Chapter 7 Roxy
Unlike Liam and his brothers, who had all been born on American soil, their father Niall came directly from Ireland. He’d been sent by the clan to set roots in North America and had picked Northridge for its strategic location.
Just like every other crime family that picked Northridge.
By the time I turned eighteen, the Murphys were running the north side of town.
Everyone knew their name, including my dad, who was particularly proud of having Irish immigrant great-grandparents.
He'd befriended Niall in a bar one day and couldn’t contain his excitement when he was invited to his first Murphy party.
When he was invited to his second, he forced me to go with him, and I quickly learned why.
“Look at our beautiful family!” Niall had loudly proclaimed that night to an audience gathered in the open field behind his junk yard business. “Now that my youngest Liam has found a wife, we can expect the next generation to bless us soon.”
I learned shortly afterward that I was the intended bride, arranged marriage-style.
Dad had no choice. He owed the Murphys a little bit of money, but he craved Niall's approval even more. And honestly, my prospects weren’t all that great either.
I wasn't rich, and neither were my parents. College was out of the question. I was either staring at a lifetime of working the register at Happy’s Stop n Go... or a lifetime as a pampered mob wife.
Even though it went against my natural sensibilities, I agreed to meet Liam at the very least.
I could still remember that day, even recall the way conversations hushed around us as my father guided me towards the bonfire in the middle of the field, walking me straight towards a loose cluster of young people, laughing and drinking beers. The youngest and most handsome-looking one was Liam.
The light of the bonfire made the edges of his hair glow like candlelight as he turned towards me, a lazy grin etched across his face.
“Roxy,” my dad had said, “this is Liam.”
We made the appropriate small talk, for two adults who were barely out of their teens.
He asked me if I’d ever had a boyfriend before (I had).
Then, he slut-shamed me for not being a virgin.
So I slapped him. We avoided each other all night after that.
Then, somehow, we ended up sprawled together in the back of someone’s van, hands down each other’s pants.
His kisses were surprisingly tender as he fingered me, which was probably the first moment I fell in love with him.
We were married exactly twenty-seven days later. Niall was eager for us to get started on kids. Honestly, I was too. But Liam was never home long enough for anything to stick.
He only cared about partying, but he didn’t consider it partying. He used to call it “business” instead, and it drove me crazier and crazier until one day, I didn’t recognize myself anymore, and I knew I had to get out.
I stared through the windshield at the family therapy center, my mind made up. I’d needed to take a moment to myself and ended up revisiting those long-buried memories.
In the end, it was the indifference that hurt me the most. It hurt me still.
Yesterday morning, when I woke up in Liam’s bed and realized that the worst had occurred, I’d still sucked it up like a big girl. Fine. I’ll do marriage therapy with you, I’d snarled as I whipped around the room, picking up various articles of my clothing.
Now that I was here, I realized how truly unprepared I was.
I didn’t want this.
And I was done doing things just because I was obligated to.