Page 83 of The Beast
I was less certain about that now.
Not the theology of calamity—I still didn't believe in suffering as a message. But the other thing. The quieter thing. The sense that the sequence of an ordinary Saturday had been tending toward something. That it had been running in a direction I couldn't see until I was already in the middle of it.
Fate was too simple a word. Destiny too grand.
Maybe it was just this: that the world moved, and sometimes you moved with it, and sometimes you moved against it, and the only difference was whether you were paying attention when the door opened.
I had paid attention.
I had run.
I had found what I was running toward.
Brock took my hand in the Killarney lane, and the ring caught the light, and the mountains behind him went gold and extraordinary.
I thought:I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
And I believed it. With my whole self. With the certainty of a woman who had learned, at last, the difference between a life she'd built for everyone else and a life she'd chosen.
