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I laughed at his expression, too happy from the sunshine and the work and the cider to be put off by him. He took a sip from his coffee cup.
“You drink a lot of coffee,” I said. He was silent. “Do you ever sleep?”
“I do.”
“Not much.”
He ate some fries, then broke off a piece of steaming fish and ate it. “You want some of this?”
I shook my head, full from the peppery egg salad. “Is it because you have bad dreams?”
“Memories, Poppy. I have bad memories.”
“Me too,” I said, still slouched in my chair. For a second, the air in the room was heavy with all our bad memories.
“I’m excited about a new name,” I said, shaking off the weight. “A new life. I mean, as long as my sister is safe. Why not start over? With the ID, I can go to school, right?”
“Aye,” he said, cradling the small cup in his big hand. “You won’t have access to your money for a while, but I’ll leave you with enough that if you want to take classes, you can.”
“That doesn’t seem right, taking your money.”
“Well, it’s that or starve. Your choice.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter to him, but the corner of his mouth was lifted.
“Taking the piss, are you?” I asked, and his eyebrows went back up. God, surprising this guy was getting to be an addiction. “I could get a job.”
“What kind of job have you ever done?” he asked.
I gasped, outraged. Real outrage. “I’ll have you know I built a shower in my backyard.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He grunted and ate more of the fish. I could feel his dubiousness.
“The real question,” I said. “Is what should I change my name to?”
“That’s the real question, is it?” He stood and put another log on the fire. I could easily get used to being cared for by grumpy Ronan.
“Do I go for something grand like Genevieve? My college roommate was Genevieve and she used to say it like she was French even though she was from Ohio.”
“No, you do not go for Genevieve.”
“I’ve never met a Jenny I didn’t like.”
“I could introduce you to a few who’d probably kick you across the room if you’d like that.”
“No. I wouldn’t like that.”
He stood, the fire crackling behind him, a smile on his face.
“What name would you pick? I asked.
“Ronan.”
“For me, Ronan. What name would you pick for me?”
He sat down and looked at me, his attention making me giddy and uncomfortable all at the same time. I made a show of it, sitting up and pressing down the sweater I wore. Flipping my hair back over my shoulders.
“You look like Poppy,” he said and made it sound sweet. A compliment. “It’s hard to imagine you as anything else.”
“What was your mother’s name?” I asked, and the warmth of the moment vanished immediately. Ice had replaced the air.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just gathering names.”
“Gwen.”
“That’s pretty—”
“You’re not picking my mother’s fucking name.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
He sighed, his eyes darting up to the mantel. I turned to see what he was looking at. There was a vase with dried flowers, pictures of a blond girl growing up, and a blue file folder.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He rubbed his face, digging at his eyes. “Nothing.”
“Is there something—?” I stood, reaching for the folder.
“Bree,” he said.
“I look like a Bree?”
“Bree was the first girl I ever kissed.”
I laughed. “You want me to pick the name of the first girl you ever kissed.”
“She was nice.” He shrugged, the cocky fuck. Sitting there, smiling at me.
“Beth,” I said. “I’ll pick Beth. It was my mother’s middle name.”
“Solid name,” he said and nodded like it was all decided.
In the quiet, he crumpled up the waxy paper where the fish and chips had been.
“So?” I asked. “What are we going to do all day?”
“You will dye your hair and I’ll wait for my friend to call me back.”
“That’s hardly going to fill the day. Father Patrick needs his fence repaired.”
“No.”
“Ronan—”
“No.”
“Then you need to entertain me, I imagine,” I said with a smile, my meaning, I felt, pretty clear.
“You want to play cards while you dye your hair?”
“Ronan!”
He shook his head at me, frowning. I gave him my best pout. He turned away, but not before I saw the smile he was trying to hide.
“I feel very safe, Ronan. I mean, if you’re worried if we fool around, I’ll feel less safe. I won’t.” He stood and threw the wax paper away. He really was killing me in that sweater. “Have you ever fooled around with a Beth bef—”
“Stop begging, Poppy. It’s unbecoming.”
I caught my breath. I knew what he was doing, but it didn’t take the sting out of his words. How easily this man found my weakest point and how gleefully he pressed on it. He really was a bastard.
