Chapter 23
Robert
Mrs. Morrigan—or Thelma, as she keeps reminding me to call her—laughs as I show her my beloved succulent collection on my phone.
We’re still sitting at the dinner table.
Taranis made himself scarce the second he finished his last bite of food.
Clíodhna and Rhiannon have gone to talk to their father, and me, Aoife, and Mrs.—Thelma are all sitting with half-drunk cups of tea.
It was painful watching Rhiannon during dinner. She made two of her fingers bleed from picking, her shoulders were so curled in on herself they were like a fucking scarf wrapped around her ears, and she looked so deflated and so… limp and lifeless.
“You did all this yourself?” Thelma peers through her glasses at my screen.
A spark of pride blooms in my chest as I nod. “I went to the charity shops to collect the trolls. Most of them had haircuts and were covered in marker or stains. I cleaned them, sliced their skulls off, and planted wee succulents inside.”
She laughs. “They are oddly cute. And a great way to repurpose those long-lost toys from the sixties.”
Aoife stretches her hand out to ask for my phone. “The nineties, Mum.” When she sees the screen, a smile tugs her lips upward. You can’t help but smile at a collection of salvaged trolls with succulents in their heads. They make me smile every single day.
I don’t correct Aoife, her mum’s right, the toys were created much earlier than they became hugely popular here in Northern Ireland.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” Michael’s booming voice makes Aoife jump so hard she drops my phone on the table.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, scrambling to grab it and pass it back to me.
There’s no mistaking who Michael is yelling at. Thelma pats my hand before standing. “I’ll put the kettle on, love. He just needs some time to process.”
The hell he does. The man is a bully; there’s no way to dress that up.
Aoife snorts, then gives me a sympathetic glance. “Sorry,” she whispers again. “But you have zero chance of getting Da to approve of…” She gestures at me like it’s self-explanatory.
I nod. “You don’t need to apologize for him. Neither of you do.” I speak a bit louder so Thelma can hear me too. “I know I put you all through a lot.”
Another snort comes from the youngest Morrigan sister. “Understatement of the century.”
Rhiannon’s voice is a low murmur through the walls, but her father’s is crystal clear as he tears her a new arsehole. I picture her clutching her fingers, her thumbnail working the length of her finger, scratching at skin that isn’t there, rubbing herself raw.
Thelma pats my shoulder. “You don’t regret your actions though, do you, Robert?”
I accept the steaming mug of tea from her with a shake of my head. “I don’t, no, Mrs.—Thelma.”
She sits down next to me with a mug of her own, a knowing, sympathetic stare in eyes that look startlingly like Rhiannon’s. “I’m sure you had your reasons for doing what you did.”
A knot of tension lodged in my rib cage loosens just a smidge, and a lump appears in my throat as I nod but don’t answer.
“Rugby first, Rhiannon. That’s the rule, that’s always been the rule, no matter what your heart tells you.
You’ve got to think of your career above all else.
Especially because you’re a woman.” Michael’s voice is harsh and condescending, like Rhiannon has no idea of the battles she faces by being a woman in professional sports.
My blood starts to simmer. I may not have wanted to be thrust into a relationship—fake or otherwise—with Rhiannon Morrigan, but she’s not a fucking idiot.
Spending a week with her in Croatia taught me a lot of things that I hadn’t read in the never-ending number of stories about her over the years.
Her middle name is Fiadh; she told me that sometimes she uses it as an alias when she doesn’t want people to know who she is—for things like dinner reservations and hotel stays.
She’s not a massive, international star by any means, but she doesn’t like to make it easy for the paparazzi to find her.
She teaches Pilates on the side. It’s common knowledge that women get paid less in the sport than men, and their side hustles need to be flexible.
Well, it turns out, so is my fake girlfriend.
Watching her morning and nightly routines on holiday was a blessing and a curse.
She wore a sports bra to train, which made it hard not to stare at the three ravens tattoo.
And when she encouraged me to get involved, I also learned that I’m not nearly as strong from the inside out as I’d previously thought.
“You okay?” Aoife nudges my foot under the table. “I’d love to say he’s all bark and no bite, but he’s definitely got teeth. He’ll flare out, eventually. We just have to let him get it all out.”
Clíodhna slips back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her like she’s sealing a crime scene. “Well, that’s going about as well as expected,” she says, grabbing a glass from the counter. “If anyone’s taking bets on who breaks first, my money’s on Dad. His voice cracked on the word reporter.”
She glances at me. “You might want to keep your shoes on in case you have to make a run for it.” Tension hums beneath the fragile calm. “You can hear the shouting from the street,” she murmurs, not accusing, just tired.
I nod, not saying what’s actually on the tip of my tongue.
Why? Why do they have to let him rant and rave about how he feels about the situation?
From the lack of muffled replies from Rhiannon, it seems like she’s in there just taking a bollocking.
And for what? To make her father feel better? Fuck that for a game of darts.
I flex my fingers before rubbing at my leg, a new sympathy for all the Morrigan kids developing as my hand moves back and forth over my trouser leg. I rack my brain trying to figure out how to rescue her from the man yelling at her because of me.
“He’s a journalist…”
“How could you?”
“You should have known better…”
“He’s a fucking parasite…”
He doesn’t pause for breath between sentences, his voice getting louder and louder with each insult.
I don’t mind that he hates me, or that he knows I can hear every word he says.
I mind that he’s yelling at my girlfriend.
Fake or not, no one deserves to be treated like this.
And knowing she—and the rest of the siblings—have probably faced this more than once over their lifetimes has me incensed. I can’t stay quiet.
It might earn me a black eye, but I need to say something.
My chair squeaks against the tiles as I push back from the table. Aoife’s brow quirks. “I wouldn’t. You’ll make it worse.”
“Aye. But sometimes bullies need to pick on someone their own size. If he’s going to yell at someone until he runs out of breath, he should yell at me.”
Clíodhna’s voice cuts in before I can stand. “Careful, Rob. She can handle Dad. What she can’t handle is watching you turn into him.” Her gaze is sharp, the kind of look that sees through armor. “If you go in there, make it about her, not your pride.”
Pride has nothing to do with this. Guilt swirls in my gut. I did this. Not telling her who I was at the pub, not being more aware of our surroundings instead of listening to my long-neglected dick and charging headlong into fucking her… This is all on me. I should be the one to take the fall.
If Thelma and the girls react to me calling their patriarch a bully, I don’t see it.
I’m already on my feet and heading toward the living room where Micheal stands towering over Rhiannon.
Gone is the strong, confident, sharp-tongued woman I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks, and in her place is a small, frail-looking woman with rounded shoulders and a dipped head.
“Stay the fuck out of this, McAllister. It’s a family affair.” He points his index finger at me in the doorway.
“Due respect, Mike, if anyone else spoke to your daughter like that, myself included, you’d rip their head off their body. And deservedly so. She’s a grown woman, not a child. She knows the consequences of her actions, we both do.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m not finished.
“We get the picture; you vehemently disapprove of our relationship. There’s really no need to hammer the point home.
We knew before we came here, and yet we both showed up to dinner.
You can say what you want, how you want, to me, but I won’t let you speak to Rhiannon like this, in my company or otherwise. ”
I leave my implication hanging, that if I get wind of hearing him treat her like this behind closed doors, I’ll be every bit as unhappy. Not sure quite what I’m going to do about it yet, but I’ll figure that out if this warning doesn’t do what I want it to.
I half expect his fist to meet my jaw, but he simply blinks at me with wide eyes. “You have some fucking balls, McAllister.” He shakes his head. “And if you hurt her, I’ll break your legs.”
I snicker. “And who’s going to break your legs when you hurt her?” In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. He already hates me and wants to stab me with his entire knife collection from the kitchen.
Rhiannon’s head snaps up, and the fury I expect to see isn’t there. Instead, there’s gratitude, confusion, and a sprinkling of relief in those mossy green eyes.
“You really going to talk to me like that under my own roof?” He squares his shoulders, clearly not used to having anyone stand up to him.
“Would you prefer I did it outside instead?” The challenge in my voice is clear.
Outside these walls, everyone and their cousin have phones.
“I understand you disapprove, we both do. But if you continue to talk to her like a piece of dirt on your shoe, we won’t be back next week for Sunday dinner. Or the one after that.”
Rhiannon’s jaw drops, but she stays quiet.
“And while the situation isn’t ideal for you, it will have no negative impact on Rhiannon’s career.” I’ll make sure of it, especially seeing how badly her father will go back to treating her once I’m out of the picture and our arrangement comes to the end of its term.
“I was going to give Thelma a hand cleaning up the kitchen. But I’m going to take your daughter home instead.
You and Taranis can help clean up.” I raise my voice knowing Taranis is listening to every fucking word that comes out of my mouth, wherever he is in the house, because he made himself scarce as soon as the shouting started.
Why he’s not here protecting his sister from his father is anyone’s guess.
I offer my hand to Rhiannon, my gut churning. What if she smacks it away? What if she opts to stay here and take this toxic rampage from her father instead of coming with me?
I don’t have to wonder for long before her trembling, clammy, slender hand slides into mine. I don’t pause as I lead Rhiannon out to the car. She swipes the keys from the table next to the door on her way past. “Thanks for dinner, Thelma. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“See you next week, love.” Thelma’s words and a grunt from Mike are the last things we hear as the door closes behind us.
The short drive back to Rhiannon’s house is quiet, charged with an energy I’ve never experienced from her before.
I don’t know whether to apologize or pull her onto my lap and hug her until she feels better.
How often does her dad go off like that?
After every lost game on the pitch? Every missed kick or bad tackle?
My phone buzzes as she pulls up outside her house. It’s a message from Aoife, and the only Aoife I know is Rhiannon’s sister.
Aoife: Hi Robert, as you can see, I put my number in your phone in case of emergency. My Best Friend’s Wedding, Notting Hill, Runaway Bride, Pretty Woman, Steel Magnolias, Sleeping with the Enemy.
Robert: Specialist subject: Things with Julia Roberts in them.
Aoife: LOL! Close, things that’ll cheer my sister up after a run-in with our dad.
Thankfully, she gets my Mastermind reference, and I’m not left feeling like a dumbass. But my heart thaws at the existence of such a list in the first place. What the fuck goes on behind closed doors with this damn family?
Aoife: And a hot chocolate without the marshmallows. She hates that goopy, marshmallow sludge you get at the bottom of the cup.
Robert: So noted. Thanks for the heads up.
She gives off chaos energy, but she’s a good egg, and she doesn’t need to know that I already know this sliver of information about her sister.
I’m surprised it wasn’t Clíodhna who reached out, though. The responsible one. Guess everyone’s off script tonight. There’s something telling about the silence from the middle sister; the peacemakers are often the first to burn out. Maybe even she’s stopped trying to hold this family together.
I had planned to head home from here. My leg’s throbbing in time with a drumming in my temples, and I need a bath hot enough to peel my skin off after that encounter with rugby royalty.
I almost burst out laughing. If the public had seen the sham of a conversation I just witnessed, they’d flay Mike and kick him off his fucking throne.
There have been rumors about him over the years, and not just my accusations of doping.
It’s no secret that rugby coaches past and present can be arseholes, but I think the assumption is that in private he’d be… softer? Or at least less of a raging dick.
Rhiannon turns the car off and turns to look at me. Her face is a picture of beautiful torment, two deep lines between her furrowed brows. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
I blink once, twice, my brain trying to process that she’s apologizing to me for her father. “I…” I rake my hand through my hair. “You’re kidding me, right?”
She tilts her head.
“You never, ever have to apologize to me, or anyone else, for someone else’s behavior. Especially your da.”
She opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Morrigan.”
There’s a heavy beat of silence in the car between us before she lets go of a breath I’m not sure she realized she was holding.
“Do you have hot chocolate in the house?”
The edges of her lips quirk, but she shakes her head.
I point to the road. “Okay, let’s go, Rhi-Bird. They’re open late at Dock of the Bay. We’ll grab hot chocolates by the sea, and I’ll kick your ass at checkers. If you win, I’ll watch a Julia Roberts movie with you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re on.”