“We’re going to have to sell up, Connor,” his mom chides. “Eamon was a local fisherman. Very popular. The whole town was at that funeral.”
This makes us laugh even harder. Connor grins at me.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
“Why don’t we all take a seat?” Killian says. “Lunch is ready.”
“It’s Killian’s signatory roast.” Clodagh smiles. “He’s been slaving away in the kitchen all evening.”
I sit opposite Connor and thankfully, the atmosphere is relaxed. I can breathe easy.
Killian serves dinner, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. He must have a big oven because he comes out with enough meat to feed a small army. We’re talking lamb, beef, and turkey, like it’s a medieval feast.
As we dig in, Connor’s mom fires questions at me. She’s got this breezy demeanor that puts me at ease, but I can tell she’s trying to suss me out, to figure out if I’m worthy of her son.
They all seem like a really down-to-earth family, if you can forget that we’re sitting in a multimillion-dollar house that has round-the-clock armed security surveillance.
“It’s so good to see you smiling, Connor,” his mom says as soon as there’s a moment of silence. She grasps for his hand, diamond bracelets glinting. “We’re worried about you, sweetheart.”
The air is the room shifts, just a tad, but enough to make my heart race.
“Hmm? No need to worry about me,” Connor dismisses with a rough edge to his voice.
“Darling, we’re aware something’s amiss. You can’t just wall yourself off. In times like these, you need your family,” she says, her voice laced with concern, but there’s an underlying steel that suggests she’s not going to back down easily.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
Connor’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. “What are you talking about, Mom?” he asks slowly—tooslowly.
“Come on, man, enough’s enough. Just tell us the truth,” Killian says. “We’re aware there’s something you’re not telling us about your health. Let us in, let us help.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did he have to lead with the health thing? My throat goes dry as I swallow hard. Connor’s going to put two and two together and realize Killian and I had a little chat.
Connor goes rigid, his shoulders tensing. “What ‘truth’ are you after?”
He puts down his knife and fork with a deliberate, almost ominous calmness, the silverware clinking against the plate.
He leans back in his chair, his eyes locked on Killian’s. Blue on blue.
Suddenly, the massive dining area feels claustrophobic. I wish I could hide under the table, or better yet, disappear altogether.
I clutch my fork in a death grip, taking a bite of lamb just to have something to do, my unease growing by the second. Now I feel every bit the intruder in this excruciating family moment.
Killian’s idea of an intervention is like a grenade with the pin pulled. No gentle prodding. Nope, he’s taken the “health” pin out and rolled it into the room already, consequences be damned.
Why didn’t I realize this would happen? Killian is no Dr. Phil when it comes to emotional intelligence.
And now, as I sit here, my heart in my throat, I’m almost positive agreeing to this dinner was a huge mistake.
“We need to tackle this head-on. Your wellbeing is our priority, not business or anything else,” Killian declares, oblivious to the emotional shrapnel flying around him.
“I knew something wasn’t right,” his mom says. “You can’t fool your own mother.”
Oh god. This is the worst intervention in history.
“For fuck’s sake,” Connor growls, looking between them in utter disbelief, like he can’t quite process what’s happening. “Is this what this dinner is really about? Some kind of ambush?”
I try to nervous-eat another spoonful, but my hand is shaking so badly that a pea flies off my plate, hitting the floor with a pathetic little thud.
