I file into the Collins’ foyer behind my parents, my eyes instantly landing on Maeve. She looks so damn good. Tight black dress, long hair tumbling down to her waist, light green eyes sparkling. I pause where I’m at, watching her. But she’s zeroed in on my mother, and I watch them embrace. Something about it makes my heart ache. Maeve’s chin is resting on my mother’s shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. My mother pulls back from the hug, her hands on Maeve’s shoulders, and says something in a low voice that I don’t catch. A look of profound sadness crosses Maeve’s face, and she hurries out of the room. Everyone goes silent for a few moments.
“Uh, let’s go to the sitting room while we wait for dinner to finish up, and for Maeve to rejoin us,” Cormac says, breaking the awkward silence.
My parents and Eoin follow Cormac into the next room while Ronan and I exchange confused glances. Just then, Orin saunters up and claps me forcefully on the shoulder.
“Fellas,” he says, a broad grin on his face. “Great to see you. Let’s go grab a drink.”
“I have a feeling I’ll need more than one tonight,” Ronan replies with a smirk, jerking his chin in the direction that Maeve had fled.
“Don’t be a dick,” I say, shoving my fists into my pockets. “Lead the way, Or.”
The sitting room is exactly as I remember it. Brown leather furniture, off-white walls, a bar in the corner, richly textured rugs on the wood floors. The built-in shelves are packed with books and framed photos. I notice my mother standing there, a drink in her hand, examining the photos closely.
“I haven’t seen these pictures in years,” she says as I move beside her.
I glance at them briefly, not really seeing them. “Mom,” I murmur.
She turns to face me, her sharp eyes searching mine.
“Please, remember not to mention anything to Maeve. Not a word. I want to be the one to tell her everything.”
“Of course,” she says with a nod and a small smile. She touches my shoulder gently as she walks past me toward Cormac and my father, then stops and turns back to me.
“Cal, Maeve has been kept in the dark for so long already. Don’t make the mistake of thinking she can’t handle the truth.”
“I know how to handle Maeve,” I say, knowing it’sbullshyteas it leaves my mouth.
My mother smirks, also recognizing thebullshyte.“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
She strolls away toward the bar, leaving me gritting my teeth. I take a deep breath, then start examining all of the old books that have been there for ages. James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Frank McCourt, Yeats. Thick volumes about Irish history, folklore, and geography. I smile, running my finger across their spines. Suddenly, a framed photo on a higher shelf catches my eye. I smile as I study it.
It had been taken not long before our parents fell out, so we would have been about twelve or thirteen. I smile to myself as the memory comes flooding back. I remember the day it was taken so clearly. Maeve and I had been playing outside at my parents' estate. It was late fall, and the gardeners had raked all of the fallen leaves into piles for Maeve and me to jump into.
When my mother snapped the picture, we were each with an arm wrapped around the other's waist, mid-laugh as we fell into the large pile behind us. Maeve was wearing a light green sweater with pink stitching along the neckline and a pair of blue jeans, her hair wild around her face. I was wearing a white long-sleeved t-shirt that bore the Worcester State University men’s soccer team logo. We both looked so young. Carefree, even. Covered in leaves and twigs, grins wide and innocent. It seems almost impossible to believe there was ever a time we had been that way. I smile again and recall that we spent the rest of the evening out there, jumping into leaf piles and teasing each other until our parents called for us to come back in.
I look past Maeve’s grin at the massive red oak in the photo’s background, the one we carved into about a year after the photo was taken. As far as I know, that oak tree still stands, the carving intact. I haven’t visited it in a few years, but I can still feel it, like the carving is engraved on me, too.
My trip down memory lane is interrupted by the sound of Orin clearing his throat. I turn around and see Maeve glaring in his direction. I look back at her, and our eyes connect like magnets. Her gaze moves over me slowly, taking me in from head to toe. It’s sexy as hell. I try to keep my breathing steady as she stares at my chest. I briefly register that she’s probably taking in my tattoos. I wonder what she’s thinking, whether she’s feeling what I’m feeling. Hot. Nervous. Excited.
I decide to test the waters. I look her up and down, too. Slowly. Deliberately. I’d already stolen a few glances, of course, but now I want her toknowthat I’m looking. I let my gaze trail languidly over her face, her curves, her legs. That tight black dress… damn. I briefly note that her style is now so dark, much less colorful than it used to be. It’s definitely different, but something about it suits her. I let my eyes drift slowly back up to hers. She’s staring at me steadily, cheeks flushed, breathing fast.
God, I just want her to speak to me once, to hear her voice.
Suddenly, Ronan leaves the corner of the room where he’s standing with Orin and casually strolls over to Maeve’s side. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. She jerks her head around toward him and responds coolly, a smirk on her lips, and her eyes are lit up with green fire. Composed. In control. I love it.
As I watch their whispered exchange, I wonder if Maeve is still training with Lorcan on a regular basis. It had been harder for me to get close to her since graduation, and they mostly trained on the Collins estate, where, until tonight, I wasn’t supposed to be seen. We had to keep up appearances, after all.
I suppress a laugh as I watch Maeve brush past Ronan toward the dining room. My mother makes eye contact with me and jerks her head toward the dining room. I shake my head ‘no,’ and she responds with furrowed brows and an eye roll. As much as I want to, I don’t go after Maeve. Not yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a cheerful voice rings out from the doorway that Maeve has just exited.
I turn to see the Collins’ longtime chef, Rory, a portly man with red cheeks, bowing deferentially. “If you will please make your way to the dining room for the first course.”
“Ah, thank you, Rory,” Cormac says, raising his glass.
As everyone files into the dining room, Cormac claps me on the shoulder and says, “Callum, we have you sitting right here next to Maeve.”
I immediately glance at Maeve’s back and see that she has gone rigid. My pulse quickens.
