“Might want to lay off the scowling.” Eirinn’s voice is full of amusement.
She might be the next oldest and an absolutely fearsome woman in her own right, but I cut her a glare. “Hush, you.”
She shakes her head. “Hush yourself, you brute. Be nice.”
Her husband chuckles next to her, clearly having heard the whole exchange. But her words hit. I’m being an ass and for no good reason.
Work’s hard? What’s new? I’m irritable about changes happening in my life? Again, what’s new?
I’m feeling underwater and burnt out? Say it with me now…
“Are we waiting for someone else?” Sam’s curiosity halts all other conversation, even my girls’ and Eirinn’s at the kids’ table next to us.
Mom instantly gets that look she gets whenever Mac comes up. Da grabs her hand and pats it gently.
“Yes, Sam. We leave that seat open for our other son, Cormac, for whenever he makes it home.”
That fast, a fresh wave of worry pummels me in the ribs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sam
The word choice is notable, but it’s the feeling at the table, the way the energy in the room shifted from light and jovial to something heavier and bittersweet that tells me I’ve taken them all somewhere they didn’t want to go.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up hard memories.” My fingers knit together, and guilt skitters across my shoulder blades. I’m already so clearly out of my depth with this family, and now I’m pressing on bruises I couldn’t see.
Finn cracks up. “I’m worried you think he’s dead. He’s not. He’s just in the military. The only one of us who’ll make it to twenty years.”
Relief whooshes out of me as Mary and Connor both scramble to clarify.
“My gosh, I’m sorry. We just miss him so much,” Mary explains, her smile chagrined.
May pats my arm. “I probably should’ve told you that ahead of time. My bad.”
I feel Grant’s eyes on me, but I don’t look. I’m not sure I can take whatever judgement or irritation he’s flinging my way. “I’m so glad. I mean, I’m sorry you miss him, but I’m glad he’s okay.”
Something flickers across Connor’s face that gives me pause, but it disappears. “He’s one of our middle boys. Number three in the line.”
Finn adopts a fancy British accent. “He’s third in line for the Ryan throne.”
“Hey now,” Connor tuts after him.
Finn grins. I am beginning to suspect this is the way he responds to almost everything.
“Don’t mind the momentary meltdown over a British throne reference. You may have noticed we’re fairly proud of our Irish heritage. Mom’s family immigrated to New York, then here, and my dad’s side made their way here even before her people did. No idea why they wanted to live out here, but?—”
“The land. And the mountains. And the lack of city stink, I imagine.” Connor raises a glass to the table and everyone else, as though this happens often, raises theirs, too.
I’m hoping no one noticed my flinch when he said the words, “city stink.” I know he’s not talking about me, but I can’t help but see this as one more way I don’t actually belong here. They’re all so welcoming and lovely—well, everyone but Grant, I suppose—but they don’t know my roots. They don’t know I’m from a city, and I grew up poor, and my mom was a woman who traded on any and all assets she had, and there weren’t many she could carry in her pocket.
May breaks my spiral when she rolls her eyes and redirects. “Anyway, if you didn’t notice by the names, then now you know.”
“Can I do it?” Lily jumps up and slides into the space next to her dad, then climbs into his lap.
“Go ahead, then.”
His voice is low and warm, his gaze full of affection and even what I might call delight. It’s so pure and genuine, my breath catches just to see it.
