25. Marcella
twenty-five
Marcella
A Couple Days Later
The drive to the McGloughlin house takes less than twenty minutes, though my pulse seems to think I’m heading into a courtroom with no prep.
I’ve made corporations fold with a single citation. Stripped arrogant surgeons down to raw nerve in front of a jury. Walked into boardrooms packed with men twice my age and walked out with settlements they never saw coming.
Visiting Seamus’s family home and being introduced to his mother as his girlfriend feels infinitely more dangerous.
For once, the outcome might matter more than I want to admit.
He’s driving my car, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over the center console, fingers lightly brushing mine. It’s casual. Effortless. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. Every tiny graze of his skin against mine ratchets my heart up another beat.
I don’t want him to see me nervous. Not tonight.
“You okay?” He glances at me as we pull onto a quiet, tree-lined street in Capitol Hill.
I nod, loosening my grip on the armrest and attempt humor. “Yep. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Oh. Right. I’m meeting the entire McGloughlin clan for the first time. No big deal.”
“It’s Sunday dinner.” His lips twitch into a grin. “Ma will cook enough to feed a rugby team and Da will yammer on about construction and the Troubles.”
The house appears like a warm, golden beacon. A classic Craftsman—broad front porch, gabled roof, and enough charm to feel like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie..
I smooth my jeans and glance down at my oversized sweater. I’ve gone casual, per Seamus’s suggestion. I feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den in sneakers instead of my ordinary power suit.
“You’re not nervous.” He parks in front of the house. “Right?”
I arch a brow. “I’m a nearly forty-year-old woman who’s never been introduced to a boyfriend’s family before. So, you know, totally chill.”
“You’re thirty-eight.” He kills the engine and leans across the console, brushing his lips over mine. “They’re going to love you.”
“You say it like a foregone conclusion.” I swat at him playfully.
He pecks my cheek. “It is.”
As we approach the front door, it swings open before we can knock.
Connor, tall with a mane of curly auburn hair and amber eyes grins at us.
He’s so much bigger in person than he appears in music videos and on stage.
He’s like a Celtic god—his shoulders fill the doorway and even though his menacing face breaks into a wide grin, I can tell he’s every inch the older rockstar brother who once ran this entire family like a battlefield medic.
“You must be Marcella.” He offers a hand.
I manage to keep my composure. “I am. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He motions to the living room. “Come in. Everyone’s been dying to meet the first woman Seamus has ever introduced to any of us.”
Seamus snorts. “No one knew I was bringing her until a few days ago.”
“Ach.” Connor shakes his head. “Go with it, wee Seamus.”
Inside, the house is chaos—in the best possible way. The scent of something delicious wraps around me the second I cross the threshold. It reminds me of my dad’s restaurant. There’s also laughter echoing down the hallway. The sound of shrieks and thud of little feet racing from room to room.
We barely set foot in the house before Seamus is mobbed by two tiny whirlwinds—Torin and Tristan. Nearly five years old and full of unrelenting energy. Seamus drops to his knees like it’s instinct, wrestling them both into giggles, one tucked under each arm as they shriek and pretend to fight back.
My heart trips. Watching him with his nephews—playful, joyful, completely present—wakes something in me I thought I’d buried. A whisper of want. The ache of a dream I’d already let go and need to keep at bay because by the time Seamus is established as a neurosurgeon, I’ll be too far past possible.
Of course, assuming he and I will still be together.
I don’t have an opportunity to dwell. A woman with perfect glossy hair and effortless confidence only born of fame steps into the foyer.
I recognize her instantly. My favorite actress, Ronni Miller.
Connor’s wife. The star of a teen show I was obsessed with, Hawaiian High .
Also the lead of a long-running sitcom, She’s All That .
Now she produces and guest stars on my current favorite show, The Boyfriend Experiment .
To say I’m a fan is an understatement.
“Hi, I’m Ronni,” she introduces herself like she’s not a cultural icon. “You must be the badass attorney who got justice for Miranda.”
I blink. “I—yes. Marcella.”
She steps forward and hugs me with no pretense. “Thank you for standing up for her. Seamus told us you were a force.”
I glance over at him. He’s still tangled with the boys, laughing like it’s his version of heaven.
“Thank you. I need to let you know, I’m kinda obsessed with The Boyfriend Experiment ,” I admit like it’s a confession.
Ronni shoots me a grin. “Really?”
“I watch it because of Clover,” I gush a little. “She’s smart, complicated, gorgeous—and not a size two. I grew up trying to emulate perfect, thin women and it messed my body image up immensely. Your show is one of the first to make women like me fell…uh, seen .”
Ronni’s smile softens. “So cool. Thank you. I get a lot of similar comments, which is exactly why I fought so hard to cast her.”
Seamus’s mom, Maureen, emerges from the kitchen. She’s fit and wiry, with thick auburn hair pulled into a braid. Here mere presence makes you straighten your spine. She wipes her hands on a linen towel as we enter.
“You must be Marcella. I’m Maureen.” Her Irish lilt is amazing.
“Lovely to meet you.” I try not to curtsy, though I want to a little.
She pulls me into a hug instead. “We’ve all been so excited for you to get here. He’s never brought someone home before.”
“Well…I hope I live up to expectations.” I glance over my shoulder at Seamus. He’s tossing one of the twins over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Maureen laughs. “You’re grand, love. Sit. Dinner’s almost ready. No, you may not help.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I lift my hands in surrender.
We gather around the dining table—long, dark wood worn smooth by years of use.
Seamus sits beside me. Connor and Ronni with the kids on one end.
Liam and Padraig opposite each other. Cillian, quiet and tired-eyed, tucks into a spot near their father.
Rory carves the pork roast with ceremony, while Maureen brings out tray after tray of food—roasted potatoes, buttered cabbage, parsnips with thyme, a thick, onion gravy, soda bread still warm from the oven.
I can’t get over how similar the McGloughlins are to the Delgados. I feel right at home.
The conversation is nonstop—loud, overlapping, full of in-jokes and references I don’t catch. No one ignores me. If anything, they go out of their way to loop me in.
“Is it true you’re working on a case against the caregiver in the nursing home who overmedicated a bunch of the patients?” Padraig asks, pouring himself a splash of juice.
“I do represent three of the victims and can’t really talk about it, for ethical reasons,” I answer honestly.
Rory claps. “Aye, a woman with integrity and teeth. I like youse.”
I catch Seamus watching me, a slow smile tugging at his mouth like he’s proud.
It’s been this way all day—his eyes always finding me, like he can’t help himself.
There’s something else I’ve noticed. A quietness I hadn’t expected.
Around his family, he fades a little—still warm, still engaged, decidedly less… open.
Less Seamus .
It makes me wonder. Is it the weight of being the youngest? The pressure of living up to the McGloughlin name? Or maybe it’s hard to be loud when everyone else already takes up so much space.
With me, he fills every inch of the room. With them, he pulls back.
I don’t think they notice.
I do.
As the evening unfolds, Seamus’s twin brothers fall into a low-grade argument about the band. Fireball is, apparently, riding an unprecedented wave of success. Liam nurses a soda water, the heat of his frustration barely contained.
“We finally get SNL ,” he mutters. “We’ve been clawing for this for a decade. Now you want to breathe?”
Padraig doesn’t even flinch. “Yeah. Maybe I do.” He pours himself even more juice from the bottle on the table. “We’ve been pushing. For years. Maybe now’s the time to slow down before we burn out. Or our private lives get us dragged through the mud.”
Hmmmm. Interesting. Seamus looks at me and casts his eyes down and back again. He’ll fill me in later, I surmise.
Connor, with his arms crossed, leans forward—he’s calm but his tone is lined with something earned. “It’s not just about now, lads. LTZ hit our peak and we ran ourselves into the ground chasing every next big thing. You remember how it ended for us.”
The room goes quiet for a beat. Even the fire seems to hush.
“Took years to recover and we’re finally doing it right,” Connor continues. “Touring on a schedule we’re all comfortable with. Prioritizing our families. On our terms. Fame’s not worth shit if you lose everything else in the process.”
Ronni rests her hand over his bicep, her expression soft and knowing. “He’s not wrong.”
Padraig lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment. Liam looks like he wants to argue. He doesn’t.
Seamus, watches quietly—I can tell he’s listening. Maybe more than anyone.
Later, I find myself alone in the kitchen, stacking plates into the dishwasher despite Maureen’s insistence I shouldn’t.
She joins me and grabs a tub of whipped cream from the fridge and begins dolloping it on individual servings of homemade brownies. “So. You like my son.”
It’s not a question.
“I really do.” I nod, unsure what my face is doing.
To my surprise, she doesn’t bring up our age difference. “He’s different since Miranda. More careful. More focused. He hasn’t admitted it but I think he’s questioning it all.”
“Because of the lawsuit?” This information is news to me.
“Yes. He chose neurosurgery for a reason.” She puts the leftover cream back in the cooler. “He’s been singularly focused for years and now his future is a bit uncertain.”
I grip the edge of the counter, the ceramic edge cool and solid under my palm. “He hasn’t mentioned any of this to me.”
Maureen exhales gently as she wipes her hands on a towel. “He probably wouldn’t. Not until he’s sorted it through himself. Seamus is consistent. Always has been. He digs in deep. Commits like it’s a sacred vow—even when the ground shifts under him.”
A chill moves down my spine. Suddenly I feel a flicker of panic. What if Seamus wakes up someday and realizes this—me—isn’t what he truly wants? I don’t want to be something he stays in out of duty. I want to be chosen. Willingly. Fully.
God, I’m selfish. What if he’s struggling with something else?
Maureen doesn’t notice the internal war I’m fighting.
Or maybe she does and she’s too gracious to call it out.
She turns back to the tray of dessert and speaks quietly, more to the memory than the moment.
“This Miranda situation. It shook him to the core. Not because he’s lost his love for medicine, it’s because he saw what happens when his mentor’s ego trumped empathy. It’s not who my Seamus is.”
I nod because I’m unable to speak.
“He’s always wanted to help people,” she continues. “I think maybe how he wants to help might be shifting.”
For a second, I wonder how much of this he’s confided in her. Or, how much she’s intuited from watching him. Knowing him.
It occurs to me how wrong I was earlier.
It’s clear his mother sees him. Really sees him. Regardless of how quiet he is around his boisterous family. How easily he fades into the background and lets them shine.
“I know it’s early days with the two of you.
” She gently touches my hand. “I’d never try to put pressure on your relationship.
If he means anything to you—please let him be who he is, Marcella.
Not who he thinks he’s supposed to be. Or who he thinks you want him to be.
He doesn’t need a mother. He needs a partner. ”
Ah. There it is. She’s addressed our age gap in the most thoughtful way.
What Maureen wants for Seamus is all I’ve ever wanted, too. I don’t want to hold my years of experience over his head. He’s smart. Strong. Capable. I value his insights tremendously.
We’re already on the way to being partners.
Somehow, without fanfare or grand gestures, Seamus has shown this level of respect to me. With words. Behavior. Sweet gestures. How he makes love to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt seen. Desired.
Enough .
Not for what I do or what I’ve achieved—but for who I am.
I’ve taken his gift—greedily and gratefully.
Now, I want to give it back to him. Seamus shouldn’t always have to be the steady one. The sure one. He deserves reassurance too. A place to land. Someone who sees him as the wonderful man he is.
I realize in this moment—our age difference means nothing .
When I return to the living room, Seamus is cuddling Teagan. Her tiny head is nestled against his shoulder as his palm cradles her back. He’s bouncing slightly, soothing her without even thinking about it.
He holds her like he was born knowing how.
Our eyes meet. Something inside me aches. Literally aches.
I love him. I know how I feel without a shadow of doubt.
He smiles. I smile back.
I realize the right person may not show up early or in the package you anticipated. The universe sends him once you’ve done the work, survived the battles and built a life you can invite them into.
In Seamus, I see the man, not the age, not the risk.
He’s mine .
It’s time to stop bracing for the fall.
For him, I want to leap off the cliff.