The village of Kerry was begrudgingly quaint: neat clusters of red brick buildings surrounded by seemingly endless rolling hills. Even the weather was determinedly pleasant with the sky a sea of cobalt and the sun shining warmly down onto the red-tiled roofs.

The cab came to a slow halt as we waited for a meandering flock of sheep to pass us by. An older gentleman with sun-worn skin followed leisurely behind. As he crossed in front of us, he tipped his hat toward the driver, who in turned waved amiably as we finally rolled on.

I groaned internally.

It was like a bloody post-card and made the city look positively barbaric by comparison. It was impossible to imagine sirens wailing in the middle of the night here or any crime occurring to inspire their calls. Meanwhile, those were the nightly lullabies of the city.

I couldn't resent Emma's decision to move back home. She had been afraid and not without reason. In the past few months, she had been assaulted and routinely manipulated by power-hungry business people.

After everything she had been through-and everything my position had put her through-she wanted to feel safe again. And by all appearances, there could be no safer feeling place than Kerry.

The pounding in my head increased as my thoughts turned more and more tumultuous. We passed a sign advertising takeaway fish and chips and my stomach roiled in protest.

I had gone out the night before with Charlie, as I had most nights since Emma left. We'd initially been good about avoiding the cameras, but, as the benders became more frequent, it was only a matter of time...

Emma had called me the night before. When I saw her picture flash across my phone I immediately assumed she was calling after having seen some unflattering picture. In my drunken stupor, I convinced myself she was calling to end things, so I avoided the call and instead finished the bottle of rum.

As soon as I awoke in the morning, I regretted both decisions-Cynthia made sure of it.

The moment she saw me stir with life, she poured a stiff shot of rum and wickedly waved it under my nose. I immediately convulsed and scrambled for the loo.

I glared at her between the heaving, while she merely watched on in placid indifference from the doorway. When I was finished-and sure there was nothing else that could possibly come back up-I closed the lid of the toilet and flushed.

I leaned back wearily against the tile wall as Cynthia slowly made her way over to me. She perched herself gracefully on the closed lid and looked down on me. She said nothing, but under her stare, I could feel the prickling of tears in my eyes. I swallowed my now raw throat and looked away.

"Thanks for letting me crash here last night," I rasped.

"You weren't fit to be home alone... might have choked on your own vomit."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I surprised us both my laughing.

Neither of us said anything more until Cynthia eventually broke the silence in a whisper.

"This isn't working, Tommy."

I shook my head.

She was right, it wasn't. During the week I was drowning myself in work and charity functions, and at the weekend I was drowning myself in whatever alcohol the bartender of the night preferred.

"Have you spoken to her recently?"

I glanced up at my sister-her beautiful features furrowed in concern-and shook my head again.

"I can't imagine she's fairing much better," she commented.

I shrugged and allowed my shoulders to slip farther down the wall. "She seems be getting on just fine to me."

"And you look like you're having the time of your life in those awful photos plastered everywhere," she retorted.

I flinched at the volume and weight of her words. Cynthia sighed heavily before standing up and roughly ruffling my hair.

I groaned in protest while attempting to swat her away, but she easily evaded my pathetic efforts.

"Just... call her," she muttered as she left the bathroom. "And take a shower! You smell revolting."

***

As the hot water pummeled my taught muscles, I tried to rehearse what I would say to Emma on the phone. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, how often I thought of her, but everything I thought to say sounded hollow and trivial.

I rubbed at my chest where I could feel my heart contracting.

If she really were calling to break up with me, it won't matter what I say. She'll already have made up her mind-like she had with moving to Kerry.

But like her moving to Kerry, if she wanted to end our relationship, I'd make her look me in the eyes first.