Page 75 of Irish Reign

I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking a month since what. Instead, I keep my voice mild. “If you think I’ll spot you a raise because you manage to keep a calendar…”

“Aiofe misses her.”

“So she’s told me. Multiple times now.”

“I miss her.”

“I’m not sure why. She must have been a holy pain in the arse, with her leaving early and coming home late, upsetting all your carefully scheduled meals. And now you’ve only half the clothes to take to the dry cleaners.”

“You miss her too.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. The light summer duvet doesn’t migrate from my half of the bed, now that I’m sleeping alone. The dining room doesn’t stink of coffee first thing in the morning. My right hand is stronger than it’s been since I was a teen-age boy.

Instead, I say, “There’s no coming back from some things.”

“Said every man who ever spoke too much in anger.”

“She said things too.”

“When Aiofe comes to me with cross words like that, she’s sent to her room for an hour.”

“Does that teach her a lesson?” I ask, honestly curious.

“No. But she usually gets bored and takes a nap, which puts her in a better mood when she comes back to the kitchen.” He waits a moment. When I don’t resume the conversation he says, “Call her.”

I don’t bother pretending we’re still talking about Aiofe. “Not this time.”

“You’ve worked things out before.”

“Which is why both of us knew the best way to blow things up this time. For good.”

He sets the bowl of cobbler on the table by my chair. “Not for good,” he says. “For ill. And if you knew how to blow things up, then you know how to put them back together. Spend your time doing something productive, instead of plotting your next attack on the East Falls Crew.”

He heads back into the kitchen while I’m still putting together my response to his utterly banjaxed theory—starting with the fact that it’s pure productive, my going after Russo.

I eat the cobbler. And I finishThe Times. And I take out my phone and watch the bright red drawing pin, anchoring a corner of Delaware that might as well be a million miles away.

36

SAMANTHA

Mary is right.

Not about Braiden. She doesn’t understand a thing about my twisted marriage, about the relationship I thought would be my life.

But she knew I needed food, even if it was three hours after normal people eat their dinners. And after I eat, she knows I need a reason to stay out of my lonely bedroom, so she organizes a Scrabble tournament among all four of us housemates. She says it’s a Friday night in the middle of summer. We can all sleep in tomorrow. So we click wooden tiles onto the board until midnight, toasting Mary with Diet Coke when she finally wins.

I’m actually smiling as I get into bed after taking my turn in the shared bathroom. I turn on a small fan, fighting the leftover heat of the July day. As usual, I toss and I turn, trying to punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape.

I could swear I never close my eyes, but when my phone rings, I don’t remember where I am. Shaken from the absolute black of dreamless sleep, it takes me a moment to sit up in bed. I’m clumsy with confusion, and I almost drop my phone.

But I see the name on the screen: EC.

Elisabetta Canna.

A woman who will never use a phone again.

Abruptly, brutally awake, I tap the screen. “What?” I ask, because I know who’s on the other end, and he knows me.

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