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She’s not going to answer. I can’t blame her. If she wants nothing more to do with me, with who I really am, then I won’t force her to.
I’m standing upright. Tall as a leader. But it feels like there’s an enormous weight pressing down on my chest. If I have to take this next step without her, then I will.
At least it’ll spare me the guilt of pulling her down into this world with me. She’s always been too good for—
A light flashes in her bedroom window. Then another. Two quick pulses, the letter I.
I don’t breathe. My every muscle is frozen as I watch and count. An accused man waiting for his verdict. Most likely his death sentence.
IT WAS YOUR DUTY
My lungs release air like a stabbed balloon. The blood in my body starts rushing again. Whether or not she forgives me, she understands.
Chapter 37
Brioni
The next morning, I’m up in time for work, thanks to my body’s routine. There’s no prickling in my scalp, which I chalk up to the confusion of all my emotions, of every sensation inside me.
I shower and pad downstairs, trying to convince myself it’s a regular day. In the kitchen, I find a note tucked into the screen of my backyard-facing window.
It’s in Orla’s handwriting. She placed it exactly where I leave the envelopes of petty cash for Kieran. The youngest O’Sullivan does yardwork for me sometimes, which is supposed to count toward his volunteer hours, so the payments are our little secret. But clearly, Orla knows.
The way she knows about everything.
Her note features the same greeting she always uses when writing to me, even in emails.
Darling Brioni,
Antoine said to take the day off. Family dinner tonight at our house, six o’clock. Bring dessert.
Love, Orla
P.S. Kieran’s already had his talking-to about the definition of “volunteer.”
I can’t help but smile at that. Somehow, Orla also knew what I needed this morning, a sense of homey normalcy.
I’m standing on a kitchen chair when I hear the knock at the front door. Liam’s knock. My heart rate spikes, sending my whole body into a rush. I nearly slip off the chair in my scramble to open the door.
He’s beautiful in the early light. His dark wavy hair is still damp from the shower, his jaw smooth from a fresh shave, his green eyes bright despite the overcast sky. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, and carrying a black duffel bag in one hand. In the other, he’s holding out pancake mix.
I leap off the doorstep to throw my arms around him, and the duffel bag drops to the porch floor. Liam’s so strong that he doesn’t stumble backward, but he is surprised. He takes an extra beat before wrapping his arms around me, then burying his nose in my hair, the box of pancake mix pressed against my back.
It feels so good to be held by my best friend again. He’s a killer when he has to be, because he’s about to ascend to his mafia throne.
And he’s the man I love.
When we break apart, we don’t say anything—we simply stare at each other in the morning light. Then I take him by the hand and lead him inside, barely giving him enough time to scoop up the duffel bag. I’m hungry for pancakes.
It used to be a Saturday morning tradition for us. The first weekend after Mam left, Liam came over just like this, handsome and helpful and here for me.
“Were you reaching for something?” He indicates the chair in front of the cabinets, ready to climb onto it himself.
I preempt him by stepping onto it, and he automatically grips my thighs to steady me. The heat of his palms through my pants blazes up my legs and straight to my core. I feel dizzy with the rush of want for him, and I brace myself against the cabinets for support.
When I glance down, the glaze in Liam’s eyes isn’t hunger for pancakes. He tightens his grip on my thighs ever so slightly, and I have to swallow before I’m able to refocus on what I was doing. What I need hides way back on the top shelf: a small plastic box that’s unforgotten but out of sight.
When I pull it out, Liam holds up his hand to take it from me, setting it on the counter before helping me down safely.
