Chapter Nineteen
Alicia
Sometimes I think back on those early years and realize that I probably should thank my father for being put in prison, and my mother for abandoning us, leaving me to care for a sister twelve years younger than myself.
At least with Mom gone, the house was relatively peaceful, and for the first time in eighteen years, I actually felt safe within its walls.
Was it easy raising a six-year old while trying to graduate high school and working two jobs to pay the bills?
Absolutely not. But we at least had a fighting chance at a somewhat normal life.
We consistently had a pantry full of food, the house was clean and in good repair, and the routine we had in place worked well for us.
Bridget came into the world red-faced and inconsolable.
She was so tiny—too tiny, even for an infant.
Mom told the doctor she was a month early and that’s why she was such a small baby, but we all knew it was because she’d been using since before she was pregnant.
When Mom used, she didn’t eat. The most I ever saw her eat throughout her entire pregnancy was for the two weeks after she found out she was pregnant.
She swore up and down that she was quitting for good and going to turn her life around.
Since Dad was back in jail, drugs weren’t as prominent in the house, so it was easier for her.
The first few days were great. She was engaged and fun.
We baked cookies, played outside, and watched movies together.
Then the withdrawals started, and it was hell.
By the end of the second week, even I wanted her to do drugs just so she’d stop screaming at me.
Mom didn’t go to the doctor once. She never had an ultrasound or exams, so the sex of the baby was a surprise.
I knew in my heart I was getting a sister, and that as soon as she was born, she’d be my baby.
Mom couldn’t take care of herself, let alone two kids.
I was used to providing for myself, though.
By the time I was six years old, I could make macaroni and cheese, do laundry, and get myself ready for school.
I’m sure it was just so she’d have hours of uninterrupted time to get high, but the one thing my mother did do right was put me in school.
I rarely missed a day. Not only because I was guaranteed two meals, but the environment was safe.
I thrived in the classroom and never had my fill of books.
Learning to read was the greatest blessing of my life. Until Bridget.
During the days of detoxing the drugs from my baby sister’s system, the only person who could quiet her screams, coax her to take a bottle, and soothe her to sleep was me.
The moment I picked her up and cradled her in my arms, the wailing would turn to whimpers before her eyes would drift closed.
I would sing “You Are My Sunshine” to her so many times a day that it became involuntary.
I wouldn’t even realize I was singing until Mom would yell at me to shut up.
Bridget was fortunate to not have any serious or obvious complications from the narcotics that coursed through her body while in the womb.
Apart from the expected withdrawals, all of her behavior during the first two years of her life was relatively normal.
Maybe she had a few more tantrums than the average toddler, and her speech took a little longer to make its appearance, but nothing seemed out of the standard brackets for her age group.
It wasn’t until she reached age four that I began to notice changes in her demeanor.
She was constantly in motion, fidgeting or pacing around the room when she was agitated, along with increased impulsivity and heightened emotional reactions.
I’d learned enough about ADHD from fellow students and the internet to suspect that my sister fell into that category.
We didn’t have insurance though, so seeking help was out of the question.
After copious amounts of research, I had an arsenal of tips and tricks to help Bridget; it seemed to help for a while.
Then puberty hit, and with the onslaught of hormones, everything changed.
Gone was the sweet little girl that followed me everywhere, letting me read stories to her every night.
In her place was a rage-filled and impulsive preteen who seemed to live to make life harder for both of us.
Everything was a battle. Showering. Eating.
Picking up around the house. Going to school, staying in school, and keeping up with homework.
The first time the school called to question the string of unexcused absences, I felt utterly hopeless.
Trying to check my anger, I calmly asked Bridget about missing her classes, and she lied right to my face.
We never lied to each other. It was our thing—being honest, always.
That day, a crack formed in the foundation of our relationship.
I should have handled things better. Filled the gap with love and understanding.
But instead, I flew off the handle, and like a jackhammer, I made the crack bigger.
As I stand here in Rowan’s arms, hearing him say he’s no longer letting me run from him, my first instinct is to bristle and tell him that he doesn’t let me do anything.
But a niggling voice in my brain tells me he’s doing what no one has ever done before: he’s fighting for me, rather than against me.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I fall back on sarcasm.
“Does that mean you’re going to tie me up?”
Ro doesn’t miss a beat. “I knew you would be into bondage.”
Snorting indelicately, I slide my arms from around his neck, placing my hands against his broad chest. He releases my face, taking one of my hands in his and turning it to place a kiss to my inner wrist like he did the other day.
It’s such a tender gesture, completely opposite of what that skilled mouth just did to my pussy.
I’m about to make another smart ass comment when the door to the office comes flying open and Paddy bursts in, mischief written all over his face.
I start to break out of Ro’s arms, but he holds me tight.
My face heats when Paddy’s eyes land on the desk where what used to be a neatly stacked pile of papers is now strewn all over.
“Alicia, love. I just remembered that I took that bottle home with me the other day! Apologies, lass, for sending you on a wild goose chase!”
I glare at him.
“Rowan, lad, that was mighty kind of you to offer your assistance. I only wish it hadn’t been a fruitless endeavor,” Paddy goes on.
“Aye, always happy to help when and where I can.” Ro smirks, playing along. “I wouldn’t say it was a fruitless though. I ended up finding something a wee bit better anyway.”
I could kill him.
“Is that right? Well, then not a total waste then, yeah?” Paddy winks at us.
“Not a bit,” Ro agrees.
“Grand! I’ll need ya back on the tap now, love. It’s starting to get a bit rowdy out there. This old fella can only pour so many pints before he needs a bit of a rest.”
He’s so full of it, but I roll my eyes and untangle myself from Rowan. As I pass by my boss, I let him have a piece of my mind. “I would have been out sooner if someone hadn’t taken the extra key from the hook.”
He just chuckles and squeezes my elbow. Once I’m in the hallway, I hear him say under his breath to Rowan, “Be good to her, lad.”
“Aye, you have my word.”
* * *
By the time I make it back to the bar, it’s absolute chaos in the pub. People are packed in like sardines, surely breaking some fire code. There’s a line formed by the register of people wanting to close out their tabs and another line waiting to have their orders taken.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter under my breath as I assess where to begin. Thankfully, everyone seems to be in good spirits.
Putting aside what just happened in the office with Ro, I switch into work mode.
I alternate between taking orders, pouring copious amounts of beer, and cashing out tabs until finally Paddy joins me.
Mixing and pulling drinks is something I could do in my sleep, but I’m relieved when he takes over the register.
I feel when Rowan emerges from the swinging doors.
Glancing over, I give him a small smile, noticing that his hair is still mussed from the work of my hands.
He grins and winks at me before taking to the stage again.
I’m expecting Eamon and Teagan to join him, but am surprised to find Ro picking up Eamon’s guitar and slinging the strap over his head.
He strums the strings and adjusts the tuning before stepping up to the mic.
Nervous energy courses through me. I didn’t know he could play anything but the fiddle, but he appears just as comfortable with the guitar as he does the other.
Clearing his throat, he address the crowd. “Good evenin’, folks. Are we havin’ a good time?” A deafening cheer rings out that can probably be heard from space. He chuckles lowly before continuing. “Aye, I’d say we’re doin’ grand, yeah? Alright, for those that don’t know, I’m Rowan Gallagher—”
Another loud cheer with a few whistles from a group of girls close to the stage sound, sending a wave of possessiveness over me that makes me nearly drop the martini I’m handing to the man across from me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, reaching for a towel to wipe up the bit that splashed over the side. Once he turns, I direct my glare back to the group of blondes making grabby hands for my…Rowan.
“Right,” Ro goes on, refusing to acknowledge them, which is almost as shocking as my reaction considering his love for attention.
“Normally, you’ll find me playin’ the fiddle and maybe doin’ some backup vocals for my mate, Eamon, but tonight I’ve got somethin’ else for you all.
You see, there’s a song that needs to be sung for a lass here tonight.
I won’t tell you who, or she’d have my bollocks, and I rather like ‘em where they are, yeah?”
I chuckle along with the crowd this time, because he’s right. I absolutely would cut his balls off and hang them from my rear view mirror.
Ro looks directly at me and winks before saying, “So without further ado, this is My Wild Irish Rose.”