Back in the dressing room, the energy’s calmer. Liam’s laughing at something Padraig says, head tipped back, eyes crinkled with joy. He looks younger when he’s happy. Lighter.
He sees me and waves me in, eyes sparkling.
“Everything sorted?” he asks.
I nod. “Venue’s happy. Merch sold out. Tour’s a wrap.”
He gives me a quick grin, all teeth.
Later, when I fall asleep next to him, he pulls me closer than usual. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
We still have months before we have to cross that bridge.
For now, I’ll take whatever he has to give.
sixteen
Liam
Nine Months Lataer
Padraig’sinthelivingroom when I get home.
No surprise. It’s Sunday, early afternoon, where else would he be?
He’s curled up in the corner of the couch, one arm hooked behind his head, eyes closed. Not asleep. Motionless. He does this a lot lately. As if moving might make something else fall apart.
I toe off my boots by the door and drop my jacket on the hook. “You miss church or did you finally renounce God for rock and roll?”
His lips twitch, barely. “Don’t need church when you live with a judgmental bastard.”
“Fair.”
I flop into the armchair across from him, legs wide. There’s a mug on the coffee table. Half-drunk tea, probably cold by now. A stack of spiral notebooks, none of them mine. One of my cracked picks sits on top as a useless paperweight.
He still hasn’t looked at me.
“Stevie made it to New York okay?” I ask, even though I already know. I watched her Instagram story this morning. She posted a sunrise over the Hudson with the caption:New chapter begins.
Padraig nods. “She landed last night. Her mom went with her.”
No mention of how he wishes he’d gone with her. No mention of the shattered look on his face when her name came up at the show last night. For weeks until she left, he’d been pacing the house like he’s looking for something he can’t name.
My brother’s got a heart the size of Ireland and doesn’t know what to do when it cracks.
I lean forward, elbows on knees. “You talk to her?”
He opens his eyes, finally. They’re bloodshot. “Texted a bit.”
“Good.” I pause. “I know this is brutal, Dar.”
“No, you really don’t.” His voice is rough, not unkind.
Fair enough. I don’t exactly know…yet.
He sits up straighter, rubbing his palms together, trying to generate friction against something he can’t name. “You think it’s a good thing, don’t you?” he mutters. “Her leavin’. For you it’s a win.”
The way he says “win” hits me in the sternum.
