Chapter 22 #2
There was no ache of what might have been, no jealousy, and no sudden fantasy about a life Niamh and I could have built if I hadn't left.
Whatever we had been belonged to two people who no longer existed in quite the same form.
Seeing her standing there with her daughter didn't make me wish the years away.
It made me relieved that at least one of us had learned how to keep living before time forced the lesson on me.
A man's voice came from behind us.
"You going to introduce me, or am I supposed to stand here like an idiot?"
I turned.
Eamon Byrne crossed the pavement carrying two takeaway coffees and wearing the same crooked half-smile he had possessed since we were fourteen.
He was broader now, his hair cut shorter and threaded faintly with gray near the temples, but otherwise he looked irritatingly familiar.
There had been a time when I couldn't imagine a day without seeing him. Then I'd managed fifteen years.
Eamon handed one coffee to Niamh, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.
The gesture was so ordinary and so intimate that it answered every question before anyone spoke.
Then he looked at me.
"You look old."
I stared at him.
"Fuck you."
His smile broke wide.
Then he wrapped both arms around me.
The hug hit harder than Brigid's had because Eamon had been there before everything, through school fights, football, stolen whiskey, my first motorcycle, my first serious hangover, the years when Niamh and I were together, and the argument with Da that sent me out of the house on the worst night of my life.
I had expected anger from him if we ever met again. Maybe a punch. Maybe silence.
Instead, he held on.
I returned the embrace before pride could interfere.
When we separated, Eamon studied me.
"Fifteen fucking years."
"I know."
"You have a phone?"
"Aye."
"Mail?"
"Aye."
"Carrier pigeons?"
"Probably."
"And none worked?"
"I was an arsehole."
"That's the first intelligent thing you've said."
Niamh touched Eamon's arm with an easy affection that carried no warning or attempt to control him, only the intimacy of two people who understood each other without needing words.
Eamon's gaze moved over my shoulder.
"Who's your friend?"
I turned toward Skye.
She stood several feet away holding Brigid's shopping list and watching all of us with the calm expression of someone who understood this was not a moment requiring jealousy, questions, or reassurance.
"This is Skye Fraser."
Niamh's attention sharpened immediately.
"Scottish?"
"Edinburgh," Skye said.
Eamon looked from her to me.
The silence lasted half a second too long.
I felt Skye waiting beside me without impatience or expectation, simply allowing me to decide how I wanted to explain her presence.
I could have called her a colleague or said she was helping with the investigation, both technically true answers that would have placed her safely outside anything more personal.
Could have used any number of technically true phrases that would have placed her somewhere safely outside the part of my life I didn't know how to name yet.
Instead, I heard myself say, "She's with me."
Skye's gaze snapped toward mine.
Niamh's eyebrows rose.
Eamon's smile became insufferable.
I immediately regretted giving any of them ammunition.
Skye recovered first.
"He told me what to do."
I looked at her.
"You ignored me."
"Exactly. That's how we met."
Niamh laughed.
Eamon looked delighted. "Oh, I like her."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because I am delightful," Skye said.
"You broke into a building."
"The gate was open."
Eamon looked at me. "Definitely your type."
I stared at him.
Niamh elbowed her husband.
"What?"
"Behave."
"I am behaving."
"You've been here three minutes."
"Exactly. Impressive."
The exchange should have felt strange.
It didn't.
Watching Niamh and Eamon together did something unexpected to the years between us.
There had been a time when Eamon was my best friend and Niamh was the woman I loved.
Now they stood together with their daughter between them, and rather than feel replaced, I saw something I had been too broken to understand fifteen years ago. Life hadn't stopped because mine had.
They had gone on with their lives and found each other somewhere along the way, and rather than hurting, the realization felt good—more than good, because their happiness was what I should have wanted for them from the beginning.
Niamh looked at me more carefully once the laughter settled.
"Are you staying long?"
"Don't know."
"Work?"
"Aye."
Her gaze shifted briefly toward Skye, then returned to me. "Connected to why you came back?"
"Aye."
She didn't push.
Neither did Eamon.
That made the apology harder.
I looked between them and realized I'd spent fifteen years preparing explanations nobody was demanding.
"I'm sorry."
The words came abruptly enough that Eamon's expression changed.
Niamh went still.
I continued before either of them could spare me.
"For leaving the way I did. For not calling. For making both of you think cutting you off was easier than letting you see..." My throat tightened around the rest. "Whatever the hell I was then."
Niamh's eyes softened.
"Rory."
I flinched less this time.
Maybe because Skye was beside me and didn't react or because I was getting tired of fighting a name that had never actually hurt me.
Niamh stepped closer.
"I always understood, Rory."
"You shouldn't have had to."
"No. But I did."
She glanced toward Eamon.
"He did too."
Eamon rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. "I was angrier than she was."
"I figured."
"Wanted to punch you for about five years."
"Only five?"
"Got busy."
Niamh smiled.
Eamon's expression turned serious again. "Then after a while I realized you weren't staying away because you didn't give a shit. You were staying away because you gave too much of one."
I looked toward the pavement.
He had always known me better than I wanted.
Niamh spoke more quietly. "You thought if you disappeared, none of us would have to carry what happened with you."
"I didn't know what else to do."
"I know."
No accusation.
That was almost worse.
I looked at Orla because looking at the baby was easier than looking at people I'd hurt.
She had discovered one fist beneath the blanket and was studying it with great concentration.
Niamh noticed.
"Want to hold her?"
Every muscle in my body tightened before reason caught up.
I looked at her.
"You serious?"
"She's a baby, Rory, not an explosive device."
Eamon grinned. "Although the output is comparable."
Niamh ignored him and lifted Orla from the pram.
The baby protested only briefly before settling against her mother's shoulder.
I hadn't held many babies beyond Charlie a few times and the occasional clubhouse child passed into my arms when somebody needed both hands for something else, but holding Orla felt different in a way I couldn't immediately explain.
Niamh stepped closer and paused.
"Do you want to?"
The question mattered.
I nodded.
"Aye."
She transferred Orla carefully into my arms.
The baby was warm and unexpectedly solid, one tiny hand immediately gripping the edge of my jacket as though questioning the leather. I adjusted her automatically, supporting her head while she stared up at me with that same suspicious expression.
"She doesn't look impressed," I said.
"She's an excellent judge of character," Eamon replied.
"Then why does she like you?"
"Genetics."
Skye laughed.
I looked toward her.
Her expression caught me off guard.
There was no awkwardness or territorial amusement in Skye's expression, only warmth and something dangerously close to tenderness that affected me more than I wanted to examine while somebody else's baby had a fist wrapped around my jacket.
Orla made a small sound and reached toward my beard.
I moved back too late and her fingers caught.
"Ow."
Niamh laughed. "She likes hair."
"She can like someone else's."
"You survived worse."
"Debatable."
I handed the baby back after another minute, but the weight of her lingered against my arms after Niamh settled her into the pram.
Eamon watched me.
Then his gaze dropped toward the leather visible beneath my jacket.
"So, you found a family."
The question was quiet enough that the others stopped talking.
I looked at him.
The Flaming Skulls flashed through my mind without effort.
Toxic sitting behind his desk pretending he didn't worry.
Steel arguing strategy. Raze running his mouth.
Storm threatening people twice her size.
Remedy carrying Charlie through the clubhouse with one boot in his hand.
Lark and Sunshine and Daisy and Willow turning a motorcycle club into something nobody outside it would ever fully understand.
Men who had put themselves between me and bullets without asking which name belonged on my birth certificate.
"Aye."
Eamon nodded.
"Good."
That single word settled somewhere I hadn't realized still hurt.
Skye wasn't part of the club, at least not in the way the others were and perhaps never would be, but when I thought about the family I'd found in America, she had somehow entered the picture anyway.
That frightened me enough that I looked away.
Niamh pulled out her phone.
"Give me your number."
I hesitated.
She stared at me.
"Seriously?"
"No."
I took out my phone.
We exchanged numbers, then Eamon made me save his as well while loudly informing me that if another fifteen years passed without contact, he would personally fly to America and let Brigid know where I lived.
"Come visit," I said before I could reconsider it.
Both of them looked at me.
I glanced toward Orla.
"Carolina. Clubhouse is loud, but there's plenty of room nearby. Charlie would probably recruit her into something illegal before breakfast."
Niamh smiled slowly.
"You're inviting us to America?"
"Aye."
Eamon looked pleased. "You paying?"
"No."
"Then we'll think about it."
Niamh laughed.