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Romy
The next morning, Aisling bustles into the apartment, brandishing a small square object and an excuse as to why she didn’t visit last night like she promised. She jumps when she sees Paddy lurking in the corner. I roll my eyes, but I’ve learned to ignore him.
“I got caught up on an assignment, took a three-hour nap at my desk, then by the time I woke up, I saw Don was home. And well, you know”—she wiggles her eyebrows—“I didn’t want to get caught up in the middle of that shit show.”
I’m sitting at a table by the window, holding a plastic fork loaded with eggs Benedict en route to my mouth. Shit show. When Donnacha came home last night…shit show isn’t the first term that pops into my mind. I shovel the food in my face to stop myself from thinking about it.
Aisling’s eyes drop to my plate. “You liking Franco’s meals?”
Too busy chewing, I throw up an okay sign and nod vigorously. Since yesterday lunchtime, I’ve had three Michelin star–worthy meals appear in the elevator on a silver tray. Like Pavlov’s dog, I’m starting to salivate every time I hear the damned ding of the elevator doors. I swallow and say, “It knocks gas station ramen out of the park. What’s that you’re holding?”
She grins, holding the card up against the gloomy New York skyline like it’s the Holy Grail. I can practically hear the angels singing and the birds chirping. “This, my friend, is your ticket to freedom.” My heart stops, and it must show on my face because she winces apologetically. “Uh, okay, not freedom. But your ticket to a few more floors of this building, at least.” She hops from one heeled boot to the other, making the thin fabric of her skirt swish like one of those dashboard hula dolls. “Hurry up.”
Stabbing my fork in the direction of the island, I say, “Try my culinary delights while you wait.”
Peeling back the foil on the plates, she peers down her nose at my baking efforts. “What’s that supposed to be?”
I crane my neck to see what she’s pointing at. “Carrot cake.”
Her lips purse, but she keeps them shut until she chomps down on a slice. Immediately, she splutters, chest heaving, and dives for the sink.
“Fucking hell,” she rasps, cupping water in her hands and slurping from them. “I think I’ve been pretty nice to you! Why are you trying to poison me?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I thought they were good,” I mutter, stabbing at a yolk.
She looks at me like I’ve gone insane. “You’ve tried these and came to that conclusion? Really? Do you have a single working taste bud?”
I blink, then mutter, “I haven’t tried them, but Donnacha said they were good.”
“Jesus Christ,” she hisses, dabbing at her red lipstick. “I’ve always thought Mom dropped him on his head when he was a baby.”
Two things seep into my brain. The first—why did Donnacha pretend to like my baking?—doesn’t warrant mentioning. The second stems from curiosity.
“Where does your mom live?”
Aisling looks up from the trash can and shrugs. “No idea. A brothel over in Harlem, if I had to guess.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” she says dismissively, dropping a whole plate of cake into the trash can. I bite my tongue. “Don’s my half brother. His mom died just after he was born. Robbery gone wrong by a drugged-up gutter sloth who spotted the diamond in her wedding ring from the other side of the street. So the story goes, anyway. Twenty-some years later, Pops got his bed-warmer pregnant. Paid her off and kept me.” She dusts off her hands and smiles a sunny smile. “Our family tree is fun.”
“And your dad?”
“Dead.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She picks up another tray, tosses it in the bin. This time, with more vigor. “Don’t be. You didn’t kill him.”
“Who did?”
“Your husband.”
The plastic fork hits my paper plate, making nothing more than a dull thud. “Donnacha killed his own father?”
Aisling’s lips twist. “Welcome to the family.”
My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but before I can muster up a single syllable, Aisling claps her hands, ridding the room of her heavy family history.
