Page 4 of Worth the Fall

“We don’t even have a dog,” I argued as my eyes met Matthew’s for a split second.

It was all I needed to tell him silently to not bring up Addison today, of all days. We O’Grady men liked to fake that we were fine. We pretended that Patrick wasn’t walking around with the ghost of a memory haunting him at every turn. The same way we acted like Matthew didn’t have a drinking problem to cover up the fact that he was really fucking sad over losing his hockey career. If we didn’t say any of it out loud, then it wasn’t real.

“I want a dog!” Clarabel’s voice suddenly drowned out the rest of the knuckleheads, and then everything around us exploded in a chorus of shouts.

“Clara! My sweet girl. Come here. Me first!” came from all the men in the room, each one clamoring for her undivided attention.

Clarabel stopped abruptly on the stairs before putting up a single finger. “I’m going to say hi to you one at a time. But I’m saying hi to Uncle Patrick last because I need him to do my hair,” she announced like she was the boss and we were her employees. But I’d be damned if we all didn’t listen to every single command she doled out.

“Why can’t I do your hair?” my dad asked, and Clara burst out giggling like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.

“Popssss”—she dragged out his name—“you don’t know how to braid.”

“Because you’ve never taught me. I could learn,” he argued.

She put a finger on her chin like she was considering it. “Maybe some other time. There’s just too much going on today.”

My dad’s blue eyes met my own, and we both grinned. My daughter was truly something else. This little girl, surrounded by a sea of single men who would do anything for her. I wondered how badly we were screwing her up and prayed like hell it wasn’t much.

“You’re right, sweet cheeks. Come here and give Pops a hug,” he said, and she leaped into his arms. He groaned as he picked her up, more likely for her amusement than anything else. For an old man, he was still in good shape. “You’re getting so big. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Pops. You can put me down now.” She wiggled until he let her go, and she ran straight for Matthew’s open arms.

“I love you, Uncle Matthew, but you smell like beer,” she said, and we all held our breaths in an uncomfortable silence.

“Well”—Matthew sniffed at her—“you smell like gingerbread and sugar cookies and lollipops.”

Clarabel sniffed at her arm. “I do not.” She looked up at me with those wide brown eyes in fear. “I didn’t eat none of that. I swear, Daddy.”

“He’s just teasing you, baby,” I reassured her, and she seemed to calm down.

“You’re not funny, Uncle.” She swatted at him before making a pouty face and reaching her hand out for Patrick’s. “Can you do my hair now?”

“What’s the magic word?” He refused to move until she used some manners, which I appreciated.

“Please.Can you please French braid my hair, Uncle Patrick?”

“You bet.” He smiled, and I swore I felt my cold heart warm.

I was a lucky son of a bitch to have these men in my corner, no matter how screwed up we all might be. This family was all I had, and they were everything to me.

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