“I would never do that,” I assure her.
Fallon looks down at her plate. She’s quiet for quite a while. “I’ll try harder,” she finally musters.
“So will I.” I lift her chin so she can look at me. “My life is so fucking hard right now. It doesn't even feel like my own anymore. Aisling has consumed it. I’m exhausted. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I need someone to lean on. And if my mother were here right now, she would say the good Lord sent me you.”
“The good Lord has a pretty fucked-up sense of humor if that’s true.”
“He does work in mysterious ways.” I smile warmly at her, my copperhead killer.
“I know what that’s like, you know. Feeling like your life isn’t your own. It’s pretty shitty.”
“Sometimes,” I agree, pouring myself another generous shot. This whiskey is just a bit better than piss, but it gets the job done. “But at the end of the day, Aisling makes it all worthwhile.”
“I can’t say I can relate, but I see the way you look at her. And she’s definitely a lucky little girl.”
Fallon slides her glass in my direction, hinting at a refill. I pour, but she pushes for more. So, I fill her up and watch with wonder as she drowns whatever sorrows are buried deep inside.
A woman like her doesn't get into this business because she wants to; she gets into it because it’s an escape.
“Who was the girl on the computer screen?” I inquire delicately.
Fallon instantly becomes defensive. Her eyes darkening with a storm of rage. “None of your fucking business.”
“And back to square one we go.”
Fallon takes a deep breath, calming her emotions. “She’s no one.”
“No one you spy on?”
“Declan–”
“Trust, remember? You know all my darkest secrets. I barely know anything about you.”
“It’s how I prefer it.”
I feel like our whole conversation just went up in flames. What was the point? She is never going to let me in. Not even minutely.
“Fine.” I go to stand, throwing in the towel. “Have it your way.” It’s like talking to a wall.
“Wait.” She reaches for me. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I sit back down, hoping things start to get interesting.
“She’s my sister.” She sighs heavily, like that was painful to admit.
“Sister. Okay, that wasn’t so hard.”
“Yes. It was. It’s difficult talking about my family.” She starts to hyperventilate. “Give me another drink.”
I hand her the bottle. She takes a good, long pull, and that seems to chill her out.
“You don't have to tell me anymore. I don’t want to–”
“No, you want to know. You want trust. So, I’ll tell you.” She breathes as if in the midst of a marathon.
“My father molested me my entire life. Since I was seven.” Fallon verbally vomits the words, and I am suddenly sorry I started this conversation. “In the beginning, I didn’t understand. I thought he loved me. He told me as much. I thought it was normal. Then I started to get older and more independent, and he became obsessive. He wouldn’t let me have any friends, or a social life, or even leave the house unless it was forschool or a work function. An esteemed member of the community needs to keep up appearances. But I was basically a prisoner. I was controlled, restrained, and regulated twenty-four hours a day. Had no say in my own life. It was hell.”
Whoa. Ineed more whiskey after that admission.
