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The utterance of these three words were always, Connor thought, a make-or-break point for any new relationship. But he’d always adhered to the wisdom that if you would only leap, the net would appear. Whether things went well or poorly after the words were, no pun intended, on the table, wasn’t the point. The point was knowledge…and understanding where the two of you might go as a couple from the moment the words were uttered.
He glanced down, back up, and, steeling himself, said the words that made the world go ’round, at least according to the songs. “I love you, Trey.”
The silence that rose, surrounding them, was different than before. It was no longer companionable. It was cold. And Connor knew, as soon as the words left his lips, he was in trouble. He’d ruined not only the weekend, but perhaps their future.Why didn’t I wait?
Trey stood, maybe a little unsteadily from the wine, and moved toward the window, peering out through its rain-smeared panes at the night. Connor considered the back of him, feeling lost, hopeless.
I wanted him to quickly say, “I love you too.” Is that too much to ask?As the seconds stretched into minutes, he thought it apparently was.
He gulped his wine, staring down at the table, face burning. He shut his eyes against the indignity of it all.
And, in a few seconds, there was a whisper of movement—and then Trey’s arms around him from behind and above. Hot breath in Connor’s ear. “I love you too. Thanks for saying it first.”
Connor was overcome, so much so that tears rose to his eyes, stinging. He simply reached up and covered Trey’s hands with his own. It was as though time stood still, as though they were the only people on the planet.
But nothing could have surprised him more than what Trey said next. “We should get married.”
Chapter Twelve
SINCE SHE WASa little girl, Miranda had always celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with her father. She wasn’t sure when it had become a tradition for the two of them. They weren’t Irish (even though Connor’s name could be construed as such). As far back as she could remember, though, it was a day they’d always celebrate together. When she was a kid, they’d toast glasses full of lime Kool-Aid and, when she was old enough, mugs of green beer. When she was fifteen, he took her to Chicago to see the parade and how they dyed the Chicago River green just for the occasion.
It was always just the two of them. However it had begun, it was a day set aside as a father-daughter holiday. Even when Connor was with Steve, Miranda and Connor had never allowed him to be in on it.
Through the years, making such a big deal of St. Paddy’s seemed silly, but sometimes traditions were. But the thing about tradition was that it maintained familial ties. It produced memories.
So even though she couldn’t remember when or why the tradition had begun, she’d always treasured it. Time alone with a parent, Miranda thought, could be a rare and wonderful thing, whether one had siblings or not.
Today had been good because she and Connor had been so estranged for the past few months. They’d started the day off with green eggs (flavored with pesto and a dollop of vegan sour cream) and home fries. They tracked down the Chicago parade on CBS’s streaming Chicago station and watched that. He gave her a shamrock necklace.
They were sitting down to a dinner Miranda had made in an effort to demonstrate to her father that vegan food could be just as good as carnivore. So, while he was off doing edits in the office/guest room, she’d prepared plant-based corned beef and cabbage. She did sides of tiny roasted red potatoes and Irish soda bread. As a final touch, she added a drop or two of green food coloring to the Stella Artois that would accompany the meal.
As they sat eating, watching through the big dining room window as the sky gradually lost its color fading from gray to black, Miranda noticed something beyond her father’s praise of the food she’d made.
She had to look twice, making sure she was looking at his left hand and not his right.
But there it was, a simple white gold wedding band, trimmed with thin bands of black at the top and bottom.
It was beautiful.
It was sickening.
The meal she so lovingly prepared roiled in her stomach. She gulped down her beer.
Connor must have noticed something wrong because he asked, “You okay? It looks like you saw a ghost.” He laughed, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
She stuffed a mouthful of potatoes in, to give herself time to think. To stop him staring, she wiped her mouth and then stood. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Cabbage already working?”
“Daddy! Gross.” She rushed away.
In the bathroom, she sat on the toilet seat lid and reached over to the adjacent sink. Even though it was soft, her breathing was coming rapidly, almost panting, and she didn’t want him to hear.
No. They can’t be. They cannot be married. It’s too soon.
Thoughts, dark, ricocheted around inside her head. She chastised herself for absenting herself from her father’s life for the past couple of months. If they truly were married—and what other explanation could there be for her father’s wearing that damn band—maybe she could have done something to prevent it. Talked some damn sense into him!
She wanted to cry. Her hands shook. Stomach acid splashed the back of her throat.
