2. Caius
CAIUS
I'm tightening the last bolt on the exhaust manifold when I hear the unmistakable click of sensible shoes on concrete.
My mother doesn't knock. She never has. The door to the garage bay groans open, and even from under the truck, I can smell what she's brought. Shepherd's pie. Maybe beef stew. Something with enough carbs and guilt to fuel a small army.
"Caius Patrick O'Connor."
The full name. All three parts, delivered with the kind of precision that comes from decades of practice wielding it like a weapon.
I'm already in trouble, deep, inescapable, the-kind-where-no-excuse-will-save-me trouble, and I haven't even properly seen her face yet, still half-blinded by the fluorescent lights overhead.
I roll out from under the truck on my creeper, squinting against the fluorescent lights overhead.
Ma stands in the doorway of the bay, silhouetted like some avenging angel of maternal disappointment, holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil.
She's wearing the floral dress she reserves for church and ambushes, which means this isn't a social call.
"Hey, Ma." I sit up, wiping my hands on a shop rag that's more grease than cloth at this point. "You didn't have to bring dinner."
"Obviously I did, since you'd starve otherwise.
" She marches into the garage, sets the casserole on my workbench with enough force to rattle the wrench set, and turns to face me with that look.
The one that says she's counted all my sins and is about to present them as evidence.
"When was the last time you had a proper meal? "
"I had a sandwich yesterday," I offer, which is technically true if we're being generous with our definitions of both sandwich and yesterday.
"Gas station?" She doesn't even phrase it as a real question, more like she's already convicted me and is just waiting for me to confess.
"Deli counter," I lie, and it's a terrible lie, the kind that wouldn't fool anyone with half a brain, let alone the woman who taught me right from wrong and can still spot my bullshit from three counties away.
She makes a noise that suggests she knows exactly where I bought the sandwich and is deeply disappointed in both me and the establishment that sold it. "You're wasting away. Look at you."
I glance down at myself. Grease-stained coveralls, lean frame that comes from skipping meals and working fourteen-hour days. I'm not wasting away so much as I'm just... efficient. No time for food when there's work to do.
"I'm fine, Ma. Really."
"Fine." She repeats the word like it's personally offensive. "You're twenty-nine years old, living above a garage, eating petrol station sandwiches. This is not fine, Caius. This is tragic."
I push to my feet, tossing the rag onto the bench. "I own the garage. That's not tragic, that's called running a business."
"You know what I mean." She crosses her arms, and I can see where this is going. I've seen this particular steamroller coming from a mile away. "When are you going to settle down? Find a nice girl? Give me grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them?"
"Ryan's already engaged to be married," I say, hoping to redirect her attention elsewhere. "Go bug Aunt Maura for grandchildren if you're that desperate."
"Ryan's mother can wait for her own grandchildren. I'm asking about you." She steps closer, and her face softens just enough to be dangerous. "I worry about you, love. You work yourself to the bone. You never go out. You never bring anyone around."
Because the only girl I've ever wanted to bring around, the only one who's ever mattered, is the one person in this world I absolutely cannot have, not without destroying everything the Millers gave me, not without proving that I'm exactly the kind of ungrateful bastard who'd take advantage of their kindness and their trust.
The thought hits me before I can stop it, and I shove it down deep where it belongs, buried under years of practice and self-discipline.
"I go out," I say instead, grabbing a clean rag to wipe down my hands properly. "I'm going to the bar tonight, actually."
Ma's eyes light up like I've just announced I'm joining the priesthood. "A bar? With friends? Are there women?"
"It's O'Malley's, Ma," I say, keeping my tone light and easy, like this is the most natural thing in the world. "There are always women there. Half the town shows up on a Friday night."
"Single women?" she presses, her eyebrows arching with that particular brand of maternal determination that's gotten her through sixty years of life without backing down from anything.
"I don't know, Ma. I don't exactly conduct surveys at the door, asking every woman who walks in about her relationship status.
" I fold the rag and toss it onto the workbench, trying to put some physical space before she can start reading too much into my expression.
"I go there to have a pint with the lads, not to interview the female clientele about their availability. "
She swats my arm, hard enough to sting. "Don't be smart. I'm serious, Caius. I've set you up with three lovely girls this week alone. Siobhan from the butcher's. That nice accountant, Kelly. And Bridget's daughter just moved back from Dublin."
"I'm not going on blind dates, Ma," I say firmly, planting my feet and crossing my arms over my chest in what I hope is a posture that communicates finality.
"Why not?" she demands, her voice rising with that particular pitch that means she's not about to let this go without a fight.
Her hands find her hips, and I recognize the stance, it's the same one she used when I was sixteen and tried to convince her that the dent in her car had mysteriously appeared in the grocery store parking lot.
Because none of them are Hallie Miller, and pretending otherwise feels like lying.
Because I've spent the better part of three years watching her date other men, smile at other men, and every single time I meet someone new, I find myself cataloguing all the ways they fall short.
This one's laugh is too shrill. That one doesn't read.
Another one called libraries "pointless in the age of the internet," and I'd nearly walked out of O'Malley's right then and there.
Because going through the motions with women I'll never love feels like a betrayal of something I can't even have, and how do I explain that kind of twisted logic to my mother?
I don't say that. I never say that. Instead, I give Ma the same smile I've been giving her for years, the one that deflects everything and promises nothing. "I'm just not interested right now. Work's busy. I've got three restorations lined up and a transmission rebuild that's kicking my ass."
"Language."
"Sorry." The word comes out automatically, muscle memory from a childhood spent under her watchful eye.
She sighs, and it's the kind of sigh that carries centuries of Irish mothers watching their sons make terrible decisions, a sound somewhere between exasperation and resignation.
The kind of sigh that says she knows exactly what I'm doing and isn't buying a word of it. "My sixtieth birthday is next month."
"I know, Ma. I'm planning something." It's not a lie, I've had Declan pestering me about venue options for weeks now, and I've been stockpiling her favorite wine from the one shop in town that imports it. Still, the deflection tastes bitter on my lips.
"I don't want a party. I want you happy. Settled." She reaches up and cups my face with both hands, her palms soft despite a lifetime of hard work. "You're a good boy, Caius. You deserve someone who sees that. Someone who loves you."
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the lack of ventilation in the garage. "I'm fine," I say again, quieter this time. "Really."
She studies my face for a long moment, her eyes, the same hazel-green as mine, searching for something I'm not sure I can give her.
There's a lifetime of understanding in that look, all the things she knows about me that I've never said out loud, all the ways she's watched me dance around my own feelings since I was sixteen years old.
Finally, she releases me with a gentle pat to my cheek, the kind of tender gesture that makes me feel like I'm ten again, coming home with scraped knees and a chip on my shoulder.
"Eat the stew," she says, her voice softer now, less insistent.
"It's still warm. And think about what I said, yeah? "
"I will," I promise, and I mean it, even though we both know I probably won't. Or at least, not in the way she wants me to.
She leaves the same way she came, a whirlwind of floral fabric and maternal concern, and I'm left standing in the garage with a casserole I don't want and a problem I can't fix.
O'Malley's is packed by the time I arrive, still smelling faintly of motor oil despite the shower I took in the tiny bathroom above the garage.
The bar is all dark wood and dim lighting, the kind of place where everyone knows your name and half your business.
I nod to a few regulars as I make my way to the bar, ordering a beer and scanning the crowd out of habit.
That's when I see her.
Hallie's sitting alone in a corner booth, hunched over what looks like the saddest margarita in the history of alcoholic beverages.
Her hair is down, messy in a way that suggests she's been running her hands through it, and she's wearing one of those vintage cardigans she loves, this one the color of burnt orange.
She looks small. Miserable. Like someone kicked her favorite puppy and then told her it was her fault.
I hate seeing her like this. I hate it with an intensity that surprises me, a hot, protective anger that sits like burning coal.