“Grace’s surname is Mills,” Ro says. “What a funny coincidence.”
Vivien looks petrified as she reaches for Ash and clears her throat. “Actually, it’s not really a coincidence.”
Ro frowns, and a quiet hush settles over the table. Expectant faces stare at our guest.
“You might as well tell them,” I say, running my fingers through my hair as I reclaim my position against the wall. I maintain eye focus and nod at her in what I hope are supportive gestures.
“Wait? You know?” Ash’s eyes widen as she stares between her friend and me.
“He saw the photo by my bed,” Vivien explains.
“So, you two are an item?” Shane asks, pointing between us, and I have a sudden urge to ram my fist in his annoying interfering face.
“No!” I say the same time as Ro and Vivien. I glare at Ro, and he glares right back.
“But you said?—”
“Shut up, Shane,” Ro and I snap, and this is getting ridiculous.
“My mom is Lauren Mills,” Vivien blurts, her voice betraying her anxiety. “I’m her only daughter, Vivien Grace.”
25
AGE 20
Vivien tells the story of her childhood accident and explains a little more, looking embarrassed and contrite as she speaks.
“Oh, honey. No.” Ma gets up and hugs her. “There’s no need to apologize. I just wish I’d known Lauren Mills’s daughter was coming for dinner. I’d have taken out the fancy china.”
We all crack up laughing because it’s such a Ma thing to say, but it helps to break the tension and put a smile back on Vivien’s face.
Ash takes Vivien outside to the orchard, and Ma goes with Fiona and Susie to bring Chloe out to the swings while the men finish clearing up the kitchen. After we’re done, the others disperse while Ciarán and I head over to the play barn to talk in private.
“God, I have fond memories of this place,” my brother says, grinning mischievously when we enter the barn. It still looks the same even though no one really uses the space anymore. A cover protects the snooker table in one corner while over the other side are the sofas, chairs, beanbags, and music system we scored from secondhand stores when we were teenagers. The long tablepropped under the wall, where we used to store booze and cups for sneaky parties, is chipped and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, but it still looks sturdy.
“Fun times for sure.” I smirk as I walk towards the snooker table.
“How we managed to get away with so much shite under Ma and Da’s noses I’ll never know,” my brother says, handing me a snooker cue.
“I think they knew, but they preferred we were safe on their property. They turned a blind eye on purpose.”
Ciarán shrugs. “I can’t see Ma condoning underage drinking.”
We lift the cover off the table together, and I fold it up and set it down against the wall. “She’s a stickler for rules but also pragmatic. Better we got locked here than at the GAA pitch or wandering around town with cans in our hands.”
“True.” My brother fixes me with a strange expression while he chalks his stick.
“What?”
“You’re growing up.”
“That’s generally what happens when you get older,” I deadpan as I position the balls correctly in the frame and line it up on the table.
“Still a fucking smart-arse.” Ciarán leans back against the wall, watching as I lift the frame carefully and set it aside. “You break.”
I line up the cue ball and take my shot, breaking the triangle formation and pocketing two red balls in different corners. “Shit talk me all you like, bro. I’m still gonna win.”
Ciarán crosses one ankle, and we continue playing as we talk. “I guess it was too much to hope your arrogance might have dialed down a notch.”
