Chapter 40 Stevie
forty
Stevie
Six Months Later
The kitchen’s quiet in a way it almost never is at my house.
I’m appreciating the quietness on a Saturday afternoon. It’s unusual, to say the least.
Lila left for a sleepover a few minutes ago. Jude’s off with my dad tonight for some “secret adventure” which probably involves sugar and some sort of Star Wars movie.
Out back, in the guest house Padraig converted into his studio, I see a flash of movement through the wide-open doors. Isla’s ponytail swinging as she leans over a canvas. He’s next to her, head bent, showing her something in the mess of paint between them.
They’ve been out there for hours.
It’s one of the things I love most about him. How he gives his attention to my kids without making it feel like a performance.
Even with all the tension over Fireball, he’s here. Really here. He’s held his ground with Liam and Linus, trimming his commitment to the band without burning it down. June will pull him away for a few months on tour, but for now, his time is ours.
I finish slicing the apples, grab a box of crackers, and arrange them on a plate with cheese and peanut butter.
My business calendar’s open on the counter, reminders pinging for a client call and an event proposal, but I’m trying not to let my weekends be ruled by work.
It’s not easy when you plan events, but I do my best not to get dragged under.
Mara’s wedding is circled in bright ink on the wall calendar.
I’ve offered to take three-year-old Rafferty while she and Tanner are on their honeymoon, and while Padraig’s on the road, so it’ll be my first time with the little guy alone.
I’m excited for him to fill the house with his soft toddler babble and gummy grins.
Balancing the plate in one hand, I cross the yard. The closer I get, the more I can hear Isla’s insistent questions.
“So you and Mom always talk about how you were friends when you were my age. Did you ever kiss my mom?”
Padraig’s paintbrush stops. “Isla.”
“What? I’m asking.”
He sounds pained. “Uh, I’m not really—”
“Did you?” I’m close enough to see her poke him in the side with the handle of her brush.
He exhales. “We were close.”
“What a stupid answer.” Her chair squeaks as she turns. “Were you her boyfriend or not?”
“Ask your mom.”
“That means yes,” she squeals, triumphant. “How long? Did you write her songs? Did she have your hoodie?”
I step in. “Didn’t realize I was the subject of an interrogation.”
Isla swivels toward me. “I’m gathering intel. You always tell us to ask questions.”
“Questions, sure. Fishing for gossip? No.”
She grins. “So it’s gossip? Were you in love with Padraig?”
I meet her eyes. There’s no point pretending she hasn’t already pieced together most of it. “Yes. We were friends as kids and then dated throughout high school and college.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Like, before Dad?”
“Aye.” Padraig nudges the plate of apples toward her like it’s a barrier.
“Why’d you break up?” Isla sets her brush down.
“It’s a long story,” I say carefully. “Life took us in different directions.”
“Was it because of Dad?” she presses. “Did he steal you away?”
Padraig blanches, but manages to keep his composure. We don’t revisit this time in our lives often. It puts us in the uncomfortable category of “what if’s” instead of enjoying where we are now.
“No. Your dad came later. He was a big, important part of my life. None of this takes away from the love I had for him. People’s lives can have more than one chapter.” I hope my explanation honors Cooper but also respects Padraig and my relationship with him now.
She tilts her head. “So, were you fucking each other back then?”
Padraig nearly chokes on his water. “Jesus, Isla.”
“What? I’m not nine anymore. And it’s not like I don’t know about sex.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re right, you’re older now. But you will have a little respect for me and for Padraig. There’s a difference between asking about things politely and trying to get a reaction by being crass.”
God, teenagers. I swear.
Her eyes gleam. “You were fucking!”
Padraig shoots her a look. “Isla, lass. Some things are between your mum and me and are none of your business”
“It’s a yes.” She grins, victorious.
“Eat your apples.” He taps the table.
“I knew it.” She smirks at me. “They way you looked at him in the video like you wanted to—”
“Isla Mae.” My voice carries a warning, but I keep it gentle. “I’ll always be honest with you, but part of being honest is knowing when to keep out of things. We’re changing the subject. Immediately.”
She studies us both for a beat, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you two get married, I want to be a bridesmaid.”
Padraig blinks. “Bridesmaid?”
“Duh. It’s the least you can do for your favorite stepdaughter.” She pops another apple slice in her mouth like she hasn’t dropped a small grenade into the room.
Before either of us can respond, her phone pings. She glances down, then up again. “Emmy’s outside. We’re going to her place.” She grabs her hoodie and skips toward the gate. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
It shuts behind her and the yard falls quiet.
Padraig exhales, leaning back. “Holy fuck. We’ve got years of this ahead of us, don’t we?”
“At least a decade between the lot of them,” I deadpan.
He rubs a hand over his face, then grins. “Wait, are we actually alone?”
I’m a little dazed from the conversation with Isla but more psyched at the prospect of some grownup time with my man. “Seems like it. Betcha can’t beat me upstairs…”
I’m across the yard, through the kitchen and halfway to the stairs before I’m airborne.
He hooks an arm around my waist, hauls me up against his chest, and takes the steps two at a time.
I shriek-laugh, pounding at his back while he throws me over his shoulder.
His palm smacks my ass as he clears the landing.
“You forget I’m faster.” He kisses my thigh.
I shriek with laughter. “Gammy leg, don’t forget.”
Upstairs in our bedroom, he tosses me onto the bed. My shorts ride up and before I can breathe, he’s over me. Mouth on mine, stealing the air from my lungs. His knee wedges between my thighs, spreading me while his hands tear at my clothes.
“You’ve been thinking about this all day.” I giggle against his mouth.
“Yes,” he growls, voice thick with need. He catches my wrists in one hand and presses them to the mattress, while his other shoves my shorts and panties down in one impatient pull.
Letting my wrists go, he strips in a rush. The sight of his cock, thick, hard, and flushed, makes me arch, wet and aching for him. “Padraig—”
He lines himself up and drives into me in one long, deep thrust causing me to gasp. The stretch makes my toes curl, my heels dig into the mattress. He grinds all the way in, holding there until I’m squirming.
“Christ, you’re heaven,” he rasps as he recaptures my arms. Then he’s moving. Relentless, each thrust hits my spot as it always does.
“Yes,” I gasp, rocking up to meet him. My wrists twist against his hold, wanting to touch him, but he keeps me pinned. His thumb finds my clit and circles.
“Come for me,” he orders. “I want to feel it.”
It’s instant. My orgasm crashes through my entire body.
Padraig lets my wrists go and I grip his ass, pulling him closer as he pounds into me, chasing his own release. He follows with a low, guttural sound, grinding deep as he spills inside me. For a long beat, he stays there, our breath loud in the quiet room.
He finally lifts his head, mouth brushing my ear. “Guess I won.”
“Guess you did.” I smile against his skin, catching my breath.
He kisses me slow, lazy, still inside me. “We’ve got time before they’re home,” he says, flipping me over so I’m straddling him. “Round two?”
“Only if I win this time.”
By the time Isla gets home, Padraig and I are curled together on the couch, hair damp, a movie running low in the background. The click of the front door pulls me upright.
She drifts in, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, cheeks flushed from the warm night air.
“Hey,” she says quietly, dropping onto the other end of the couch with her knees pulled tight.
Padraig mutes the TV. “Didja have a good night?”
“Yeah. I, um…” She gives a little shrug, eyes fixed on the carpet. “I’m sorry for being an ass earlier.”
I turn toward her. “Isla—”
“No, let me…” She pushes her hair back, but her fingers tremble. “I miss Dad.” Her eyes fill. “A lot. It’s weird, because I like you.” She glances at Padraig, then away. “I really like you. Which makes me feel…messed up? Like I’m betraying him or something.”
Padraig’s eyes mist, but he lets her speak.
“I don’t want you to replace him,” she says in a rush, swiping at her cheeks. “I know you’re not trying to. I guess when we’re all together, part of me is happy, and then I feel guilty for being happy. I hate feeling so confused.”
I know the shape of her feelings. The push and pull between grief and connection. I’ve lived my own version, and I’ve read enough therapy notes to know there’s no quick way through it.
“It makes sense,” I say softly. “You can miss your dad and like Padraig. Those feelings can live in the same space.”
She sniffles. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”
“You’re not supposed to feel anything in particular.” Padraig leans forward. “You feel whatever you feel. I’m here no matter what. And, if you want me to say ‘feel’ again say the word.”
This earns a smile through the tears.
I open my arms. “Come here, baby. Give me a snuggle.”
She hesitates for half a second before sliding toward me. Padraig shifts closer, wrapping one arm around both of us until we’re a giant tangle on the couch. Isla hides her face in my shoulder, breathing unevenly. I stroke her hair, and Padraig presses a kiss to the top of her head.
For a long moment, none of us move.
The air feels steadier, anchored. She leans back between us, her head between our shoulders. We hold her until the tremors fade, anchored together in the quiet.
“We’ll figure it out together,” I tell her.
She nods, tucking her legs up under her.
It’s a solemn reminder.
My kids lost their father too young.
As much as I’d love to protect them.
His loss will remain an ache for the rest of their lives.