Page 22 of Beneath the Quiet

I open the glass door and turn on the shower head. As the water turns warm and I step underneath it, a soft moan slips through my lips, and I sigh when the jets beat down on my neck.

Right now, I’m more content than I’ve been for weeks. Dublin seems like a lifetime ago, but the moment my fingers touch the scar tissue on my tummy, I wince, and my peace disappears. Unwanted memories of terror push and prod just below my conscience, and I squeeze my eyes shut as my memory pushes flashes of images of that fateful day to the forefront, threatening to take over.

“Ugh. Don’t go there, Maeve Gallagher.”

I start counting.

One, two, three, four….

When I’ve reached ten, I start over again.

And again.

I keep counting until the flashes and sounds fade away. I grab my shampoo from the built-in shelf and lather up, giving the soothing task my full attention. I keep my eyes fixed on the cream-coloured tiles on the wall. The tension ebbs away the longer I massage my scalp, then I rinse the shampoo out of my locks. I start all over again with the conditioner. All the steam has covered the glass, leaving me in a cocoon, and grateful that my heartrate has returned to normal once I’ve finished, I turn off the shower and grab the towel to dry off.

My mind is blank with a practice that I’ve had to work really hard at to master. I wrap my hair in a towel and walk out of the bathroom. Despite all that’s happened, I’m comfortable in my own skin, and I don’t feel compelled to cover my nudity. Not anymore, and not ever again. I glance out my bedroom window. A sting of regret hits me when the sound of rain outside reaches me in the quiet house. I had hoped the sunny weather from the past week would continue today, but it looks like I’m out of luck.

“Sweater weather it is, then.”

Briskly, I open the drawers to select the most comfortable and sensible outfit I can find. My stomach rumbles, and I quickly put on a lilac set of underwear and a long-sleeved grey merino wool shirt before I head back into the bathroom to dry my hair. Once I’ve finished, relishing in the normalcy of everyday tasks even though it always feels like it takes hours to tame my hair, I sit down on the small bench at the head of my bed to pull on a pair of socks and my faithful black jeans. I grab a dark-brown fleece vest from the white, built-in closet, and no sooner have I left the bedroom than I scramble back and aim straight for the small table next to my bed. I reach for the simple gold locket Nellie and Jack gave me for my sixteenth birthday, shake my hair to the side to bare my neck, and put it on.

“Can’t forget this.”

When I hear the soft clasp fall into place, a tremor of relief shakes me. It disappears as quickly as it arrived.

Now, I’m ready to face the day.

Even old bulls and their even older, stubborn owners won’t faze me now, should I be unlucky enough to run into them.

The moment I think about the bull debacle, an intense pair of silver-grey eyes enters my mind, and I put my now cold hands on my heated cheeks.

Since I met Aidan out mending the alpaca fences yesterday, he’s been in my thoughts more times than I care to admit. I still can’t believe I gave him my phone number, but what’s almost worse is the many times I’ve considered texting him since then. The warmth and pent-up need that flares inside me when he’s close is one I’ve only started to recognise from the books I read, and I’m not sure how much that says about me.

Am I so lonely that even the attention of a new friend sets off a fire inside me?

“Ugh. Pull it together, Maeve.”

I shake my head at my silly thoughts and push the delicious farmer to the far recesses of my mind. Instead of lusting after a man, a single father, at that, I’d better unpack one of my boxes and find my faithful toy. It’s all I need to keep me satisfied, especially after my break-up with Colin.

I wrinkle my nose, unwilling to head down that road, and instead, I walk downstairs to make that cup of coffee I’m in desperate need of.

It only takes me ten minutes to reach the heart of the village, Roísin’s bakery, Buns & Beans, and I can’t stop smiling each time I walk inside and hear the cheerful sound of the bell ringing above the door.

It’s just so very Irish and traditional.

Comforting and welcoming.

I love it.

The scents of flour, cinnamon, cardamom, and chocolate tease my nostrils and make my mouth water. I get the feeling that I’ve taken a step back in time when I walk inside. The bakery aisle is narrow, giving way to a larger room at the back with a few tables and chairs where customers can have a chat while enjoying a cup of coffee or tea.

I breathe deeply and patiently stand behind a young girl decked out in her grey-green school uniform whose head reaches my chin. I admire her sandy-coloured hair with the French braid for a second before I glance at the long line and patiently roam the bakery, settling in to wait until it’s my turn. Roísin is behind the counter, along with a teenage boy with gangly arms and legs, and a pimpled chin and cheeks. He’s focused on preparing a coffee from the steel industry-looking machine behind her. I admire his dedication. They’re both chatting easily with their customers, never letting on that they’re stressed or busy. I observe them for a little bit and shuffle forward a step as the line moves, looking up at the chalkboard hanging behind them and reading the offers of the week. Even though I have a soft spot for the cinnamon buns, I’ve also tried their sandwiches and have my mind set on one of those as well.

The girl in front of me is up next.

“Hiya, Roísin.”

Roísin beams at her.