“Sloane’s color looks off,” she mumbles under her breath.
I glance at my sleeping angel. “She’s pink and perfect.”
“Too pink.”
“She’s grand, love.”
I see her swallow down a wave of fear. She’s a fortress. A tired, overworked fortress with a dented gate and no drawbridge.
“Why hasn’t Linus called?” Avonna chews on her thumbnail.
“He texted.” I show her my phone. “Things are runnin’ late.”
He’s with Peach Harvest in Zurich. One of his longtime clients hit the top of the charts all over the world this year. The show is a big deal and a huge opportunity for Isis. Not to mention a massive paycheck.
Avonna and I are on full-time parent duty with infants, which means Fireball isn’t touring and neither of us has steady income anymore. Linus has to keep us afloat, even if work takes him farther away from us.
He’s making a monumental sacrifice, missing these first months with our daughters. Avonna and I should be writing, it was the plan up until the reality of having two babies knocked us over the head with a two-by-four.
Fireball is on shaky ground. Padraig is off galivanting with Mara somewhere. He’s been distant since the girls were born and I don’t blame him. The band was finally gaining traction and now we’ve been out of the game for nearly a year. He suggested we take an official break and reconvene in a few months to decide if we want to go on.
I refused. I can’t let him quit. As far as I’m concerned, the situation is temporary and the band will figure out a long-term solution soon.
A soft knock lands on the door.
Avonna lifts her chin on high alert. “Check first before you open the door.”
I peek through the window. It’s my parents.
“They’re here.” I glance back at her.
“Oh, good.” Avonna nods. “Remember they need to sanitize before touching anything.”
She’s calm but rigidly diligent. I love the hell out of her but the hypervigilance is tough to deal with. It’s like her easygoing personality has been replaced with a mini-dictator germaphobe.
I open the door. Ma has two giant bags of diapers. Da’s carrying enough food to feed a rugby team.
“We brought dinner. They’ll be plenty left for tomorrow.” Ma cups my cheek on her way in.
Da shakes his head at me. “Yer eyes are half-closed, lad. Yer wrecked.”
“Aye. You’re right.” I’m too tired to pretend.
Ma and Da wash their hands and coat them in sanitizer without a reminder.
Ma heads straight for Sloane and peers down at her. “There she is. Our little sleepin’ angel.”
“I’ll take Quinn.” Da sets a hand on my shoulder. “Sit for a minute.”
Quinn’s tiny fingers grip my shirt like she’ll never let me go. I pry them loose and hand her over. Da takes her like he’s done it a thousand times, which he probably has at this point. She relaxes into him and her body softens instead of stiffens. A tiny sigh escapes her tiny lips.
I swear to fuck, something hot pricks behind my eyes. Fatherhood has made me emotional. Nostalgic. Mostly, the scene triggers a memory of when I waslittle.
Da taught all of us construction from a young age. One day, Da was showing Padraig and me how to hammer nails into a practice board. As usual, I started smashing away and crushed my thumb and bawled my fucking eyes out. He swept me and my twin up and carried us inside. Set Padraig down at the kitchen table and held my hand under cold water.
I distinctly remember how he kissed my thumb to make it better. When I stopped crying, he promised I’d be alright and gave us both ice cream.
So many memories like this have come back since the girls were born. Things I’d shoved down so deep I thought they were gone. Before Da’s accident and the worst of the drinking. When rage came in waves I never understood.
