Page 28 of Morally Black Betrothal

Mom in the kitchen of a beach rental on the Cape, singing with Loggins and Messina about not having money, being so in love with you, honey.

Liza’s words echoing from the hospital: that I needed “a house, a wife, a family.”

Simone greeting me as I returned home from work, barefoot, pregnant, and glowing with a grin like a Hallmark heroine.

The howl was back. The feeling of wanting something so badly, I couldn’t breathe.

The possibility that maybe it wouldn’t all have to be an act.

Was I really that…stupid?

I was pulled out of the combined daydreams by a hand on my arm. I looked down to find Simone’s delicate fingers squeezing through the wool.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “He’s going to be okay.”

I blinked. Right. Dad. She didn’t need to know just how far I was from thinking of him. Which, arguably, I should only be thinking about. Especially since I’d originally come here with one particular agenda.

“I have to help some other customers,” she said, nodding to the other end of the bar. “But, Brendan? Anytime you need to talk, you can find me here.”

She released my arm and went back to work.

Was her kindness just her doing her job, or was she feeling the same heady rush I was? Would she understand what I wanted? Would I even be able to differentiate that from what I needed to do?

This was a bad idea. I should have done what Liza had all but suggested—found some society brat desperate to become the next Mrs. Black. Someone I could control. Someone I felt nothing for.

But I couldn’t just let her leave.

“Hey,” I called, though Simone didn’t seem to hear me. “Would you?—”

The buzzing of my phone interrupted me, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket.

Owen.

“You dick,” I told the phone. “Worst fuckin’ timing, as always.” Nevertheless, I answered. “What?”

“Are you done soul-searching, or do you need another hour to find yourself?”

“Fuck off. What is it?”

“Dad woke up. Get your ass back here.”

7

SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT

Simone

It was close to six in the morning by the time I unlocked the door to the apartment that had been my home for the last four years. The bar had gotten a late wave of tourists and club kids around two, and after that, Herb had wanted me to stay and do inventory in exchange for some overtime. And I always needed overtime.

I spent my first year in Boston crammed into a broken-down townhouse in Mattapan along with six other people, including my sister. My “room” consisted of a corner of the living room blocked off with a hanging sheet. By the end of that year, Selena had already abandoned Boston for the first of eight times by then (despite begging me to join her here in the first place), and I was broke, lonely, and desperately in need of a place to call my own.

So, when I found a shockingly cheap apartment in Jamaica Plain, it felt like karma was rewarding me. The studio on the top floor of an old grain dispensary became my solitary refuge, the first true haven I’d had since my mother died so long ago.

Years later, I knew I should have gone back to Vermont long ago. But I couldn’t leave this little corner of the world I’d carved out for myself. Even if I’d never quite been able to articulate why.

When I walked into the apartment now, though, it resembled less a refuge and more a flophouse. Two duffel bags that overflowed with clothes like suds from a full washbasin nearly blocked my entry. My sink was already full of used dishes. A trail of cereal boxes, wrappers, and other detritus littered my typically immaculate counters, and several pairs of shoes were piled near the front door (including a few of mine that Selena must have tried on and discarded).

My sister had certainly made herself at home.