Chapter 3
three
JONATHAN
“Give me and Bran half an hour, and we can all go get something for lunch.” Jonathan’s dad, Patrick, said as he clapped his son on the shoulder.
“Your mothers want pizza,” his uncle Bran informed Jonathan, Daniel, and Bébhinn before he followed his brother out of the boardroom.
They had just finished the quarterly financial review of O’Faolain’s extensive holdings. Daniel would eventually take over as CFO, a title currently shared by their fathers. Dan loved nothing more than crunching numbers.
Jonathan, on the other hand, took more after the creative Byrne sisters. His mother, River, and his two aunts, Raven and Rowan, were successful interior designers. The three sisters and his aunt Bébhinn operated Triskelion Territory Designs.
Jonathan wasn’t a designer in that sense, but he was damn good at architecture. He’d been drawing buildings since he was a young child. His parents bought him his first drafting tool set when he was five. One more year and he would have his Master of Architecture degree.
His dream was to open his own small firm, though he would still be very involved in O’Faolain business interests.
“I love how there was no asking us to go to lunch,” Jonathan laughed. The O’Faolains were a tight-knit family. A consequence tended to be that they stepped on each other’s toes inadvertently or purposefully on occasion.
“I would complain, but pizza does sound good,” Daniel laughed.
“You should replace the word pizza with food if you’re going for honesty,” Bébhinn said before reaching over and tapping an empty sleeve of crackers.
“Hey, I had to come prepared,” Daniel defended. “When Neil gets going on one of his slideshows, there’s always a chance the meeting could drag through lunch.”
Jonathan noticed he was tapping his fingers repeatedly on his thigh, an irritating tell of his when he was nervous, which was why he started keeping his hands under the table in stressful situations.
Now or never, Jon. “Everyone still meeting Sunday at Murphy’s?”
It was excruciating to pretend like he didn’t care either way, but any sign of strain and Daniel would pick up on it immediately. Dan was his cousin but ridiculously intuitive to Jonathan’s moods. Telepathic twins had a better chance of hiding things than he and Daniel.
“Yes,” Bébhinn clapped her hands once in excitement.
“It seems like ages since everyone was in town at once. Blair is finally back, thank God, and Gray said that she and Ciar are in dire need of adult time. Dagr finished a huge case and is completely free, and you two twats aren’t working out of country or jet-setting bimbos to the Caribbean islands for once. ”
Jonathan winced. He and Daniel really did have horrible taste in women. It wasn’t completely their fault. When a person had wealth and influence, it tended to attract the worst of humanity.
“Just because Ciar let Gray tie him down and you tackled Dagr doesn’t mean Jon and I can’t still enjoy the perks of being single,” Daniel smirked.
Bébhinn probably hadn’t noticed that Daniel’s grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, but Jonathan had. He’d known for a while that Daniel wasn’t as elated with their lifestyle as he used to be and still tried to portray.
Jonathan understood. Daniel wasn’t satisfied with their single escapades like he used to be, either. He tapped a discordant rhythm on his thigh for another two minutes while Bébhinn and Daniel razzed each other, waiting for her to disclose any further revelations about their mutual friends.
Specifically, information about a tiny brunette with an attitude and mouth the size of an American semi-truck.
Margaret Morrow. Mags. The bane of his existence for years had vanished. She hadn’t been to more than half of their friend group’s get-togethers, and when she did make one of them, she would smile and laugh with everyone, even him, but she was different.
Her eyes never strayed to him like they used to. If their gazes clashed, hers would skate away. She was never home, not that he ever saw, and he would know. There was a camera facing her townhouse next to his, and he watched it religiously.
Further evidence of Mags pulling away from the group, or at least him, was that she never busted his balls over who he dated. She didn’t stalk the women’s social media accounts and report how horrible they were and send it to the group chat. She hadn’t interrupted one of his dates in months.
Even when they were in one another’s company, she didn’t feel present.
Margaret Morrow was a ghost, or rather, she’d perfected ghosting him.
“Mags better not bail, or I swear I’ll track that shady bitch down and drag her to Murphy’s,” Bébhinn interjected.
Finally.
“Why wouldn’t she come?” Jonathan asked with what he hoped sounded like bored, barely there interest.
“Oh, I’m just kidding. Kind of,” Bébhinn laughed. “After the Prime Minister’s wife told all of Ireland who made her vest, Mags has been inundated with clients, which is amazing, but I am worried that with school and her sewing, she’ll burn herself out. She’s missed the last few girls’ lunches.”
“I’m sure we’d know if anything was wrong. Mags has never been a person to whine in silence,” Daniel joked.
Before Jonathan could ask Bébhinn anything else, his dad and Bran poked their heads in to announce that their car was waiting, and their moms were leaving Triskelion now.
Sunday, he swore to himself, Sunday he would get some answers.