Chapter Three
Juniper
The front door to Cara’s Cafe dings as I step inside, and a blast of warm air welcomes me. A grill sizzles in the back, and the whole place smells peppery and savory, like bacon. Two women by the wall chatter over tea and empty plates, and a man by the entrance keeps his eyes glued to his newspaper.
A young woman with a tall, sturdy build stands at the cash register, reviewing a receipt. Fiery red hair cascades down her back. It’s her. I hug my duffel closer, letting it double as emotional armor. When Cara notices me, her face widens into the biggest smile.
“Juniper?” Her voice sounds like sunshine, all light and bright.
I gulp. With a nod, I brush my hood back, once again painfully aware of how travel-weary and wet I am, especially after scouring the streets for my purse. I’m sure I look how I feel: as grimy as a little subway rat.
“Hi! How was the trip? Are you well?” She swoops around the counter while firing off questions. “Can I get you a drink? Tea, maybe? We’ve coffee, too, whatever you like.” She stops in front of me, radiating an innocent gap-toothed smile.
“I’m good.”
I would have guessed a handshake to be the most appropriate choice to greet a relative I learned about less than a month ago, but Cara doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She leaps forward to hug me like I’m her closest friend and confidante. I stiffen, and she pulls back.
“Shite, you’re drenched. You walk from Dublin?”
“Not quite,” I reply, tucking moist chunks of knotted hair behind my ears. There’s no way to avoid reliving my humiliating mistake, so I explain how I must have left my purse on the train. “I looked everywhere for it.”
I appreciated that bartender’s honest concern, but I didn’t need to sit around and wait to find out if I dropped my leather purse somewhere on the platform or the streets. Every second that passed would give someone an opportunity to swipe it, so I left some cash on the counter and dashed outside to retrace my steps. Lis had given me the genius advice to stash my credit cards and bills in various places, like my duffel and coat pockets, so I haven’t lost everything. But my crisp new passport—the one I’d gone through the trouble of expediting for this trip—was gone.
“No problem, I’ll make a few calls later this afternoon and see if we can’t find it.” Cara pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contact list. “I know some folks who work on the rail, and I’m sure something will turn up soon. But if not, then we’ll sort out a replacement one at the embassy.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, shaking my head. This woman’s getting married in less than two weeks, and I don’t want to be more of a burden than I already am. “I’ll figure it out. Not keeping track of my passport was so, so reckless of me, and an employee at the station gave me a number to call.”
“Please, I’m happy to. We’re sisters.”
Sisters.
I bite my bottom lip. Despite more protesting on my part, Cara won’t accept no as an answer. She slips behind the counter, grabs a planner from her bag, and schedules her new to-do. I’d rather handle my own messes, but the time difference and lack of sleep must be getting to me, because I give up the fight.
Cara waves to the cook, telling her that she’ll return soon. Handing me an umbrella, she leads me down the road to her apartment. As we walk out of the one-block radius of downtown, our feet patter on the wet sidewalk past modest street-facing homes.
My heart’s beating a thousand times per minute, but Cara seems carefree. She begins with polite small talk—how was the flight, did I find her restaurant with no trouble, and is the jet lag terrible? I tell her about my journey and my realization about the passport.
“You’re an early drinker then?” Her left eyebrow lifts with a hint of humor, and I wish I’d thought to omit that detail.
“Not usually. I needed…” I sort through lame excuses in my head to explain why I went into a bar directly across from her restaurant. “I was exhausted from the trip and I missed it. The sign was staring me in the face but it just, uh, didn’t register.”
“You met Danny at the pub then. Lovely, isn’t he?”
“No, I think the guy there was named Aidan.”
I know the guy’s name was Aidan. I’m half tempted to sneak off to the bar during my stay and ask around for him.
“Aidan, that’s him,” Cara says. “He’s Danny to me. My best mate and best man at the wedding too.”
“Oh.” I stop in my tracks. “Oh no.” Knowing I’ll see him again sends a flutter of anxiety through my stomach. I regret rushing out of there like I did and for introducing myself as Marissa. “I was sort of stupid and I, uh…this sounds silly, but I introduced myself under a fake name.”
When I explain why, Cara laughs like I deserve my own comedy special. “I knew someone in college who used to do that. She’d make up an entire identity and tell men she was a flight attendant or something like that. You were cautious, so no harm there. But where I live’s incredibly safe, you’ve no need to worry.”
“I actually had the exact thought, ‘How small can one town be?’”
“Small.” A laugh bubbles out of her again. “Small enough that your bartender is also your sister’s best mate. Here, this flat’s mine.” She unlocks the entrance to a pastel-yellow building.
Her apartment contains mountains of cardboard boxes labeled table decor and candle holders FRAGILE . They crowd the cozy space, although the occasional trinket or picture frame appears between the cracks. Miniature potted succulents dot the windowsill by the kitchen sink, throw pillows right out of an Anthropologie catalog rest on the sofa, and a few strategically placed mirrors make the living room look more spacious.
“Apologies for the clutter. That’s one thing nobody ever mentions about having a big wedding: where to put all the stuff.”
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay with you? I’d hate to add to your wedding stress.”
“You’re not! I’m thrilled to have you,” she says with another massive smile as she rearranges a pile of boxes. “There’s only like one B&B in town, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
My work stipend from The Edge will barely cover meals, so having a place to crash helps with my budget. But as I navigate the maze and set my bags down on the precious last patch of visible carpet, concern pinches my heart. I’m in the way.
“Okay, living room’s here obviously, there’s the kitchen, and tap water is fine.” She points to various spots in her home. “Loo’s down the hall. Also, I’ve an air bed hiding here somewhere, but I won’t have the chance to look for it ’til tonight. Feel free to use my bed, because the sofa leaves much comfort to be desired.”
“Thanks.” I hope I caught all of that. Cara speaks faster than lightning strikes. “Anything more horizontal than an airplane seat will do.”
“I made a few sandwiches at the cafe, plus a green juice, if you want.”
My stomach doesn’t know what it needs, but I should try to eat. “Sure. I’ve got some extra money in my duffel. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t be daft,” she says, waving her hand to dismiss me as she offers the brown takeout box. “I’m happy you’re here, and I’m more than happy to feed you. It’s one of my love languages, feeding people. That’s why I opened a cafe.”
We perch on the edge of her firm couch, and while the need for sleep tugs at my eyelids, I bite into the food. My sandwich has a crisp, satisfying crunch, and what Cara prepared tastes incredible—it’s packed with verdant lettuce and cool tomatoes. This beats my corner bodega hoagies any day.
“I see why you opened your own place,” I say before taking another bite.
“Thank you.” She flashes a proud smile that brings forth her dimples, two profound pinpoints on either side of her face. “We make what we can in-house or source from nearby businesses. It’s been a dream in the making for a long time, and we’ve been open for about three weeks now.”
The shock almost causes me to choke on my food. “You’re getting married in like a week and a half.”
“Mad, isn’t it? Not sure I could handle even one more stressful thing right now, to be honest. But the venue wasn’t available for another two years. We might have considered different places, but…” She doesn’t finish her thought and picks up some chips. “Planning a wedding is more than what I want or what my partner wants. Everybody has an opinion. Family drama. You know how that goes.”
Not really, but I nod along anyway. I didn’t understand until after my mom died and I was a little older why she popped in and out of my life. And my grandmother had no desire to do anything above the bare minimum as a guardian. We had no family drama because we weren’t much of a family.
“Everyone’s dying to meet you. When I told Mam about you, she nearly fainted. I mean, a half sister .” Cara speaks like she’s reciting the words to some kind of mystical spell and then adjusts the fillings in her sandwich. “And that article? You’re brave, putting yourself out there. Fair play to you.”
“I’m excited.” On edge, too, which must explain this pit in my belly. “I’ve got the chance to write something meaningful and personal, and obviously it involves you too, so I want to do it justice.”
“You will, I’m sure of it.”
Hopefully she’s right. I can’t mess this opportunity up. I got lucky when Ethan hired me eight years ago since no one else would give a degreeless writer-wannabe like me a shot. The pay covered my monthly costs and little more, and the office had that we-have-a-foosball-table-in-the-common-room startup attitude. But landing a salaried position was the first step to making a home of my own. Still, as much as I appreciate The Edge , I don’t know how much longer I can write mindless roundups.
“And I understand—I’m sure you have lots of questions about our da. Not only for the article but also, well, your own curiosity. We can talk about him whenever you’re ready. My mam knows more than I do, though.”
“Sure. That would be great.”
I suppress that deep-rooted part of me that hates my dad. He means nothing more to me than any other stranger on the street, but he’s also my father, whether I like it or not. Plus, to round out this piece, learning more about him is a necessary evil to face.
Lucky for me, sitting on the couch half asleep in day-old clothes doesn’t seem like the time to dive into a revealing discussion about my— our —biological dad. Cara talks about our plans for the next two weeks instead. Tomorrow morning, if I’m rested enough, she wants me to meet who she’s marrying and re-meet Aidan. That thought in particular sends my stomach into a nosedive. She details all the relatives who will soon trickle into town for her wedding, including great-aunts and second cousins and great-grandparents, countless first cousins, and family friends who are essentially cousins. My heartbeat sprints from the oral history of who’s who. Being family with Cara means becoming family with all of the O’Sheas, not just her. I type out a quick note on my phone to refer to later when I’m writing.
my family has grown from zero to one to a few trillion
“We’re having sort of a massive Catholic wedding, with…with some exceptions.”
“Like what?”
“Well.” She clears her throat. “My fiancée is…her name is Yasmine. And we can’t marry in the church, but the spot’s lovely. Grand. Just not a church , you know? Which I maybe should’ve told you before you arrived, since some people only think it’s a proper wedding if it’s in a church. Trust me, I know.”
Cara toys with the ring on her finger, her bouncy energy replaced with something more subdued. I don’t care where she gets married, but then the realization of being somewhere else—somewhere that’s not the tiny bubble I’ve created for myself in New York—sinks in. She’s not worried about the church. I almost can’t believe that she’d think I wouldn’t be okay with her marrying whoever she wants, but that only highlights how little we know each other.
“It’s fine. It’s great,” I say, giving her a small smile to put her at ease. “I’m glad you let me know, but it’s your wedding, your partner.”
The tension in Cara’s shoulders releases, and that bounciness comes back to her body.
“Ireland’s quite progressive, but I’ve…there’s still challenges for me, which I won’t bore you with. Yaz said I should have said something before you got here, but I thought maybe telling you face-to-face was better. And if you’d known, you might not have come. Not like I could hide that fact for much longer.”
“You told me at the perfect time.”
Cara’s smile shines again. “When I was growing up, I hoped my mum was secret royalty or something, and on my sixteenth birthday, she’d tell me I was a princess. But I think finding out about a sister is better.”
“It’s definitely a surprise,” I say, half laughing. Understatement of a lifetime.
“The whole situation’s pure mad, isn’t it?” She has glistening tears pooling in her eyes. Sandwich in hand, Cara envelops me in another bear hug as a few stray pieces of lettuce go flying. “Really, Juniper, I can’t tell you how happy I am.”
I’m seeing that all! those! exclamation marks! in her texts were honest-to-goodness real. She is genuinely overjoyed to have a sister, but she’s also overjoyed that sister is me . We met half an hour ago, so I don’t understand her eagerness, but I can’t sit here rigid as a streetlight with her arms around me.
“Me too,” I whisper. It feels like the right thing to say, and I let myself melt into Cara’s embrace.