First of all, when you’re sad or lonely, it’s nice to have a wonderful, happy little creature who’s never in a bad mood to sit there with you and … well, I guess, love you.

Second of all, it’s an obvious ploy for Cillian’s attention.

It was so easy. Seeing that Cillian was busy at the bar, I walked up the stairs to his flat and checked under his mat for a spare key. Lo and behold, there was one there, either due to magic memories translating through dimensions or simply because he is predictably trusting. I used it and went in and took Maureen back. I left behind a note.

Hope it’s okay! xoxo, M

I mean if he really cared, he’d probably move the key. I think, deep down, he likes it. At the very least, Maureen gets extra love and playtime while he’s working.

She splashes through the puddles and I do too, not even minding how wet either of us are getting. I take off my hood and let the rain drench my hair, the cool water running down my cheeks, and I feel deeply present. Things aren’t perfect right now. In fact, a lot is really weird and confusing. But I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

I think back to my birthday party, when Barry Keoghan had stood in Grayson’s yard and done this very same thing. It feels like two lifetimes ago. Maybe more.

Once fully drenched and back at the cottage, I fumble for the key and then go inside, letting Maureen race in ahead of me.

As soon as she’s in, she shakes the rain everywhere, which only makes me laugh.

I go to the bathroom for a towel and come back to Maureen, saying, “Come here, pup, good girl.”

She obeys happily, letting me scrub the moisture out of her fur.

I feel almost drunk on well-being. I want to stay here, doing laundry and hand-drying the dishes, picking up coffee and cream from that tiny supermarket. Stopping off at the pub, rehearsing for shows in that old theater. Healing my friendship with Aimee and nurturing the one with Kiera.

And, you know, banging and then hopefully marrying the shit out of Cillian.

Maureen buries her damp head into my chest and it knocks me over. I smile, tell her she’s a good dog for the millionth time, and then stand up, tossing the wet towel into the washing machine before going over to the record player and picking out an album. I choose one of my favorites, one that I always listen to with my mom: A-ha’s East of the Sun, West of the Moon.