Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
JULIETTE
F lorence + The Machine streams through my headphones as lines of code illuminate my computer screen. Red letters flash before my eyes while my fingers fly over the keyboard. I find the backdoor I built into the system and slip inside. Once I’m in, I have access to every device connected to it.
The cameras are my go-to. Glancing at the bottom of the screen, I notice the time: two a.m. It’s probably dinnertime for them back home. I click on the camera closest to the dining room. Homesickness stabs at my stomach the moment the picture appears. My family is sitting around the table. I miss them—so much more than I ever thought I would.
I used to hate how they hovered over me, acting like I couldn’t handle myself. When I boarded the plane that night, I told myself leaving was best. Sure, my heart was in tatters, but I also needed to prove I could survive on my own. That I didn’t need anyone. Ironic, because I’d give a kidney to have them with me now—to have them to lean on. Tears spring to my eyes as the music changes to a sad, slow ballad, amplifying the ache in my soul. I want to go home.
Mom is laughing, as usual, though her dark hair is longer than she used to keep it. So much has changed since I left. My big sister Simone and her husband, Balor, sit next to her. Beside them are their daughters, Sage and Sienna—two little girls they adopted from foster care. Another huge moment I missed.
An older woman sits on my mother’s right. From what I’ve gathered, her name is Yvonne, and she’s related to one of my brothers-in-law. She visits my mom every now and then. The rectangular table isn’t as full as it once was. My other sister, Vivienne, is missing too—she lives mostly in Russia with her three husbands, only coming to visit every month or so for a few days. My big brother Declan and his wife, Gemma, are there, and I try to stop myself from looking at Dean’s usual chair. I fail—miserably. It doesn’t matter anyway; it’s empty. If I know Dean, he’s probably out at a party, always on the hunt for fun.
Narrowing my eyes at the screen, I notice something and pull off my headphones, wiping tears from my face with my sleeve. There’s a massive turkey in the middle of the table. Considering it’s only the end of March, I know it’s not Thanksgiving. I switch on the audio to hear their conversation.
“Sienna, how was school?” my mother asks.
“It was okay,” my five-year-old niece answers. “I got hit in the head with a soccer ball, and I cut my hair.”
“You did?” Simone asks, her hand going to Sienna’s blonde curls.
“It was an accident.”
“Here it is,” Simone says, holding up a small section of cut hair.
Sienna’s hair is long, and from my angle, it looks like she trimmed it almost to her shoulders.
“Are you sure it was an accident? We can get your hair cut if you want,” Simone offers.
Simone has dreamed of being a mom for as long as I can remember. For a while, it seemed like she never would be, thanks to a car accident several years ago. But watching her now, I’m overjoyed for her—motherhood suits her far better than it does me. And yet, I’m the one who got pregnant. Life just isn’t fair. I used to think I’d be a good mom, too, until a little white pill told me differently.
Sienna’s brown eyes light up at the thought of a haircut. Even though the girls have lived with Simone and Balor for several months, I can tell they’re still adjusting—especially Sage. At fifteen, she’s already seen more evil in this world than most. The last time I spoke to Simone, she said Sage was in some pretty intensive therapy.
“I want one,” Sienna blurts out. Sage nudges her little sister with her shoulder. “Please. I want one, please.”
“Whatever you want, kiddo,” my brother-in-law chimes in.
Balor is a slave to his girls. He treats Simone like a queen. I used to think it was because he felt guilty over causing her accident, or maybe because they were childhood sweethearts. But after they adopted the girls, he treats them exactly the same. He truly loves his family. As awful as it sounds, I’m a little jealous.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when Declan clears his throat. The table falls silent, everyone looking his way.
“Gemma and I have an announcement.”
He runs his hand over his wife’s head, her honey-brown hair sliding through his fingers. Even from this distance, I can feel the room holding its breath. My heart sinks into my stomach, waiting for him to continue.
“We’re having a baby!”
Tears flood back as my family erupts with joy. Mom squeals so loud, I have to turn down my computer. I’m happy for them—and for her. She’ll finally have a grandchild nearby. She’s been begging for one ever since Declan and Gemma got married a few months before I left.
I watch Mom hug them both. A pang slices through my chest. It stings like hell to witness yet another family milestone from over four thousand miles away. I cover my mouth, stifling a sob.
Watching my family tonight was supposed to make me feel better, to ease my anxiety about driving to Dublin in the morning. Instead, it leaves me with a bone-deep desire to go home.
“Is that where you’ve been the last few days, Declan?” Mom’s question yanks me from my self-pity.
Way to make a moment all about yourself, Juliette.
“Uh, not really,” Declan says. “I had to bail Dean out of some trouble.”
Not surprising.
Mom’s eyebrows pinch. “What happened?”
“He went on a bender, Ma. Destroyed some property, tried to start a war. The usual.”
I feel my own brows rise. Start a war? Dean has always been a little reckless, but I never thought he’d purposely bring heat down on the family. He’s not that stupid.
“Where is he?” Mom asks.
Declan just shrugs.
“He’s probably passed out in some chick’s bed somewhere,” Balor replies. “Like usual.”
On instinct, my hand darts out to shut off the speakers before Declan can reply. My heart trembles, bits of it falling and shattering. It’s so stupid. Dean and I aren’t together. I know he’s with other women, and I have Arnie. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting. I guess it’s true what they say—you never really get over your first love. Especially unrequited love.
I power off the screen. Feeling numb, I tug off my headphones and shuffle to my bed. The comforter is cool against my clammy skin. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I break down, wailing into the fabric to muffle the sound. The last thing I need is to wake PJ or Warren. They hate seeing me cry, and I’m not in the mood to answer a billion questions about why I’m sobbing.
How could I explain that I’m still not over a man who never loved me? Or that I miss my home so much, I’m tempted to pack up and move back? But as long as I feel something for him, I can’t do it. They say time heals everything. It’s been six years, and I’m still waiting.
My arms ache. Driving on barely any sleep was not my brightest idea. I shouldn’t have let my anxiety run rampant last night, and I definitely shouldn’t have spied on my family. It only made things worse.
“Why is that building so tall?” PJ asks from the backseat.
Like any curious five-year-old, he’s been firing questions at me for the last three hours.
“Uh, I don’t know, buddy.” I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe a lot of people work there.”
“Or maybe it’s so they can talk to aliens.”
A laugh bubbles out of my throat. “What?”
“Maybe it has to be high in the sky to talk to the aliens, like a big microphone.”
No matter how tired or grumpy I am, this kid always makes me smile. “You might be right, P. Who knows.”
He seems satisfied, turning in his seat to catch more of the cityscape as we pass by.
“Mama, can we go see Jamie? He’s from Dublin.”
“He and Margot are coming to see us next weekend.”
“I can’t wait.”
“I can,” I murmur under my breath, so he can’t hear me.
Patience isn’t my strong suit, but when I think about Dean’s grandparents coming to visit me and PJ, I somehow manage. Don’t get me wrong, I love Jamie and Margot Walsh. When I moved here and had PJ, I reached out to them—mostly out of guilt. They’re good people, and they respect my wish not to tell PJ who they really are—his great-grandparents. He just thinks they’re friends. But every time they visit, I feel their judgment. Their unspoken desire for me to tell PJ the truth—to tell their grandson the truth.
Is it their judgment or yours?
My anxiety hisses that question at me, as if I don’t already know I’m the freaking problem.
“Can you call him?” PJ pleads again. “Please.”
“Let’s pick Arnie up first, then we’ll see.”
“Yay, thank you, Mom.”
I sigh. “You’re welcome.”
Soon, the airport’s oddly shaped structure—like a giant igloo—rises into view. It’s a sight that feels like the light at the end of this long tunnel, even if it’s just the halfway point. I just need to get there, pick up Arnie, and get the hell out of this city.
Cars crawl in every direction, as if none of the drivers know what they’re doing. It feels like ages before I manage to pull my sedan up to the curb and stop. Scanning the sidewalk, I see no sign of Arnie.
I check my phone—no messages or calls. Maybe he’s still on the plane. My sweaty fingers type out a quick message, letting him know where I’m parked.
“We’re going to wait here for Arnie,” I tell PJ.
“Can we go inside?”
“Nope. We need to stay with the car.”
PJ groans, flopping against his car seat. “Can I at least unbuckle?”
“Yes, but the minute Arnie gets in, we’re leaving, so you’ll have to be ready.”
“Okay, Mom.”
He cranes his neck to look out the back window, counting the taxis lined up behind us. “There are ten macaroni cars.”
I laugh, glancing over my shoulder. “You call them that because they’re yellow?”
He nods. “Like my favorite food.”
“I thought your favorite was broccoli?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Ew, Mom, n—” His eyes light up, and he points. “Look, there’s Jamie!”
“What?”
Before I can even react, PJ pops open his door and slips out. My heart seizes in my chest. I jump out of the car to chase him, not caring that I’m barreling into traffic. Thankfully, PJ got out on the sidewalk side. I’m not as lucky.
“PJ!” I shout, weaving around a few cars.
He can’t hear me in all this chaos. More travelers spill from the airport’s automatic doors. I push my way through the crowd and finally reach my son. He’s in Jamie’s arms, and Jamie greets me with a small, slightly nervous wave. Maybe PJ’s impromptu hello threw him off.
“I’m so sorry, Jamie. He saw you and bolted.”
“That’s okay. I’ll never say no to seeing my favorite boy,” Jamie replies. “But I’m surprised to see both of you here in Dublin.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m picking up Arnie. He should be out any minute. Are you here to pick someone up too?”
Jamie swallows. “Uh, yeah, I am.”
He looks guilty, like a kid caught sneaking cookies. It’s strange.
“Okay, PJ,” I say gently, “we need to head back to the car, kiddo.”
“But Mom?—”
A commotion bursts by the doors. Several cops are shouting before they tackle someone to the ground. What the hell? Instinctively, I pull PJ closer, taking him from Jamie’s arms to keep him safe. The crowd parts as the police drag a man forward in handcuffs, heading straight toward us. My stomach flips, like it knows something I don’t. As the cops draw near, I strain to see the face of the cuffed man. He looks like he’s been through hell—dirty and bloody.
“Who is that, Mom? A bad guy? The one Arnie is chasing?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the breath leaves my body in a rush as the man lifts his head and stares right at me.
My heart stops cold.
Dean.