Chapter 14 #3
"Yeah?" His grin widens. "Welcome to the dark side, Ace."
"It's so freeing!" I manage to choke out through my laughter. "Like a weight being lifted. Maybe I should add this to my routine. Or find like a boxing class, something where hitting things is encouraged."
"I reckon you'd be deadly at it, based on that follow-through. You should do it." He smiles at me, and I return the look before turning away, already scanning for my next victim.
My eyes lock onto a precarious stack of dinner plates, and a surge of adrenaline hits my gut. I think I've just discovered my new favorite pastime.
The adrenaline is still buzzing through my hands when we spill out of the rage room, both of us laughing at nothing in particular. The Dublin light has gone low now, the street getting busier as people head out for the evening, and Cillian pulls a cap down low to stay discreet.
I breathe deep. It must have drizzled while we were inside, because the cobblestones are dark and glistening, throwing back the glow of the pub windows, and with the high I'm riding, the whole street looks lit from within. Somewhere down the block, music drifts out of an open door. I love it here.
I dig out my phone to take a picture of it, the wet street, the light, all of it.
And there's my father's text, still sitting at the top of the thread, exactly where I left it.
Just like that, the weight settles back over my shoulders, the same weight Cillian has spent all day lifting off. It's almost impressive, how fast it finds me. An entire ocean away, and it still knows my address.
Cillian settles in next to me, leaning back against the old brick, in no hurry at all. He follows my gaze down to the screen.
"The text from your dad?" he says, glancing over.
"Yeah." I sigh at the screen.
He smiles, something softer in it now. "You going to reply?"
"I have to, but I don't know what to say.
I never know if I'm right to be annoyed or just being selfish.
" I turn the phone over in my hands. "Family's meant to be hard sometimes, isn't it?
Helping people move, picking up the pieces when someone's struggling.
You show up. Isn't that half the problem these days, everyone's so individualistic we’ve abandoned our sense of community and family? "
"Fair point." He tilts his head, considering. "But that's not what this is, is it? There's a difference between being there for your parents as they age and helping your family, versus being your parents' marriage counselor since you were, what, ten?"
“Yeah.” I nod slowly. "They both used to vent to me constantly. I knew things about their marriage at twelve that I still wish I didn't know."
He shakes his head. "Nobody's asking you to cut them off or tell them to go to hell. But you're allowed to breathe, Margot."
"You sound exactly like Sabrina."
"Well, she seemed smart enough to me," he says, and I let out a small laugh.
"So what would you say?" I bite my lip, staring down at the glowing screen.
"Tell him the truth. That you love them, but they need a professional or a friend to talk to, because you can't be the buffer for their marriage anymore."
"Okay. Here goes." I exhale a long breath and start typing before I can talk myself out of it.
Margot: Dad, I love you and I will always be here for you, and I'm so sorry you're both hurting. But I think this would be better to talk through with a friend or a therapist. I'm in the weeds a bit over here, and I can't be in the middle of it right now.
I hand him the phone before I can start editing it into oblivion. "What do you think?"
He scans the screen, his expression warming into a smile. "Perfect. A lot nicer than I would've been."
I take the phone back and hit send before I can second-guess a single word of it. The whoosh sound feels enormous.
"I feel like a monster," I admit.
"Do they ever support you? Emotionally, I mean." He asks it gently.
I sit with the question, searching for the last time I asked either of them for help, or leaned on anyone at all, really. Nothing surfaces.
"Mm. Fair point,” I say. “Still, it doesn't mean they deserve to be punished for it."
"Damn,” He huffs a laugh. “That Catholic guilt really did a number on you, huh?"
I snort. "That and being the oldest. It's a whole mess in my head at this point."
The streetlights have come on while we talked, and the crowd along the pavement is turning into a proper Friday night. He pushes off the wall and turns to face me.
"Well. Since you just pulled off a pretty big thing, and since I suspect you're about to spend the next several hours stressing about it, how about we keep the distraction going? You game?"
I glance down at my phone. It's barely midday back home, which means Dad is at his desk pretending he didn't see it, so I won't hear anything for hours anyway.
And Cillian's got me pegged, as usual, because staying in means exactly one thing: me tossing and turning in a hotel bed, replaying the text and marinating in guilt until sunrise.
"Okay." I slip the phone into my bag. "Lead the way."