Even said quietly, it was Ronnie’s bestI am your mothervoice, and two decades ago that tone would have loosened Fin’s bowels for sure. But he was thirty-two years old and standingfirmlyon the moral high ground. Ignoring the reproach, he continued. ‘Are you both perhaps drunk?’
‘No,’ they dismissed disdainfully in unison.
‘And remind me, it issixtyyou’ve both just turned, right? Not six?’
‘Look…’ Connie said, glancing from Fin to Sweeney and back again. ‘We had no idea you were surprising us tonight or,of course, we wouldn’t have told this tiny little fib.’
‘This is not a tiny little fib, Mum.’ Sweeney stared her mother down. ‘Telling your doctor you only drink three alcoholic units a week is a tiny little fib.’
‘Or telling someone their lime-green mohawk really suits them,’ Fin supplied.
‘Telling everyone I’m engaged to Fin is an…epicuntruth.’
‘To be fair,’ Ronnie interjected, ‘I was the one who said the bit about you being engaged to each other.’
Fin shook his head. ‘Mum…’
‘Okay, okay. We’re sorry, alright?’ Ronnie tossed her head defiantly, her steely-grey bob swishing around her head. ‘But you havenoidea how persistent andwearinga gaggle of Ballyshannon grannies can be. Nor the level ofsmugnessthat Marjorie I’m-about-to-be-grandmother-to-triplets Weaver can ooze. We’ve spentyearsnow—and the last two hours in particular,at our birthday party—looking at baby pictures and wedding photos and listening to pregnancy stories and tooth fairy tales and first word retellings, all while fielding sympathetic hand squeezes over our own woeful state of being grandbaby-less.’
Ronnie drew in a breath as she smiled and waved at someone over Fin’s shoulder. When she zeroed back in on their conversation, her smile remained fixed in place.
‘It’s a lot,’ she muttered.
‘Yes.’ Connie nodded in solidarity. ‘And I just… snapped.’
Fin shook his head. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Sweeney didn’t look like she could either as she stared in dismay at her mother.
‘I thought you were supposed to be immune to peer pressure at your age,’ she said. ‘To… have your shit together.’
‘Oh, no, darling.’ Connie shook her head. ‘You never really get your shit together.’
‘Well… that’s great,’ Sweeney muttered. ‘Just great.’
In the absence of anything worthy to add to that startlingly honest and, frankly, horrifying pearl of wisdom, Fin did what his father would have done in this situation—damage control. Michael Murphy had never been one to get angry over spilt milk, he’d always preferred to get out the mop and fix it.
‘Okay, so… How do we walk this back?’
Two women stared at him with crinkled brows. ‘Walk it back?’ his mother asked.
Fin sighed. ‘Yes, Mum. In case it hasn’t escaped your notice, we’re not engaged.’
‘W-w-would we have to? Walk it back?’
‘Yes,’ Fin and Sweeney said in exasperated unison.
‘Okay.’ His mother gestured with her hands in a way he assumed was supposed to be placatory. ‘That’s an option. Or, we could… keep the ruse going.’ She rushed to clarify as Fin opened his mouth. ‘Just while you’re here.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Connie said excitedly, already on board to cloud-cuckoo-land.
Sweeney shook her head. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘Definitelynot,’ Fin agreed.
For a moment the hope and excitement on the faces of their mothers took a hit, their smiles fading to something much more contemplative as they faced their children. And then there was another of those ominous side eyes, which gave Fin a very bad feeling.
Connie launched the first salvo as she looked at her daughter. ‘Have I ever asked you for anything, Sweeney?’
‘Mum.’
