Chapter 10 #2
“Then don’t.” She was rifling through my jewelry box, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to take it off until you’re ready. And maybe—” She held up the pearl earrings Marco had given me. “Maybe not the pieces Marco gave you?”
The observation was gentle but landed hard. “You’re right. I can’t wear them.”
“I know.” Shelly set them aside. “So wear mine.” She reached up and removed her own earrings—simple silver hoops—and held them out. “Not fancy, but they won’t make you feel like you’re betraying anyone.”
I took them, my throat tight. “Thank you.”
“That’s what sisters-in-law are for.” She moved to my dresser and started pulling out makeup. “Now, let’s make you look like yourself again. The you from before—not the grief-zombie you’ve been for the last four months.”
Shelly worked on applying foundation and blush while I sat still. She was halfway through my eyes when Paris appeared in the doorway.
“Why are you wearing makeup?” My daughter’s suspicious gaze moved from me to Shelly and back again. “And perfume? I smelled it from downstairs.”
“Your mom has a business dinner,” Shelly said smoothly, not pausing in her work. “Very important. Very boring.”
“Business dinners don’t need lipstick.”
“The fancy ones do.” Shelly picked up mascara. “Now go help Uncle Michael with... whatever’s going on downstairs.”
“Rome’s trying to make a fort out of couch cushions and Fury’s helping and Blaze says they’re doing it wrong, and it’s very loud.” Paris didn’t move from the doorway. “Are you going on a date?”
The question was so direct, so painfully honest, that I didn’t know how to answer. Shelly’s hand stilled on my face, waiting.
“I’m having dinner with a friend,” I said. “Someone who understands my… situation.”
Paris considered this, her face serious beyond her years. “Is he going to be our new dad?”
“No, honey. No one can replace your dad.”
“But he’s dead.”
The blunt statement made me flinch. “Yes, he is.”
“So someone has to be Dad now. Uncle Michael says so.”
I shot a look at Shelly, who looked equally surprised. “Uncle Michael said that?”
“I heard him say that someone needs to help with the boy stuff because boys need a dad, and Rome and Austin are getting wild.” She paused. “I don’t need a dad for anything because I’m fine. But Rome keeps crying and asking where Dad is, and maybe a new dad would help.”
My heart cracked open. “Oh, baby—”
“Gotta go. Fury says we need more cushions for the fort.” She vanished as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving me staring at the empty doorway.
“Well,” Shelly said after a moment. “That was Paris.”
“She thinks… God, Shelly, she thinks I need to find someone to replace Marco.”
“She’s five. She’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.” Shelly resumed working on my makeup. “And she’s not entirely wrong that the boys need a male influence. Michael’s doing his best, but he’s not their dad.”
“Patrick’s not their dad either.”
“No. But maybe he’s someone who understands what the boys are going through in a way that we can’t.” She finished the mascara and stepped back to assess her work. “There. You look beautiful. Like yourself again.”
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. She looked alive. Present. Like someone who might have something to look forward to instead of just something to survive.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
“I know.” Shelly squeezed my shoulder. “But you’re also brave. You’ve been brave every day. This is just another kind of brave.”
I came downstairs in the green dress and Shelly’s earrings, my wedding ring still firmly on my finger. The living room was indeed a fort—cushions and blankets stretched across furniture in elaborate architecture that looked one wrong move away from collapse.
Rome and Fury were inside it, their voices muffled. Paris sat outside, directing operations. Austin had his nose in his book, but I saw him glance up when I entered.
“You look nice, Mom,” he said.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Michael appeared from the kitchen, taking in my appearance with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You clean up well.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“He’s going to be here soon.” Michael’s voice dropped. “Are you ready for this?”
Was I? Ready for Patrick to walk into my home, to meet my brother, to see the life I’d built with Marco? Ready for whatever came next?
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
The doorbell rang.
I froze halfway to the door. This was it. The moment where this thing between Patrick and me became real, visible, witnessed by my family.
Michael moved past me. “I’ve got it.”
“Michael—”
“I’m just answering the door, Tess. That’s all.”
He pulled open the door, and there was Patrick.
He wore dark slacks and a blue button-down that made his eyes even more striking. His ginger curls were slightly damp, and he held a small bag in one hand. When he saw Michael, his expression shifted to something between polite and cautious.
“Patrick McCrae,” he said, extending his free hand. “You must be Michael.”
“I am.” Michael shook his hand, his grip probably tighter than strictly necessary. “Theresa’s brother.”
“Aye, I gathered.” Patrick’s Scottish accent got stronger when he was trying to be formal or maybe feeling unsure. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Mom!” Rome’s voice came from inside the fort. “Someone’s here!”
Within seconds, all the kids had emerged—Rome and Fury tumbling out of the cushion fort, Paris appearing from wherever she’d been lurking, Austin marking his place in his book and standing. Even Aspen wandered in from the kitchen, her hands covered in what looked like paint.
Patrick took it all in with the expression of someone who knew exactly what he was looking at. His eyes swept across my children, and his face softened.
“Hello,” he said to them. “I’m Patrick. I’m taking your mum to dinner.”
“Why?” Paris asked bluntly.
“Paris—” I started, finally finding my voice and moving to the door.
“Because I asked her,” Patrick said, seemingly unbothered by the interrogation. “And because sometimes grown-ups like to have conversations without being interrupted by interesting questions from smart children.”
Paris narrowed her eyes but nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer.
Patrick held out the bag he’d been carrying. “I brought something. For all of you. If that’s all right?”
He glanced at me, and I nodded, curious.
He pulled out a small box—fancy chocolates from the look of them—and offered them to Michael. “For helping Theresa these past months. I’ve got six of my own, so I know what an undertaking that is.”
Michael’s protective expression flickered with surprise. He took the chocolates. “That’s... thoughtful.”
“And for the little ones,” Patrick pulled out several packages of colored pencils, the good kind with dozens of colors. “I understand one of you likes to draw?”
Aspen’s eyes went wide. She reached for the pencils, then looked at me for permission.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said.
She took them carefully, cradling them against her chest.
“The rest are for anyone who wants them,” Patrick said, handing the remaining packages to Rome, who accepted them with awe. “Drawing helps when things are hard. Or so I’ve found.”
Austin was watching Patrick with an assessing gaze. “You have six children?”
“I do. Six wee terrors who keep me from getting too comfortable.” Patrick’s smile was gentle. “They’re with their nanny tonight, probably destroying something expensive.”
“How old?” Austin asked.
“Alec’s nine—about your age, I think. Brody’s seven, Carson and Cory are six-year-old twins, Eoin’s four, and Maggie just turned one.”
“That’s a lot of kids,” Rome said, his voice awed.
“Aye, it is. Makes for a loud house. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The easy way he spoke about his children, the understanding in his voice—it seemed to satisfy something in Austin. My oldest son nodded slowly, then went back to his book.
“We should go,” I said, before Paris could launch into another round of questions. “Michael—”
“We’re fine. Go have your dinner.” Michael’s expression had thawed considerably. “Take your time.”
Patrick offered me his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took it. His warmth radiated through the fabric of his shirt.
“It was good to meet you all,” Patrick said. “Take care of each other.”
We made it to his car before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“That went better than I expected,” Patrick said, opening my door.
“You brought them gifts. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” He waited for me to settle in before closing the door and moving around to the driver’s side. “Your brother’s protective. That’s good. You should have good people looking out for you.”
“He probably would have interrogated you more if you hadn’t brought chocolates.”
Patrick laughed as he started the engine. “Bribery is a time-honored tradition. I’m not above using it.”
As we pulled away from the house, I looked back to see Michael standing in the doorway, Paris beside him. They both waved.
I lifted a hand to wave back, but my throat closed. A sudden wave of grief and guilt washed over me, so potent it stole my breath. This was real. This was a step I couldn’t take back.
Tears pricked my eyes, blurring the image of my family in the rearview mirror until they were just indistinct shapes.
I blinked fiercely, turning to stare out my window at the passing houses, willing the tears not to fall.
My thumb found the cool, familiar metal of my wedding ring, twisting it on my finger.
The gesture, usually a comfort, now felt like a confession.
“You all right?” Patrick asked quietly, his eyes on the road.
I couldn’t trust myself to speak right away. I took a slow, shaky breath, fighting for composure. “Ask me after dinner,” I managed.
He didn’t reach for my hand or offer a platitude. He simply gave a small, quiet nod of understanding and focused on driving, leaving the space for me to find my footing. And in that respectful silence, I felt more seen than I had in months.