Page 78 of It Should Have Been You

“I see you still ramble when you’re nervous.”

Now I stop talking, my mouth flapping open and shut like a fish.

I laugh to distract from the burn in my cheeks as he continues, “I don’t want tourists here. It’s more trouble than it’s worth… Take the house or not. It’s no skin off my back, but it’s yours if you want it.” A long second passes before he lowers his voice and says, “You’ll be safe here.”

My safety.

I rub my hands together, and when I laugh this time, it’s not to hide embarrassment, but it’s excitement bubbling over. I can do this. We can make a life here.

“Girls,” I call out to them. They’re still smiling when they look up at me. “What do you think about living here?”

Their cheers are all the confirmation I need.

Sixteen

Logan

It’s far too fucking early on a Sunday morning to hear banging on my door. I close my eyes and pray for it to go away.

No such luck.

I’d know that knock anywhere.

Cora.

It’s as if she taps the Hail Mary every time she drops by.

Groaning, I raise from the bed, muscles still stiff from sleep. Missy, the world’s laziest golden retriever, huffs a bark before looking at me and going back to sleep.

I pet her head. “Remind me to never rely on you if there’s an intruder.”

The taps on the door begin again, growing more impatient.

“Alright. Alright. I’m on my way,” I shout, grabbing last night’s jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

She’s still tapping her knuckles against the glass when I open the front door. “Morning, darling. I didn’t wake you, did I?” She smiles, pushing past me into the hall and disappearing into the kitchen.

My uncle, Skip, shrugs and mumbles, “At least you don’t have to be married to her. You know how she is.”

A fucking thorn in my side is what she is. She’s been living in my ear since I moved back.

But she’s holding a fresh batch of her chocolate chip cookies and the smell has my stomach grumbling. I paw at the foil, but she’s quick to slap my hand away. “They’re not for you. They’re for the children.”

“Sorry, I released the slave children in my basement last week. You’re late.”

She makes the sign of the cross with her free hand. “Sweet Mother of God.” Even after all these years, she still slips into her Irish accent. “Honestly, Logan. Did I not raise you right at all?”

I kiss her on the top of her head. “You raised me just right. I fucked up all on my own. Now why are you coming into my house at…” I glance at the clock on the wall. “Nine in the morning with cookies, if they’re not for me?”

“Your new neighbor. She has children, doesn’t she?”

I nod as the TV blasts from the living room, last night’s game playing on repeat. Skip is already engrossed.

“Make yourself at home.”

“Will do. Thanks, son.”

Sarcasm isn’t his strong suit.

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