I huff out a laugh. “You’d know.”
He stretches his legs. “Cillian texted last night. Says Da’s better. Workin’ part-time again, even helps Connor on job sites some days. Apparently, he’s not like before.”
“Connor said the same.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “I think he’s tryin,’ Liam.”
I stare out the window. “Tryin’ doesn’t erase what he did.”
Padraig doesn’t argue. He never does. Miles of silence spool between us.
I shift in my seat, the memory crawling up before I can stop it. It’s always there. The sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, the smell of whiskey and sweat.
“You know what I remember most?” I murmur quietly.
Padraig looks over, wary.
“The sound.” My voice barely carries. “The sound my head made when it hit the stairs.”
He goes still. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
“I don’t remember the pain,” I go on. “Not really. I remember the noise. Like a watermelon splittin’ open.”
He swallows. “Liam—”
“I also remember your face,” I cut in. “You were covered in my blood, and you still tried to make him stop. You shouldn’t have had to.”
His throat works. “I’d do it again.”
“I know.”
Silence permeates the van.
Oblivious, Arleigh shifts in the back, lost in her music. Mitch clears his throat and turns the volume up a notch, maybe sensing he shouldn’t be privy to this conversation.
Padraig stares at his hands now. “I think about it, too. The sound of you hittin’ the floor. The way Seamus cried. How Da walked away without looking back.”
My stomach flips.
He keeps going, voice shaking but steady. “He looked right through you. Through both of us. Like we weren’t his sons anymore. I swear, Liam, something in me broke. I’ll never forgive him for it.”
“Aye.”
Padraig turns toward me, eyes bright with tears he’ll never let fall. “You nearly died. And we never talk about it. We packed up, went to college, focused on the band, and pretended it didn’t happen.”
“What else were we supposed to do?” My tone’s too sharp. I soften it. “Connor did the best he could. We couldn’t stay. Da hated me.”
“He hated himself.”
I scoff. “Generous.”
“He did. Still does, probably.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t make it easier to see him.”
He leans back, watching me. “Are you scared?”
“Of him?”
