Dom gave me a strange look, then said, “And what are your plans?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know rightly what I’m going to do, Dom. There’s nothing for me in New York. But there’s even less for me in Donegal.”

Before he left to go back to New York, Dom took the notion in his head that I should learn how to swim.

“You’re a fecking eejit, Dom Donnelly, if you think I’m going to set foot in water ever again after what happened.”

“But what if you decide to go back to America? You’ll have no choice but to face your fear of water again. Look what happened on the Olympic. There you were in first class and you locked yourself in your cabin out of fear. Think of all the craic you missed.”

“Well, I’ll not be going back there any time soon, if ever,” I said stubbornly.

In the end, Dom won the argument. He took me to a nearby lake every day and, little by little, I began to get over my fear. If it had been anybody else trying to teach me, I’d have run a mile, but Dom was gentle and patient. I knew I could trust him with my life.

He left in late July. I’d cried when he told me—big, salty tears of despair. We’d become inseparable. What would I do without him now? We rode to Donegal Town together in the pony cart. On the station platform we stood without speaking. I tried to hold back my tears, but when I looked up at him, his own tears had already escaped. I threw my arms around him and held him tight. He tipped his face down to mine and kissed me gently on the lips.

“I’ll miss you,” I whispered.

“Come to New York, then.”

“’Tis too soon.”

“When you’re ready, then.”

I waved until he’d disappeared in the clouds of steam from the train’s engine. Even after the train itself had disappeared, I stood there, unwilling to move. I thought what a lovely lad Dom was. He was worth a thousand Sinclair Shaws. Before New York I would never have given Dom the time of day, but now I saw clearly how wrong I had been.