6. Maeve
Maeve
The apartment door opens before my key is in the lock.
Jamie. He's been watching the street since the strange car pulled up, and now he plants himself in the doorway, arms crossed, fourteen years old and ready to battle on this exact square of threadbare carpet.
"You're really married," he says. Not a question. An accusation.
"Jamie—"
He ignores me and looks straight up at Lorcan, who's a foot taller and twice as wide. Jamie doesn't give an inch. "Are you actually married to my sister?"
"Yes.”
"Are you a criminal?"
“Jamie!" I’m mortified.
“Depends on one’s point of view, I suppose,” Lorcan says, same easy tone.
Jamie blinks, clearly not expecting that answer.
Instead of being annoyed by his rudeness, Lorcan treats him with respect. He seems to regard Jamie as a sentry at a post doing his job rather than a mouthy teenager with an attitude.
Jamie doesn't know what to do with it. He retreats two steps, scowling harder to cover his confusion, and I know my brother well enough to know he's more intrigued than angry.
Surprisingly, Lorcan doesn't push.
Cara stands silently in the bedroom doorway. Watching.
Her big, serious eyes move over Lorcan inch by inch—shoes, hands, the line of his shoulders, his face—cataloguing him the way she does everyone and everything.
I get ahead of potential further awkwardness with her, the way I always do.
“Lorcan, this is Cara. She doesn't talk.
It's not personal—please don't take it personally, and please don't push her on it.
" I brace for the usual—the too-loud voice, the baby talk, the crouching down and hi sweetie can you say hi to me? that makes her fold up smaller.
Lorcan looks at her, holds her gaze for a second, and nods.
"Good policy," he says. "Most people aren't worth talking to."
Cara's head tips slightly to the left, a sign she’s noticing, assessing. It’s a small movement, but significant.
Then the room erupts as Oisin finally realizes I’m here and comes flying out of the bedroom.
“MaeMae!" He runs to wrap his little arms around my knees like he usually does. He's nearly there when he registers the giant standing in our living room. He stops dead, his whole face crumples, and he screams.
Full toddler air-raid siren.
Then he continues to launch himself at me. I scoop him up and turn so my body's between him and the stranger. Oisin buries his face in my neck and howls like the building's on fire.
Lorcan backs off immediately, hands up, grinning. "Tough crowd."
But I catch the half-second before the grin. The flicker of disappointment before he tucks it away.
"He screams at the mailman too," I hear myself say. "And the guy at the bodega. And his own reflection, once."
Gah! I’m comforting him. I'm standing in my low-rent apartment with my howling brother on my hip, comforting the mobster who essentially bought me. I don't know why I’m making excuses.
But I continue anyway. “It's not you. It's just—big. You're big."
"I've been told." He's still grinning, but it's realer now. "I'll grow on him. I'm extremely lovable. Ask my employees.”
"I won't be asking them.”
"Smart. I sign their checks.”
And God help me, the corner of my mouth wants to move. I don't let it.
“So where’s he gonna sleep? On the couch with you?” Jamie looks disgusted as he lobs the question at me, acting as though Lorcan isn’t in the room.
He’s right, though. I do sleep on the couch. We only have one bedroom and the three kids share it. A curtain divides Oisin and Cara’s side from Jamie’s side.
To say we have no room for another person is not an exaggeration.
"Look," I tell Lorcan, "the practical thing is probably for me and the kids to stay here, at least for now."
"No." He says it plainly, no heat. “The kids aren't staying in this building with—" His jaw tics. “Just no."
"Then what?”
"I have an idea." He pulls out his phone, steps toward the window, and puts it to his ear.
My eyes are on his back. Oisin is heavy and hiccupping against my shoulder, Jamie’s scowling, and Cara’s quietly observing.
The call connects, and Lorcan speaks.
"Hello, Ma?"