Page 321 of Keeping 13

“Claire?”

“Claire,” he confirmed with a nod.

“I think they have secrets,” I admitted, shifting closer to him.

“I think you’re right,” Johnny agreed. “But whatever he needs right now, he’ll get that from her.” Shaking his head, he added, “I can’t give it to him.”

“What about you?” I asked in a gentle tone. He was trying to put on a brave face, but I saw the concern in his eyes earlier, the sheer helplessness. “What do you need right now?”

Johnny reached over and pulled me onto his lap. “I have everything I need right here.”

“Do you think they’ll sort it out?” I asked then.

“Who—Claire and Lizzie, or Gibs and Lizzie?”

“All of them.”

Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, they’ll be grand. He’ll come back in an hour or two all smiles and jokes. He’ll brush it under the rug, and that will be that.”

“You think?”

“I know him, Shannon,” he replied. “That’s how he copes. Humor is his thing.”

“I don’t want everyone to be mad at her,” I whispered. “She’s going through a lot.”

“Shan—”

“I’m serious,” I told him, begging him with my eyes to hear me. “Please, just don’t hold a grudge over this.”

“I’m raging over what she did to him,” he admitted honestly.

“I know,” I coaxed, straddling his hips. “But when she comes back with Feely, can you make an effort? For me?”

He stared hard at me for a long moment before blowing out a breath. “Fine.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. “I know you find Lizzie hard work—and she is—but there’s so much more to her than meets the eye.” I reached for his hand and squeezed. “She’s all prickles, but there’s a good person under that. She’s a lot like Joey in some ways. She makes it very hard for people to love her, but it’s a defense mechanism. Trust me, I know.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Johnny grumbled, not looking impressed.

“So, you’ll be nice to her?”

“I’ll be nice,” he confirmed grimly. “For you.”

“I got you a present,” I said then, trying to steer the conversation into gentler waters. “It’s really nothing special, but I can give it to you now, if you want?”

“You got me a present?” Johnny’s brows shot up, and he craned his neck back to look at me. “Shan, you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s your eighteenth birthday,” I replied. “Of course I got you a present.” Rolling off his lap, I held a hand up. “But fair warning, it’s nothing as amazing as that flashy car your parents bought you.”

“She’s sweet, huh?” He chuckled. “She purrs like a dream.”

“Uh-huh.” Entirely uninterested in talking cars with him, I reached into my bag and rummaged around until my fingers found the book inside. “I made it myself,” I told him as I pulled out the scrapbook and thrust it into his hands. “And if it’s bad, or you don’t like it, you can just throw it away. I swear I won’t mind.” Clasping my hands together on my lap, I shrugged, feeling nervous. “Happy birthday, Johnny.”

“You made me a book?” His voice was deep and gruff as he opened the cover and stared. “Of me?”

“Well, it’s more of a scrapbook,” I explained. “Detailing your career from the minis all the way up to here—” I reached over and flipped to the back page to where I had photocopied his letter of acceptance from the Irish rugby academy and taped it inside. “It’s like an itinerary of your life in rugby.” I blew out a shaky breath. “Is it okay?”

“Shan…” He shook his head and flicked through page after page of newspaper clippings and photographs of him from the age of six to eighteen. “Where did you find all this?”

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