything about the artist or the painting. You can simply look at the artwork and decide how it makes you feel.”
Padraig looked back at the Cassatt painting. “Wonder what she’s sewing so intently.”
Mia shrugged. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind spending some time, sitting in the midst of all those flowers. I could do without that long dress though.”
They continued walking until they stopped before Degas’s “The Ballet Class.”
“It’s just incredible, isn’t it? So many of these paintings were created in the late eighteen-hundreds. To think that something so beautiful could survive a Great Depression, revolutions, wars.”
“Did you ever take a ballet class?” Padraig asked when Mia continued to linger, studying the painting.
She shook her head. “No, but my best friend in middle school was in ballet. My grandma and I went to watch her in a recital once, just a few months before my grandmother died. Grandma said she’d sign me up for dance class the next fall, but it never happened. She got sick, and then…”
She didn’t finish her comment. She didn’t have to. It was clear the painting evoked a memory that made her sad. As he looked around the room, Padraig studied the faces of the visitors rather than the artwork, and he understood. The expressions of the other patrons reflected so many different emotions, from wonder and awe to sadness to joy.
It was time to find a new
emotion for Mia. She’d been knee-deep in sadness for too long.
Padraig glanced around and spotted something familiar from his internet search. The perfect distraction. “Hey, isn’t that a Renoir?”
Mia’s eyes widened with excitement as she turned to look. “It is.”
They wandered along, taking in her favorite artist’s work. She knew a lot of information about each piece that she shared with him. He noticed that many of Renoir’s works were portraits of people who’d lived during the artist’s time, and those were the ones Mia studied the longest.
When they reached the portrait of a young girl in a white blouse, Mia whispered, “Oh!”
“A favorite?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve actually never seen this one. She’s beautiful.”
Padraig studied the dark-haired girl and agreed that Renoir had captured her very well, from her wispy black hair to her rosy cheeks to the lace on her blouse.
He looked at the nameplate next to the painting and attempted in very poor French to read the name of the painting. “Jeune fille assise. Helene Bellon, c. 1909.”
Mia giggled at his terrible pronunciation, but didn’t bother to correct him. Probably because her French was just as bad. They decided their first night in the city that they would have been smarter to try to learn at least a few French words before traveling to Paris. As it was, they were two lost souls with three years of high school Spanish between them and no more than half a dozen French words in their arsenal.
Last night at dinner, they’d merely pointed to things on the menu and hoped for the best. It had made the dining experience an adventure to say the least, considering they didn’t have a clue what they were getting.
“I love this portrait.” She turned back to the painting and he tilted his head, looking at it closer, trying to figure out what it was about this one that spoke to her.
“Why?”
“It’s her eyes. God, they say everything, don’t they?”