Page 23 of Twist of Fate
Finn
PRESENT
I am usually one of the first to arrive at the office and one of the last to leave. Rian once told me I would fit right in with all the workaholic friends he made in the States. After I told him to fuck right off, I explained I was just leading by example. Growing up, my father was never around. He was always here. So why should I be any different?
Rian had just transferred back to Dublin after a two-year stint in Seattle. To say the return was unwelcome would be an understatement. At first, my best friend hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of moving to America, but he went anyway and did what he did best. He adapted and made the most of things.
And then he fell in love.
He met Robyn at an IT mixer sponsored by his employer, and they got along right away. After that, I thought I would lose him to the States forever, but about a month ago, he called and said he was coming home. When I asked what happened, he said things just didn’t work out.
Poor bastard.
Tonight is the first time we’ve both had free time to meet up, and we’re hitting the pubs. It couldn’t come on a better night. After the day I’ve had, a few pints with my best mate sounds stellar.
But before I head out, there’s one thing I need to do.
The salty smell of the ocean hits me as I get closer to my childhood home in Blackrock. The hotel where Aisling’s tour started is just a stone’s throw away from here. Back then, I remember walking the streets of Dún Laoghaire, trying not to think about my parents being so close. Now, it’s the opposite, and I’m trying not to think about that damn hotel and all the memories it will bring back.
Pulling up to my family home always stirs up a mixture of emotions. It’s where I grew up but also where my father essentially threw me out. It’s both comforting and a colossal source of anxiety, mixed with a bit of shame and a touch of guilt.
This was once a beautiful home. My mom loved to entertain, and when the sun was shining, she’d let me have huge pool parties with my friends during the summer. Now, as I walk through its grand doors, it feels more like a glorified nursing home.
I don’t bother knocking. The in-home nurse would chastise me for it anyway.Your da needs his rest, she’d say. Pretty sure the man didn’t even know the meaning of the word before his stroke.
My mam greets me at the door, still in her silk dressing gown and slippers with a double shot of whiskey in her hands. Her once perfectly styled hair hangs loose and limp around her shoulders. Deep brown and silver roots that would have once made her cringe stand in stark contrast to the pale blond hair she’s had since I was a baby.
“Finney, love. You’re home!”
“Just stopping over to see how things are with Da,” I tell her.
“Oh, good,” she sighs. “Same.”
“Right.” My mam has two moods since my da’s stroke: drunk and happy or sober and sad. Thankfully, I haven’t seen the drunk and happy mood often enough to warrant a problem, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worried.
The sober and sad mood isn’t good either.
“How have you been lately? Keeping up with your clubs and charities? Seen any of your friends?” I ask as I follow her into the kitchen, watching as she drains her glass.
I don’t need a crystal ball to guess what she’s going to get.
“No,” she says, heading for the open bottle of whiskey on the marble countertop. My eyes dart to the label. God, that bottle must be worth over a thousand euros. I don’t know why I’m surprised. She has no concept of money. For most of my life, I didn’t either. “I don’t know what we’d talk about, and besides—I need to stay here to help with your father.”
We have around-the-clock in-home health care, so I know that’s a lie. “What do you mean you wouldn’t know what to talk about? They’re your friends?—”
“They’re your father’s friends’ wives,” she interrupts me, the clarity in her voice suddenly breaking through the haze of the booze.
“I didn’t realize there was a difference.”
“It’s complicated. It doesn’t matter.”
Before I can ask what she means, she scoots me out of the kitchen to visit with my father. In her rush to shoo me away, she seems to have forgotten to mention the physical therapist because as soon as I finish climbing the stairs, I’m greeted by a cheerful “Hallo!” as we nearly bump into each other in the hallway.
“Your da and I just wrapped up,” she informs me. I can’t seem to remember her name. Cora? Caila? Fuck. “Patty’s on her break, but he’ll probably fall asleep in minutes if he’s not already.”
Perfect. Wasn’t planning on staying long anyway. “Okay, thanks a mil.”
She heads off to her next client, and I pass the closed door that leads to my childhood bedroom. It’s exactly how I left it the day I went to university—like some weird teenage tomb. I keep telling Mam to turn it into another fancy guest room or a yoga studio, but she refuses.
