"See?" Lorcan spreads his arms like a man presenting a miracle. "The house talks back. My brother Declan once yelled naughty words up this staircase just to hear the house repeat every one of them. Unfortunately, Ma heard them too. He couldn't sit down for a week."
Oisin scrambles back up. "AGAIN!"
"Take a big breath. From the belly. Really give it your all.”
"HIIIIIIIII!"
I stand there at the top of the stairs in my sleep shirt, my pulse still galloping, watching my baby brother—who screamed bloody murder at the sight of this man eighteen hours ago—shriek greetings into a stairwell while Lorcan eggs him on.
The adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving something kind of tingly in its place.
When Lorcan glances up and catches me watching, he flashes his charming grin. "Morning, wife. We're conducting a scientific experiment."
"I can hear that. The whole zip code can hear that."
"MaeMae!" Oisin points at the ceiling with the urgency of a boy who has discovered Legos. "Da house talks!"
"I heard, baby."
Lorcan straightens, sleep-rumpled, barefoot, t-shirt wrinkled, jaw shadowed with stubble, and I hate—hate—how my insides flutter.
"He was up at six," Lorcan says.
"You should've woken me."
"Why? I had it handled." He heads for the kitchen like that settles it. And wouldn’t you know, Oisin follows behind like a baby duckling. “Come on. Deirdre's making pancakes, and if we don't hurry, Jamie's going to devour the entire stack.”
I had it handled.Four words, tossed off like nothing. The words sit strangely. The whole thing sits strangely.
The kitchen smells like heaven. Butter, bacon, coffee, something with cinnamon. Jamie is already seated at the big oak table behind a huge stack of pancakes, and Cara sits beside him, working through hers in small, precise bites, her eyes tracking everything.
At the stove, a plump woman with silver curls wields a spatula like a conductor's baton.
"There she is!" She beams at me like we're old friends. "Sit, sit. I'm Deirdre. Been cooking for the O'Rourkes for thirty years, and let me tell you, these two,” she points the spatula at Jamie and Cara, "are the best-mannered children ever to sit at this table. The brothers used to fight over the last pancake with actual fists. I've got six grandkids of my own, and not one of them says thank you like your Cara does."
I blink. Cara doesn't say thank you. Cara doesn't say anything.
Deirdre catches my look and winks. “It’s in her eyes."
My throat goes tight. Cara keeps eating, but her ears have gone pink.
I sit and, like magic, a plate lands in front of me—three pancakes, bacon, and eggs. It’s more food than I generally eat in an entire day. My reflex is to protest, to say I'll just have coffee,to save my share—but then I remember that I don’t have to do that here.
I catch Lorcan watching me with an easy, knowing look, and I pick up my fork.
I'm halfway through when I check the clock on the wall and nearly choke.
"Guys." I'm already calculating routes, transfers, minutes. "We have to go. We need to leave a half hour early today—we have to catch the crosstown to get back to the old stop in time for your school bus, so shoes on, backpacks?—"
"No," Lorcan says.
I turn. He's leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand. Oisin stands beside him, mimicking his exact pose.
"Excuse me?"
“I said no. They're not riding a city bus back to that neighborhood to stand on a corner and wait for a school bus." He sips his coffee.
Heat climbs my neck. "And what exactly do you suggest? They just skip school? Because I'm pretty sure truancy will look fantastic on a DCFS report.”
