Chapter 31 Liam
thirty-one
Liam
One Year Later
Our old house smells like a childhood memory.
Steam from Ma’s cooking fogs the windows and clings to the air.
I hover in the foyer, pretending to study some family photos, already itching to bolt.
It’s the first family dinner since Da’s accident where every chair will be filled.
I haven’t walked through the front door since I left for school after I was thrown down the stairs.
The others continued to live here, Brennan, Seamus, Cillian.
Connor, of course, has been on tour but his bedroom is still intact.
My brothers have all maintained some connection to our parents. Padraig and I? We call Ma once a week, or so. Otherwise, we’ve been ghosts in our own house.
I’m not sure why I agreed to come tonight. I’m expected to sit at a table where he’ll be.
The man who almost killed me.
Ma barks at Brennan and Seamus to hurry up and set the table. Ma and Connor bring out platters of food. Roast chickens, mashed potatoes, mounds of vegetables. My stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything. Padraig hovers, staying close like he always does when he’s afraid I’ll start to fray.
On my way to the dining table, I walk through the living room.
Not much has changed. The couch still dips where we used to pile on after school.
Da’s recliner is positioned to the side, the place he passed out most nights after the accident.
From here, there’s a clear line of site to the stairs, and the landing where I crumpled into a heap.
I close my eyes and feel it again. The shouting. The reek of whiskey. His breath in my face. Slurred hate. Words that still scrape my skin when I let them.
“You’re a fucking disgrace.”
“Liam.” Padraig’s voice cuts through the memory. “You good?”
I nod once. He sees through it, but he won’t push. Not yet. We move toward the table. I slide into a chair across from Brennan, who’s half-focused on his mobile. Seamus, who’s fucking twenty years old all of a sudden, to his right.
How did my wee brothers become men?
Connor sits at the head of the table. He’s been the man of the house since Da fell apart. It’s still difficult for me to comprehend how honorably he handled the burden he never asked for. He was two years younger than Seamus when he gave up everything for us.
Kept me and Padraig safe.
“Cillian!” Ma calls. “Dinner!”
Our middle brother strolls in with a beer in hand. Pops the cap like it’s nothing. Something about his casualness rubs me the wrong way. Padraig notices too. His eyes flick to mine. No words pass between us, but the implication is clear.
Pretending this family gathering is normal is a fucking joke.
My entire body tenses when I hear the sound I’ve dreaded most. A wood cane tapping against the hardwood floors.
I don’t lift my eyes. Not yet. I feel him. Each step carved from pain.
“Good evenin’, lads,” Da mumbles.
Out of an abundance of caution, I keep my gaze fixed on my plate.
Da’s chair scrapes. He lowers himself down with a grunt. No one says anything until Ma claps her hands and shovels a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Seamus’s plate.
“Boys, eat,” she snaps. “You’ll waste away if you don’t.”
Connor does what he always does. Holds the family together with sheer force of will. Forks clink. Voices try for lightness. My body stays rigid. I chew, but even Ma’s home cooking tastes like ash.
The rest of the crew digs in. Cillian takes a slow sip of his beer, watching me and Padraig across the table.
“So,” his eyes gleam, “how’d it feel opening for Connor and LTZ? A little humbling?”
Padraig smirks. “If by humblin’ you mean sleepin’ upright next to a crate of cymbals, then yeah. It was a real groundin’ experience.”
Connor laughs. “You turned down bus bunks and catered meals.”
“We’re purists,” I say. “Perpetually broke.”
Padraig adds, “We prefer limited legroom. Keeps us honest.”
“Any proper chaos?” Seamus grins. “Fights? Gear on fire?”
“Nothin’ so dramatic.” I push my food around on my plate. Bantering with my brothers used to be a sport. Tonight it feels forced and I fucking hate it.
“Oh, don’t youse feign modesty. We all know you owned the crowd.” Connor shakes his head.
Cillian lifts his beer. “He’s right. Fireball didn’t look second-tier from my view.”
“Thanks.” A half smile pulls at Padraig’s cheek. “We’ve been writin’ nonstop. Goin’ into the studio next month. We’ll probably stay in LA a while before Europe.”
“How are Koko’s vocals?” Connor points his fork at me.
I shrug. “Somethin’ new.”
After dinner, Ma ropes Padraig into clearing dishes.
I get up and wander through the house in a daze.
The family room. The hallway. Every step pulls ghosts.
I see us as kids, Cillian dancing in his pajamas, Brennan always trying to code something.
Seamus tottering after Connor, eyes wide.
Me and Padraig huddled in the basement with guitars we could barely afford. Dreaming our way out.
Once the dishes are washed and put away, the entire family crams into the living room. The telly’s tuned into some show, background noise no one watches. Seamus curls up under his hoodie. Brennan types without blinking. Cillian’s already on his third beer.
Padraig clocks it. So do I. Neither of us say shit. Not our business anymore.
Cane tapping, Da shuffles in. Stops in front of me. “Step out with me a minute, son. On the porch.”
The word “son” hits me like a whip. I’m frozen. Unable to move. Padraig shifts beside me, like he’s ready to spring if I flinch.
Not happy at being ordered around, I do nothing at first. This man has no sway over me anymore. I stand anyway and, against my better judgment, I follow Da.
It’s cold outside. Rain clings to the edges of the rail. The porch light flickers above us, casting a weak halo over the overhang. I stand near the edge, arms crossed, pretending I’m unfazed by the sound of his footsteps behind me.
Mostly, I’m ready to bolt if need be.
Da clears his throat. I brace myself. We haven’t spoken one-on-one in years. Not since he shattered every piece of me with one drunken swing.
As he musters up the courage to say whatever it is he called me out here for, I clench my jaw and stare out over the side yard, where Ma’s garden used to bloom. The hydrangeas are gone. Dead or dug up. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.
Finally when the silence drags on too long, I’ve had enough. “What d’you want?”
He exhales like he expected me to throw a punch instead of speak.
“Wanted to speak with you. Properly. You and me.” His voice is raspier than I remember. Older. Tired.
I say nothing. The wooden slats creak as he shifts behind me.
“You’ve grown up,” he adds quietly. “Yer a man now.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m thirty fuckin’ years old. Of course I’m a man.” I face him, arms still folded. “Been one since the day you called me a disgrace, threw me down the stairs and clocked my brother for tryin’ to protect me.”
His eyes close like I’ve hit him with a hammer.
Good.
“I don’t remember much about—”
“I do.” My voice cracks. “I remember everything.”
Da lowers himself into the old porch chair with a grunt. “There’s no excuse. None. I’ve not stopped regrettin’ it. Every day since.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showin’ it. It’s been a decade.” I shake my head, disgusted. “You didn’t just hit me. You made me hate myself for things I can’t change.”
His hands quiver as he presses them together. “I grew up with different rules. Different beliefs. Doesn’t make ’em right.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
We sit in brittle silence. The wind picks up but neither of us moves.
“I was so fuckin’ scared.” My words taste like blood. “Of you. Of myself. Of what you’d do if you found out I was bisexual. When you did…” I trail off, swallowing the rest.
“I know I don’t deserve yer forgiveness, Liam.” His voice breaks, brittle and bare. “I devastated our family. Hurt all of you in some way. You the most. The shame eats me alive.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. The pressure I’ve held inside since I was twenty years old is about to detonate.
“I was meant to protect you,” he adds, softer now. “Not become the monster in yer story.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him admit what he is. My chest cracks, not open. Enough to cause a dull ache.
Inside, I hear voices. Padraig’s mostly. I know my twin’s watching me from the window. Probably hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I stood up.
Da leans forward. “You don’t owe me anything. I needed to take accountability for what I did to youse. Whether you believe it or not, I’m sorry. For everything.”
I study his face. The cane beside him. The lines spreading across his forehead. The hollow under his eyes.
He’s a shell. Somehow, even with every scar he’s carved into me, I want to believe my father means what he says.
“I’m not ready to let you back in,” I manage. “I appreciate you makin’ the effort.”
He nods once, quiet. “I’ll keep showin’ up.”
I hold his gaze for a beat. Then turn and step off the porch, the weight of everything unsaid trailing behind me like smoke.
I don’t look back. Padraig can catch up with me later.
It’s daunting to believe he’s sincere.
Maybe someday he’ll convince me.