“Well, you look fabulous, I must go touch up my lipstick, excuse me for a moment,” Mom said, sloping off to the bathroom.
Everyone exchanged warm pleasantries, the conversation floating easy on the surface, like no one wanted to disturb the water below. That was always how it went with her. Compliments, safe topics. They all danced around the landmines, careful not to press too hard.
Everyone except me.
Orla clapped her hands lightly once the catering trays were laid out. “Right, everyone grab a plate and help yourselves beforeit all goes cold.” She moved around the table like she’d been born to host, urging people toward the spread with that soft Irish lilt that made even bossing sound sweet. And it was sweet, she’d been so excited for this. Before we’d landed in Cali she’d been planning for weeks, ordering dinner sets to be delivered, researching the perfect caterers. It looked good on her.
When Mom made her way back to the dining room Orla called to her, smiling. “Caroline, can I plate one up for you?”
Mom fluttered a hand. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart, that would be lovely. Not too much, though, just a little.”
“Of course,” Orla said warmly, piling a modest helping onto the china plate. She carried it back to the table, still smiling, until she set it down in front of Mom.
The smile slipped, almost too quick to notice. A tiny frown tugged between her brows.
I clocked it instantly. Something was wrong.
She slid into her seat beside me, keeping her face carefully neutral, but I felt the shift in her. My stomach tightened, unease creeping in even before Mom pushed her chair back with a too-bright smile.
“I’ll just head to the bathroom, forgot to wash my hands,” she announced, already moving. I eyed her suspiciously and could see Trav doing the same.
The laughter and chatter rolled on around the table, but my eyes stayed locked on the empty chair she’d left behind.
I leaned closer to Orla, lowering my voice. “You’re not telling me something.”
She hesitated, her hand tightening around her fork before she set it down. “It’s probably nothing, Ty,” she whispered awkwardly. “I just— When I set her plate down earlier, I thought I smelled alcohol. But maybe she’s just nervous.” Her voice was gentle, defensive. Like she wanted to believe her own words.
I shook my head, frowning. “Don’t cover for her, O. I’ve seen the signs too many times.”
“Or maybe she’s trying. Maybe she needs someone to believe in her.”
Her eyes were pleading, and for a second I hated being the one who had to crush that hope. “I’ve believed in her my whole life. I’m not doing it again unless she earns it.”
I pushed back from the table, heart thudding, and caught Trav’s eye across the plates. He read my look instantly, his mouth setting in a grim line.
As I got closer I could see the bathroom door stood wide open. Empty.
My stomach dropped as I noticed the sliding doors at the back cracked open, a line of warm air drifting in from the patio.
Of course.
She hadn’t gone to the bathroom. She’d slipped out.
She was standing at the edge of the patio, half in shadow, half in the glow of the afternoon sunlight that was warming the earth. Shoulders hunched, hair falling back as she tilted something small and silver to her mouth.
I didn’t even need to see the flask. I knew the shape of it. Knew the sound of liquid sloshing when she snapped it shut. My gut twisted.
“Hand it to me.” My voice came out harsher than I meant, clipped and sharp.
She spun around, eyes wide, like a kid caught red-handed. “Tyler...”
I held my hand out, palm up. I wasn’t asking.
For a second she froze, then she sighed and pressed it into my palm. Cheap whiskey, the smell hitting me instantly, dragging up memories of a hundred nights I’d spent lying awake as a kid, waiting for her to come home, for her to just be…different.
“Christ, Ma.” I shoved the flask into my back pocket. “You couldn’t even make it through Christmas dinner?”
Her face crumpled. “It’s just a sip. It’s been hard, Ty. You don’t understand…”
