“Is that…?” I croaked.
She nodded, her smile wobbling. “And the other one is the date of our Irish wedding in July. So now you’ll always have a reminder of both.” She gave a little laugh then, shaky and embarrassed. “I know it’s nothing compared to Cartier and bridal boutiques. Honestly feels a bit pathetic next to all that but I remembered how I teased you the night of the player’s dinner about not having any. The night you kissed me for the first time.”
I stared down at them, vision blurring. Pathetic? Christ, she couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d dropped a fortune on shiny things, thinking I was showing her how much she meant to me. But this—this tiny box with two pieces of engraved metal—meant more than all of it combined. Proof that night had meant something to her, even back then, she remembered the details, thought ahead to the life we were building.
I shut the box carefully and set it aside before grabbing her face in both hands. “Orla Sheehan-Reed, this is the most thoughtful damn gift I’ve ever had in my life.”
Chapter 55
Tyler
“You almost ready, Ty?”Orla’s voice carried up from downstairs, all steady like she had no idea my stomach was in knots.
I wasn’t even close to ready. My hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the buttons on my shirt. The last time I saw my mother was almost a year ago; I’d hauled her half-conscious out of some bar, shoved her in bed, then lay awake on her sofa all night listening to make sure she didn’t choke on her own breath. The next morning, I checked her into rehab. Again.
Every time, the guilt clawed at me. Because in reality, I hadn’t been much better back then. I’d chased release in bottles, in beds I didn’t belong in, in anything that dulled the torture in my head. The difference was, I knew when to walk away. I could lock in for months at a time when I really had to. She never could.
“I’m coming,” I called, forcing my legs down the stairs, each step heavy as lead.
Outside, headlights washed across the drive as Trav and Eve pulled up in his big SUV. Next to it, gleaming in the dusk was my pride and joy, the vintage Bronco I bought out of my firstbig paycheck. I’d bought it because it was solid, stubborn, and dependable. The exact opposite of what was waiting for me at my mother’s door.
Orla stood by the window, stunning in a green dress that clung just right. Elegant as hell, like she’d decided if we were doing this, she’d do it with dignity. She didn’t know it wouldn’t matter, Mom would’ve loved her no matter what she showed up in. Still, my throat tightened. I had no idea what version of my mother we were about to find.
The four of us piled into Trav’s car and drove mostly in silence to my mom’s house. That familiar sinking feeling clawed its way into my throat as we pulled up outside her bungalow. It was a modest little place Travis and I bought for her years ago. Safe enough, in a good neighborhood so that we’d know if anything happened to her. It was a roof over her head and that was all that mattered.
“You ready?” Travis asked.
“No,” I answered bluntly. From the back seat, Orla’s hand found my shoulder. She gave one squeeze, just to show me that she was there as my quiet, steady anchor.
The four of us walked up the path. The grass was trimmed, by one of the neighbors no doubt. There were no trash bags stacked on the porch. A flicker of cautious hope sparked in my chest.
Travis stepped ahead and knocked, the door flew open within seconds.
“My boys!” she sang, arms wide.
She looked thinner than I remembered, hair still that box-dye blonde, lipstick too pink against lips that had gone pencil-thin. But she looked sober. Smelled sober. That was something, at least.
“Hi, Mom,” I muttered, stiff in her arms.
“Oh my, look at these beautiful girls you’ve brought,” she beamed. “I’m so proud.”
Orla gave her a polite smile. “Hi, Mrs. Reed.”
Mom folded her straight into a hug. “Please, call me Caroline. You must be Orla.”
Orla blinked, surprised, but hugged her back.
We followed her in. The living room smelled faintly of overpowering lemon floor cleaner and the lace frilled sofa cushions were lined up too neatly. Either she’d scrubbed the place spotless expecting us or she was covering something. It was too soon to call it.
“Can I get anyone a drink? Coffee? Lemonade?” she chirped.
“Coffee sounds great, Mom. I’ll make it, you sit down.” Travis said, ducking out to the kitchen, leaving me square in the spotlight.
Orla and I sat in the two leather armchairs, Mom and Eve on the sofa opposite us. Mom’s sense of style was stuck somewhere in the early nineties with decorative throws and gaudy floral wallpaper that distracted from the dust. Deep down, I knew that was when she’d been happiest, but in reality it was the markings of a functioning alcoholic.
Picture frames crowded every surface. Us as kids, with frozen smiles and staged moments. Each one a false reminder of a childhood we never actually had.
“So, you two,” Mom said, eyes sparkling, “how’s married life? I still can’t believe you snuck off to Vegas. That’s so you, Tyler.”
