So, I have no Finn and no Rory and no enforcers, but my brother’s still my brother.
I’ve also got Maeve. She’s not much help in LA, but if nothing else, she’ll give me advice. And money, if necessary.
I can work with this. I’ll have to, because I’m not letting those pasty-faced, vodka-guzzling assholes take down the Gallaghers from either coast.
I’m not Nevan, and I won’t crawl back to California with my tail between my legs.
I’m going to prove to Finn that kicking me out was a mistake. I’ll save the day and ride home a hero.
Because I refuse to lose.
I head to the Range Rover, adrenaline fueling my legs. Just as I repocket my phone, it rings.
Cat.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Her voice soothes me despite the shitty day. “Can we meet at the New Year’s Eve place? I need to get the hell out of my head.”
We talked a few hours ago, when she first fled her house and warned me about the Belinski assault, but I guess she hasn’t been home.
I can only imagine what she’s going through, and I want nothing more than to see her.
An hour later, I’m across from Cat in what has now become “our booth” at The Marq, though it feels like a lifetime ago that I sat beside her here, admiring how her shapely figure brought my Tom Ford jacket to life in all the right places.
Flirting with her as Dane Ryder, a carefree art afficionado who had exactly zero problems compared to Connor Gallagher, has become a foggy memory at best.
Real or not, I miss that guy.
“I just love these martinis. I don’t know why I don’t drink them, like, all the time.” Cat cages another olive between her teeth and slides it off the plastic toothpick.
We’re on our second each, extra dirty, extra dry, extra olives.
She’s getting extra slurry too.
After a minute, I frown at her. “Have you eaten today?”
She smiles. “I don’t know. Had some coffee earlier.” She giggles.
I barely recognize this side of her, but I can’t judge. I haven’t seen anyone grieve the loss of the most important person in their life since I was in my teens.
We had Declan manning that ship. Maeve, Brody, and me were just deckhands with no say whatsoever in how to handle our mother’s passing.
Men in my family don’t handle grief well.
In the aftermath, Declan became moodier, quieter, and angrier in general. We never talked about how we were doing. Never received any kind of counseling. Brody and I threw ourselves into working for our father. Maeve stepped up even more.
My younger sister matured overnight, embodying the essence of our mother before the booze and the drugs strangled the life out of her.
I’ve never expressed my gratitude to Maeve for that.
Gazing at Cat, I wonder if maybe I should. Women in our world must be strong, loving, rational, and supportive. They juggle the emotional toll we burden them with, all while maintaining the home and raising the kids, and we expect them to perform without being asked or thanked.
I’ll have to give her a call, but not tonight.
I hook a stray hair behind Cat’s ear. “Let’s get something. Anything. Something to soak up a bit of this alcohol. I haven’t eaten either.” Flagging down our server, I order a basket of fries.
As I peer around, the damask walls and dark lighting appear different than they did on New Year’s Eve.
