Chapter 14 Rhiannon
Rhiannon
Dad’s booming voice shakes the picture frames on my parent’s living room walls. I’m sitting on their sofa, hands clutched together in my lap, while Mum “softens the ground” with him in the kitchen.
“She did, what?”
My phone lights up on the sofa cushion next to me.
Eef: How’s it going? Told him yet?
Clee: Would you give her a chance to scratch her arse, FFS. She just got there.
Mum’s voice is too low to be heard from where I’m sitting, but then Dad yells, “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child, Thelma.”
My spine stiffens.
My hands tremble, my knees shake. Dad’s never once lifted his hand to any of us, Taranis included, but by God, his loud and thunderous voice has scared the shit out of me since I was wee.
It was usually Clíodhna he yelled at. Despite having four children, Clee has always had that middle child vibe going on. And when he’d yell at her, I’d grab the closest book and a torch, and hide in my closet, escaping into a fantasy world while he yelled at her.
This time, the yelling is about me, and it’ll be heading my way any time now. I don’t expect Mum to bite back. So, when I hear a clipped, “Then stop acting like a fucking child, Michael.” I jam a fist to my mouth to stop the stunned giggle threatening to fall out.
Go, Mum! That’s a group chat worthy update right there.
Rhiannon: Mum just called him a child.
I don’t think I could ever return fire to Dad like that. I just go quiet, retreat into my own head, and let him shout until he flares out.
Eef: If the shoe fits…
By contrast, Aoife has always yelled back at him.
Something about being the youngest child means she can get away with murder.
I mean it. She could come home covered in blood from a murder spree, and my parents would be like, “Come on in, Aoife love, let’s get you cleaned up and here’s your favorite meal for dinner. ”
“You’ll need to have that injunction or restraining order removed, or whatever that thing you got against him is called.” Mum’s voice is measured as she broaches the topic that’s been bubbling in my brain.
“I will fucking not.”
“Michael Morrigan,” Mum starts. “Your daughters hunt in a pack. If you don’t tear up that piece of paper, Rhiannon won’t come back here, and if she doesn’t, the other two won’t either.”
She has a point. As much as the girls love and are afraid of Dad, the three of us are thicker than thieves.
“I’m her agent, Thelma. I’ve been in this business a long time.”
Mum stays quiet, letting him get whatever he needs to off his chest. I hear the click of the kettle through the wall, the cupboard door open, and the clink of mugs as they hit the counter.
“What the hell was she thinking? That piece of shit reporter, too. Fuck. It’s like she said to herself, ‘How could I possibly make this whole situation worse?’ and then went and did that.”
Mum’s voice is low and muffled again, I think her head’s in the fridge getting milk.
I brace for him bursting through the door, the imminent explosion.
I dig at the cuticle on my thumbnail until it draws blood.
I’ll tell him I’m being responsible. George trashed me online the second he could, there was no going back to him without ending up in jail for his murder.
I needed to do something to protect myself, my sisters, my fucking team.
That’s what he would have wanted me to do, right?
Just because he doesn’t like the man I’m doing it with doesn’t mean it’s the wrong play, right?
órlaith told me I needed to do something, and I am.
She’s the expert; this is her job. The team pay her a lot of money for instances just like this one.
It’s my job to trust her guidance, do as she says, and make sure that nothing else comes of it that could reflect poorly on my career and my teammates.
That’s what I’ll tell him, as soon as he comes in here. I’ll stand, dry my sticky palms on my jeans, and explain my side of the story to him. He’ll realize it was the only thing to do.
The words sound right in my head, like a well-rehearsed PR statement. But they don’t land anywhere—just echo.
Instead of the confrontation my poised muscles are expecting, there’s a frustrated grunt and footsteps echoing through the closed door I’m sitting behind in the living room.
The front door clicks shut. No slam, no curse, no echo—just the hollow thud of absence.
The kind that swallows every other sound until all that’s left is the pulse pounding in my ears.
He left?
Surely not.
Maybe Mum left to give us space to talk?
My question is quickly answered when Mum backs into the room so she doesn’t bump into the door with the two brimming mugs of tea in her hands. She hits me with a look so filled with sadness and sympathy that my heart splinters in my chest.
He left.
Eef: So… how bad?
Rhiannon: He left.
Clee: Like… to cool down?
Rhiannon: Like… out the front door.
Something that feels dangerously close to grief claws up my chest —not for what he said, but for what he didn’t. The silence hurts worse than any roar. I’ve spent my whole life earning his approval by surviving his noise. What am I supposed to do if there’s nothing to fix?
He’s never walked away before. He yells, I take it, I cry, we reset. That’s the ritual. If he’s not yelling… what the fuck am I supposed to do?
A noise that sounds like a sob catches in my throat as Mum puts the cups down on the coffee table before sitting next to me and patting my knee.
“Give him time, love. He’ll come around.
” Her voice is soft, automatic—the same tone she uses when she tells the kettle to boil faster or the laundry to dry before an impending downpour.
Words she’s said so often they’ve lost their meaning.
Will he? Have I broken something unfixable here? My chest threatens to cave in on itself while the racing in my veins picks up more speed.
“You know what he’s like.” Another comforting pat.
I do, or at least I thought I did. But this isn’t about him, this is about me. After years of hearing her say them, her passive words sound hollow, a lot like “don’t rock the boat any more than you already have” advice that, looking back over the years, doesn’t seem to have done me any favors.
I’m so fucking tired of waiting for men to calm down and stop being so emotional.
Mum sits in silence with me, cradling her cup in both hands while I hold my mug with one hand and trail the edges of the ink on my collarbone with the other. I wanted to talk it all over with Dad, not necessarily get his blessing, but I’d have liked a nod at least that he agreed with the plan.
The more I sip on my tea, the worse my brain descends into spiral after spiral. Maybe I should call off the whole fake-dating thing. Maybe órlaith was wrong, maybe things will calm down by themselves.
I take too big a mouthful, and it goes down the wrong way.
Maybe I shouldn’t make decisions by myself. Maybe I should have brought Dad into the room to talk to the PR woman and hash something out between them.
My brain buzzes with self-doubt, and the house is so eerily quiet my stomach sloshes.
Is the silent treatment from Dad over this fake-dating thing worth it so I don’t betray myself?
Making the decision to play along with this relationship plan felt like a step forward, like taking back some kind of control over the situation, and if I’m truly honest with myself…
my life… going back on that, letting Dad decide what I should do… that feels like erasing progress.
Is the progress so bad that it needs erasing?
It’s not long before Mum gets up to do the laundry. It slaps of her cleaning up his mess just enough to give me pause.
I want to scream, punch a pillow, get drunk and ugly cry. My hands are still shaking, and the floor beneath my feet feels unsteady, but the decision sits quietly in my chest. I’m done mistaking silence for peace. If he can’t look at me, that’s on him.
If he won’t stand beside me, he can stand out of my way.