Side note: I had a guest. His name is Dagr Griffiths, and he also got caught in the storm. See! I wasn’t the only one who thought they could make it out in time.
When I first saw Dagr from behind, I thought it was Bran or Pat. I know. Crazy. In my defense, how many people do you know with white, WHITE hair besides your sons and grandsons?
Well, it’s that white and his frame is similar to my brothers’. What was I to think? Anyway, he is great. He’s a solicitor in London. He grew up in Wales, though. I’ll tell you more about his job when I get to know him better.
I should have mentioned that we’ve decided to stay friends. I admit that I think he’s handsome, but I think he is only interested in friendship. Since I’ve gotten on the ferry, I’ve decided that it’s probably for the best.
He came along when I needed someone who was just mine. I know you know what I’m saying. You loved your whole family, but you had Mom. She was your person. I think Dagr could be mine.
You would like him. Of that, I am sure. Who knows, someday he might become friends with the rest of the family. For now, though, I’d like to keep him to myself.
I do promise never to forget the sat phone on any big hikes. #Regrets.
Mom sounded good on the phone. I know you probably always worry. I do too.
Back to the hike, I took a ton of pictures and plan on developing some of them to stick in this journal. Wales doesn’t have big predators like the States, so the pics are mostly of small, scurrying animals, sheep, goats, and wild horses. No big predators around these parts, thank Christ. Your home country can keep them.
So, I intended to write daily on this hike. There were a few impediments to putting pen to paper every day. I will still write to you, but not every day.
I want to give you my thoughts and feelings, and when they’re important enough, I will. I want to mark important events by talking to you this way. It helps me, and I’d like to believe that you know I’m doing it.
You will always be my dad.
You’ll always be my best friend.
You’ll always be my hero.
Until I pick up a pen again, you have my love, Dad.
Your daughter,
Bébhinn
twenty-nine
THE WATCHER
He had been steamingwith frustration, wishing that his was a personality that lent itself to violence so that he could vent some of the aggression thrumming in the pit of his stomach onto someone else.
Regrettably, he was a pacifist who enjoyed a low-key lifestyle. He’d joined the hiking club in Dublin because Bébhinn was a member, and then studied night and day about the outdoor activity.
Truly, it was a miracle that he’d been able to find his way to Conwy after the storm, and he probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t had tracks to follow.
He’d never been the best student in class or entrepreneurial. He wasn’t boring, but he was far from charismatic. His only tech skills included linking a Ring camera to his phone, which was how he was currently inside her bedroom.
By the time he’d gotten a ride to his vehicle and driven to Holyhead, he’d barely made the last ferry. He was finally home,in their new apartment, sipping on wine and watching Bébhinn sleep.
She was in her favored position. Her legs and head were slightly twisted to the left while her back remained flat on the mattress.
He was disappointed she chose to wear such a large shirt and shorts to bed. He loved to prop his phone on his nightstand and watch the tiny tank tops she preferred to sleep in shift while she moved, where he could catch glimpses of her smooth, creamy skin and the top swells of her firm breasts.
He couldn’t imagine going to sleep without her soft breaths and sighs next to him. The Wales hike hadn’t ended as he’d hoped, but she was still his. There had been no romantic gestures between Bébhinn and that man who must have sheltered through the storm with her.
She hadn’t strayed. She was still his.
There would be another opportunity for grand gestures.
He would make sure of it.
