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Because I was.
If the museums fascinated him, I knew I did too. The way he looked at me, it was like an artist who’d found his muse.
But if Declan wasan artist, he’d never be allowed to follow it through. I’d tried to encourage him to sketch with me, but he wouldn’t. Like it was forbidden fruit or something, he’d eyed the pencil I’d proffered him like it was a snake.
I thought he’d have preferred it if it was.
Within the time we’d been secretly together, he’d begun changing. I knew why too. Even my dad was talking about how good Declan was at getting blood out of a stone, which I knew meant he was acting as Aidan O’Donnelly’s fists.
Wet work.
I found it hard to believe that Declan was capable of it.
My soulful lover wasn’t born to spill blood. He clung to our private time with a desperation I felt and wished I could ease, but there was no easing his path.
I closed my eyes at the thought, then was jerked back to reality when Mom whispered, “He doesn’t mean to hurt me.”
Thinking about that, I wondered if she knew what she was saying or if she was aware she was lying to herself.
Maybe she was delusional. She was rattling with how many pills she took, so I didn’t see why not.
Carefully, I reached over and patted her hand. It was their sixteenth wedding anniversary, and he was late for the dinner she’d spent hours making.
Just like he always was.
Not just for this meal, but for every other.
She spent hours in the kitchen making him meals to please him, spent hours working out, spent hours making herself look good… to what aim? A disinterested husband who barely knew she, or her daughter, were alive.
Because I didn’t want to hurt her, not when he hurt her enough, I got to my feet and leaned over her. Kissing her temple, I murmured, “Happy anniversary, Mom.”
She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you, pumpkin.”
I wanted to tell her that she could leave him, that he wasn’t her reason for being, but what was the point? To her, he was, and I wasn’t going to change that.
As much as I loved Declan, I refused to let him mean that much to me. He wasn’t my reason for getting up in the morning, and I had physical proof of how that worked. Nothing had been said, but it didn’t take much more than a simple calculation to figure out that I was the reason Dad had proposed.
Loaded shotguns in the arms of Declan’s father had a habit of making things nice and copacetic, erasing any and all signs of sin.
But the aftermath of that sin, the repercussions, were a different matter entirely. They were something he didn’t have to live with, but his men did.
I’d never liked Aidan Sr. Not that I had a say in it or anything. But I’d never liked him, and learning more about him through Declan didn’t make me appreciate him any more.
I thought he was a jackass who demoralized his wonderful son, who was turning him into a shitkicker when his soul was made for creation, not destruction.
But that was Declan’s path. I knew he felt certain it had been set in stone from the very beginning, and no amount of me telling him otherwise would change what he saw as his future.
I squeezed Mom and muttered, “I love you.”
“Love you too, pumpkin.” Her fingers tightened around my hand. “You go off and have fun. You’re hanging out with Deirdre and the girls, aren’t you? Such good people to know, sweetie. Do your father proud.”
Wanting to gag because I’d never aspired to make my dad proud, I just hummed and headed out of the kitchen. We had this really archaic way of eating. I would eat in the kitchen, and she and Dad would eat in the dining room together. On the nights he was home, that is.
Just in case he did come home soon, I rushed into my room and changed into a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a tee. I couldn’t look too fancy, because it might raise eyebrows, but somehow, with Declan, I always felt fancy. I always felt like I was wearing designer stuff when I was just in regular gear.
I headed out of the apartment with a quick farewell that saw me dipping my head into the kitchen, but when I saw her drinking a large glass of wine, I sighed and disappeared.
All the way downstairs, I wished there was something I could do for her, but my father wasn’t an easy man to talk to. If I said that in the past year I’d spoken to him a handful of times, I wasn’t exaggerating. So, not only was the opportunity not there, but neither were the words.
