Connor laughs. “You turned down bus bunks and catered meals.”
“We’re purists,” I say. “Perpetually broke.”
Padraig adds, “We prefer limited legroom. Keeps us honest.”
“Any proper chaos?” Seamus grins. “Fights? Gear on fire?”
“Nothin’ so dramatic.” I push my food around on my plate. Bantering with my brothers used to be a sport. Tonight it feels forced and I fucking hate it.
“Oh, don’t youse feign modesty. We all know you owned the crowd.” Connor shakes his head.
Cillian lifts his beer. “He’s right. Fireball didn’t look second-tier from my view.”
“Thanks.” A half smile pulls at Padraig’s cheek. “We’ve been writin’ nonstop. Goin’ into the studio next month. We’ll probably stay in LA a while before Europe.”
“How are Koko’s vocals?” Connor points his fork at me.
I shrug. “Somethin’ new.”
After dinner, Ma ropes Padraig into clearing dishes. I get up and wander through the house in a daze. The family room. The hallway. Every step pulls ghosts. I see us as kids, Cillian dancing in his pajamas, Brennan always trying to code something. Seamus tottering after Connor, eyes wide. Me and Padraig huddled in the basement with guitars we could barely afford. Dreaming our way out.
Once the dishes are washed and put away, the entire family crams into the living room. The telly’s tuned into some show, background noise no one watches. Seamus curls up under his hoodie. Brennan types without blinking. Cillian’s already on his third beer.
Padraig clocks it. So do I. Neither of us say shit. Not our business anymore.
Cane tapping, Da shuffles in. Stops in front of me. “Step out with me a minute, son. On the porch.”
The word “son” hits me like a whip. I’m frozen. Unable to move. Padraig shifts beside me, like he’s ready to spring if I flinch.
Not happy at being ordered around, I do nothing at first. This man has no sway over me anymore. I stand anyway and, against my better judgment, Ifollow Da.
It’s cold outside. Rain clings to the edges of the rail. The porch light flickers above us, casting a weak halo over the overhang. I stand near the edge, arms crossed, pretending I’m unfazed by the sound of his footsteps behind me.
Mostly, I’m ready to bolt if need be.
Da clears his throat. I brace myself. We haven’t spoken one-on-one in years. Not since he shattered every piece of me with one drunken swing.
As he musters up the courage to say whatever it is he called me out here for, I clench my jaw and stare out over the side yard, where Ma’s garden used to bloom. The hydrangeas are gone. Dead or dug up. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.
Finally when the silence drags on too long, I’ve had enough. “What d’you want?”
He exhales like he expected me to throw a punch instead of speak.
“Wanted to speak with you. Properly. You and me.” His voice is raspier than I remember. Older. Tired.
I say nothing. The wooden slats creak as he shifts behind me.
“You’ve grown up,” he adds quietly. “Yer a man now.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m thirty fuckin’ years old. Of course I’m aman.” I face him, arms still folded. “Been one since the day you called me a disgrace, threw me down the stairs and clocked my brother for tryin’ to protect me.”
His eyes close like I’ve hit him with a hammer.
Good.
“I don’t remember much about—”
“I do.” My voice cracks. “I remembereverything.”
