Page 37

Teagan

“There he is!”

We’ve barely exited the car before my brother’s gangly form is approaching, arms open wide. All negative feelings aside, I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. He’s a right pain in the arse, but fecking hell, it’s good to see him. Thomas and I resemble one another, but he has a good three inches on me. He may be taller, but I’ve got him beat on muscle. He’s always been lanky. My hair is a bit lighter from the consistent sunshine of North Carolina’s coast, but we have matching green eyes that we got from our Ma.

“What’s the craic, Tommy?” I say in greeting as we embrace each other warmly.

“Ya look good, Teag! The States been treatin’ ya well, yeah?” He holds me at arm’s length, eyeing me up and down.

His gaze shifts to over my shoulder and his eyes widen with mischief. Without turning, I know that he’s spotted Layla. Christ, here we go.

“Well, well, well! Ya said you were bringing yer mot with ya, but ya didn’t mention what a ride she is!” Bounding around me, he stops before Layla, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet ya, love. I’m Tommy.”

“Layla,” She provides, giving him a dubious look as she offers her hand in return. “Nice to meet you.”

The fecker kisses her knuckles, and the urge to tackle him to the ground is so strong, I actually shift on my feet.

“Feckin’ eejit, keep yer filthy hands to yerself,” I grumble, my accent thickening with annoyance. Not even five minutes in, and he’s already being a miserable little pox.

“Ach, c’mon now, don’t be a craic vacuum!”

Stepping around my brother, I plant myself next to Layla and slide an arm around her waist, pulling her tight to my side. A deep sense of satisfaction blooms in me when she nestles in. Obviously I’m not worried about my brother making moves, but I like that she feels safe in my arms.

“Ma and Da inside?” I ask, hoping to get this initial reunion over with.

“Ma is, yeah. With Tarrah.”

Tommy turns back toward the house, gesturing for us to follow. The house and front garden look exactly the same as when I left—the same doormat on the front steps, the same purple primrose planted along the side of the house.

“Da’s out with the sheep. We both know the oul fella won’t change routine for anything. I think a dog would have to chew his leg off before he’d change things up. Even then, he’d probably use that leg as a walking stick, he would.”

Layla chuckles softly. To anyone else, that would be an amusing mental image. Tommy’s tone is teasing, but we both know it’s God’s honest truth. According to our Gran, Da even worked the ewes on his wedding day, scheduling the event around his daily chores.

Tommy opens the door, ushering us both inside. I give Layla’s hand a gentle squeeze, knowing that she’s probably already overwhelmed. Entering the house first, I’m not surprised to find that the interior is just as unchanged as the exterior.

Spick and span like always, the sitting room to my left still holds the brown sofa and two matching recliners. The end tables by the recliners have the old, tarnished picture frames right where they were the day I left. One holds Gran and Granddad’s wedding picture, while the other holds Ma and Da’s. Centered on the mantle above the fireplace is the crucifix, flanked by the three patron saints of Ireland and a family photo from fifteen years ago. It might be the only picture of Da smiling I’ve ever seen.

There’s clanging and muffled voices coming from the kitchen, so I lead us back that way. The closer we get, the clearer the voices become.

“Tarrah, hand me the tea cozy, will ya, love? Thank you.”

My brother’s voice booms behind us. “Ma! Look who finally made his way home!”

I cringe, not only because he’s so loud, but because he makes it sound like I’m back for good.

Rounding the corner, I see my mum standing at the counter, adding tea to the kettle, and my sister, Tarrah, sitting opposite on an old wooden stool. Both of their heads whip in our direction. Tarrah is the spitting image of our Ma, down to their blonde shoulder-length bobs. The only difference is that Ma now has silver streaking through the strands. This sends a pang through my chest. She’s getting older, and signs of age are more noticeable than the last time I saw her.

“Teagan, love!” Ma wipes her hands on a dishtowel, rounding the counter. Her hands grip my face as she takes me in momentarily before pulling me into her embrace. I return the hug tightly, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

“Hullo, Ma. It’s good to see ya.”

“Oh, my boy. You’ve no idea how good.” Like Tommy, she holds me at arm’s length so she can get a proper look at me. “You’ve always been my handsome lad, but you’re even more so now. Tarrah, come greet your brother.”

My sister grins as she moves in for her own hug. “Hiya, little brother. Welcome home.”

Ignoring the last part, I kiss her cheek. “Hiya, Tar. How’s she cuttin’?”

Ma doesn’t give her the opportunity to answer. “Are ya hungry? I’ve just wet the tae and have biscuits cooling on the rack.”

“Sure, Ma, that sounds great,” I say with a smile. “But I’d like to introduce you to someone first.”

Gently tugging Layla out from behind me, I place her in front of me proudly. “This is my lass, Layla Diaz.”

Ma knew she was coming, but she still acts surprised, reaching to take Layla’s hand between both of hers. “Oh, hello there, dear! I’m Siobhán. It’s lovely to meet you! This is my oldest, Tarrah.”

“Hi,” Layla says shyly. “It’s nice meeting both of you. Thank you for having me.”

My sister’s gaze lingers on Layla, no doubt finding something to scrutinize. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s being a judgmental harpy. I wrap my arms around her middle possessively, giving Tarrah a look that clearly says to keep her fecking opinions to herself. She pretends not to see it.

Layla

It’s official. Teagan’s sister is a bitch. Between the dirty looks and the underhanded comments about my size, I’m ready to go off. She’s tall and thin while I’m shorter and round. However, my tits are bigger and my man can’t keep his hands off of me. This is evident by the way he pulled me down onto the couch with him, nearly on his lap when we relocated to the living room for tea.

Shortly after our introduction, Tarrah’s fiance, whose name I can’t—and don’t care to—remember showed up. The two of them together are awkward, at best. He’s a nasally dickhead who treats Tarrah like his personal servant. She caters to his every whim out of sheer obedience, some archaic desire to be the doting housewife. He doesn’t touch her at all, not even sitting directly beside her. Every time Teagan strokes the back of my hand with his fingers, or kisses my temple, or slides his hand over my knee, the sneer on her face grows. She doesn’t think I see the longing in her eyes though. Under all of that holier-than-thou complex is a woman who wants to be loved the way her brother loves me.

I tried to make conversation with her regarding their upcoming wedding, but it was a failed attempt. She’d open her mouth to answer, only to be cut off by fiancé Dickhead. Each time, her eyes would drop to her folded hands in her lap. And because I’m me, I ignore him, not looking away from Tarrah. I can feel Teagan shake with silent laughter because he knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Do you have your dress picked out?” I ask.

“Yes,” Dickhead answers.

With a saccharine smile, I pin him with my gaze. “Oh, how progressive of you! I love when men can be in touch with their feminine side. In fact, there’s a gay couple I know where both men wore wedding dresses when they got married. They just loved how magical it made their special day.”

Tommy explodes into a fit of laughter while Siobhán blushes. Tarrah is even more pale than what I thought possible for an Irish girl. Dickhead is red-faced, and not at all amused.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Oh,” I say innocently. “I just assumed that since you answered the question meant for Tarrah, you were excited to share with us about your dress.”

“Cailín,” Teagan mutters in playful warning against my ear.

“Teagan, you really ought to get her under control, mate,” Dickhead sniffs. “Otherwise, she’ll be wearing the pants in your family.”

We both go rigid. My first instinct is to make some comment about how neither of us wears pants when we’re together, but I really do want his mom to like me, at least. Pinning the asshole with a glare, my lips part as I prepare to put him in his place but Teagan beats me to it.

“First of all, mate ,” he says icily. “Layla looks fecking gorgeous in and out of pants, so I really don’t care either way. Second, a man doesn’t control a woman at all. Not sure what century you’ve been living in, but women are allowed to speak for themselves. As they bloody well should be. And finally, if ya want to keep my sister happy, you’ll pull yer head out of yer arse, and start treating her with love and respect, yeah?”

The room goes silent. Siobhán is wide-eyed, Tommy looks delightfully entertained, and Tarrah is slack-jawed as she stares at her brother in disbelief. I’m so fucking proud of him and turned on by his outburst. I want to pull him into any empty room I can find and let him put me in my place—under him, on top of him, or on my knees before him.

It’s at that moment that an older gentleman, who I’m assuming is Teagan’s father, chooses to stomp through the front door. He wears a tweed flat cap over graying hair and his skin is slightly wrinkled and weathered, likely from working outside. He pauses on the threshold, sensing the tension in the air. His gaze goes to his wife first, brows furrowing as he looks from her face to Tarrah’s, then to Dickhead’s. He turns his head in our direction, hard eyes landing on Teagan, who tenses beside me. I smoothly prop my elbow on the back of the sofa and slide my hand to the back of his head, wishing he wasn’t wearing a hat. I want to thread my fingers through his hair, letting him know he’s not alone. Neither man makes a move toward the other. No hugs or happy greetings.

“Son, nice to have ya back.” His voice is a slightly deeper version of Teagan’s lilting accent.

“Hiya, Da. Good to see ya.” Teagan says without emotion.

It’s so bizarre to hear him speak like that after months of his lively voice, sparkling eyes, and affectionate hands. He feels nearly lifeless as his father assesses him.

“Are you going to introduce me?” His dad nods in my direction, and I avert my eyes.

“Right,” Teagan finally stands, pulling me up with him. “Da, this is my girlfriend, Layla Diaz. Layla, this is my father, Martin.”

I extend my hand towards him. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

His eyebrows climb his forehead as he looks from my face to my hand. I’m about to pull my hand back awkwardly when he reaches out, shaking it. His palms and fingers are calloused, but his grip is soft. I expected the work-worn hands, but not a gentle touch.

“Pleasure, lass,” he says gruffly, then gives his attention back to Teagan. They clasp hands, but still no hug. “How long are you here for, son?”

“Not long, I’m afraid.” Teagan stuffs his hands into his pockets. “We’ve a wedding for some friends in Kilkenny to attend in a couple of days and will have to head back to the States not long after.”

“I see. Could use yer help with a few things while you’re here.”

“Martin, please,” Siobhán begs. “Can we not just enjoy our time with him? Who knows when we’ll see him again.”

“The work doesn’t stop just because the prodigal son returns.”

“Christ,” Teagan mutters, cupping the bill of his hat with a hand.

“Watch yer language, son. I’ll not have ya takin’ the Lord’s name in vain under my roof.” Martin gives him a withering look.

Teagan’s jaw clenches as he glares right back. The pressure is building, and if he doesn’t get some sort of release soon, he’s going to blow.

“Hey, babe?” I say soothingly, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. His face is set in hard lines but softens when he looks at me. “Can you show me where the bathroom is?”

“Aye, Lovely. C’mon.” He laces our fingers and begins to lead us from the room. “Then we’ll take a walk when you’re done. I want to show you something.”