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Life is for living.
It’s Da’s favorite saying, so it is.
Life. Is. For. Living.
What theactualfeck does that even mean?
I’ve been giving this too much thought, truth be told. In many ways, it feels like I’ve been barreling through my entire adult life. Ever since Da’s accident when I was in high school. I can’t even feckin’remembera time when I’ve not been in high gear.
Keeping the family business afloat when I was just seventeen. Sacrificing my own dreams to make certain my brothers made it through college. Finally being able to pursue my music career, only to be launched into the stratosphere of fame and fortune a couple of years later.
And, of course, then I met Ronni.
Ah, my Ronni. Fierce. Beautiful. Sweet. Strong. Independent.
And sweet baby Jaysus. Complicated. So feckin’ complicated.
It’s not a criticism. It’s an observation. My woman never shies away from a challenge. Nothing stands in her way. She’s fiercely protective of those she’s loyal to. Willing to give two thousand percent. Which is feckin’ admirable. It’s just that…
Bollocks.
I’m tired. Tired of the hamster wheel. Tired of chasing some sort of elusive dream. Tired of always being on edge. Tired of drama with my band. Tired of being a rockstar. Mostly, I’m tired of being media fodder. It’s too much.
I’m exhausted trying to protect my family.
So, so weary. All. The.Feckin’.Time.
Sobleedin' spent.
So spent, I’ve wholly succumbed to my anger. My sorrow.
Ronni and I are through.
Icravea bit of normality. Some peace and quiet for feck’s sake. I escaped. Fled the scene of the crime to hide out in my Irish sanctuary. Away from the chaos. Away from scandals. Away from everything—and everyone—I love.
Far, far away.
If I had my druthers, I’d stay here for the next year. Stare out at Belfast Lough. Wander the lush gardens my auntie, Saoirse, planted. Breathe in the violets and honeysuckle. Relish the silence.
Justbe.
From the day and hour Ronni became my bride, all I’ve ever wanted was to be an excellent husband. A loving father. Play some music.
Simple. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Fatfeckin’chance.
Not after the situation I find myself in. I’m a world-class eejit. I let my guard down. Thought everything was handled. Or, at least on the right track. Ronni and I had a plan in place. I felt comfortable for the first time in my life.
Safe, even.
For feck’s sake, we deserved a break. Deserved to enjoy our lives together. Deserved to reap the rewards of demanding work and some heartbreak. I dove in headfirst.
It’s all gone to shite. My entire identity is fucked. Everything I stand for—destroyed. In a blink of an eye, I’m suddenlypersona non grata. If you were to believe the millions of articles on the subject, Connor McGloughlin is not a worthy human being. If you were to believe the social media trolls, I should off myself. Or, I should be offed.
Offing’s a big feckin’ theme when my name is mentioned these days, that’s for feckin’ sure.
I turn from the big picture window in my Belfast estate and head for the kitchen. Devour a bag of Spring Onion Tayto because there’s no fresh food in the house. Put my dead phone on the charger. Slip out the back door and stride over the rugged stone pathway across the garden and up the stairs to the room above the garage that is still unfinished. The vast space is empty, save about thirty boxes that were delivered months ago.
