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“I will. Oh, and Callum? It’s not me.” She brushes past me as she goes, pausing only a moment, her hand already on the knob of the back door as she gives me one last look. “It’s you.”
I turn my head and stare straight ahead. I can't watch her walk away, but I’ll have the final word.
In my anger, I call out, “You leave, Fiona, and you’ll never step foot in this house again!”
“Is that a promise?” she hisses.
There’s the sound of the door closing behind her. Then, quiet.
She’s gone.
My heartbeat is the only sound piercing the silence in her wake.
Beating steady.
But broken.
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona
My knees ache, but I won’t quit until I get this stubborn rust ring out of the bathtub. My father kept up as best he could without me, but I’d kill for a proper bath, and I can’t enjoy it unless the tub is sparkling.
The house survived my absence.
The garden? That’s another story. Without my daily battles, the weevils had their way, nibbling up every inch of my plants. Not to mention how thirsty the plants were, with no one to water them.
I feel Dad hovering in the bathroom doorway, watching me clean.
“You can’t spend your days scrubbing the bathroom, Fiona. Go. Live your life.” We don’t talk about Callum or why I was gone. We talk around it. “Now that you’ve had a taste of being away from the island, go on. Get a job in the city. An apartment of your own.”
Now my own father is sending me away. Does no one want me?
Go. Leave.
I blink back tears, scrubbing harder. “No. I won’t leave you. It wasn’t even my decision to leave the island in the first place.”
“Why? I’ve been a terrible father.”
We’ve had the same talk. Round and round. Every day since I’ve been back.
“You don’t give up on family,” I say. Finally, a bit of the rust flakes away. “But now that you’re doing better, I am applying for jobs with full-time work.”
“Good—”
“Jobs that are here on the island, Dad.”
“Fiona…”
“Come on, Dad.” I stand, remove my pink cleaning gloves, and fold them over the tub's edge. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”
“Aye.” He nods. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
We squeeze down the small hall, side by side, off to our evening routine. It’s been lovely spending time with Dad sober. He’s caring and thoughtful.
And he pretends he doesn’t hear me crying into my pillow every night.
Hours spent thinking of him. Missing him and everything he provided for me. It’s not just the money. Yes, money takes the stress out of the day-to-day. You know you have a roof over your head and food on the table; all your needs are taken care of.
