Page 79 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
Da made him feel like his desires were shameful. It’s left him broken. Damaged. The repercussions resonate to this day.
“I don’t blame him.” Seamus shakes his head.
“Look, Da knows he made a mistake. If he apologizes, I think Liam should try to meet him halfway.” Cillian sets his empty bottle down. “It’s not who he is, you know. Everyone can hit rock bottom without their entire family shunning them.”
“A mistake? The homophobia and misogyny came from somewhere.” My hands curl into fists. “I wish…” My voice falters. “I wish Da had been the man we thought he was. Liam is the victim here and I’ll take his side every fucking time.”
Silence settles heavy over us, broken only by muffled voices on the porch.
Seamus shifts on the couch. “Do you think we’ll ever feel like a family again?”
“Not if the two of youse stay away.” Cillian juts his chin out at me.
I glance toward the door where the porch light glows through the window. “He’s protecting himself. Always has. Hopefully Da’s remorseful enough and they can figure it out. It’s between them.”
“I hope so too. Otherwise we’ll end up being strangers who share blood.” Brennan has a way of cutting straight to the point.
The thought saddens me to the core.
Both Liam and I know what it’s like to lose someone you thought would always be there for you forever and the pain when it’s ripped away.
Stevie is a ghost I carry everywhere. No matter how much time passes, nothing will ever fill the void.
I rub a hand over my face and stare at the door, willing Da to make things right. Whatever it takes.
This family needs to heal. One thing I’ve learned over the past few years is, when you stop trying, fractures widen. The people you love don’t merely drift out of reach.
They leave.
Forever.
Looking around the living room at my brothers, all I feel is love.
My brothers are my lifeblood.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to make up for lost time.
twenty-two
Stevie
Six Years Later
ChaosfillsournewMadison Park house.
Boxes crowd every corner in every room. The faint scent of fresh paint clings to the walls.
I weave through the mess slowly, one hand pressed to the hard curve of my belly. Jude shifts inside me with a kick sharp enoughto knock the breath from my lungs and I stop, steadying myself against the doorframe waiting for it to pass.
Eight months pregnant and I can tell he already seems ready to break free. “Please.” I rub him through my shirt. “Four more weeks, buddy. You can do this.”
From somewhere upstairs, a shriek of laughter echoes down the stairwell.
“Mama!” Isla shrieks. “Lila took my bunny!”
“Did not!” my three-year-old yells back, the sound of her little feet pounding after her sister on the hardwood floors above.
“Girls,” I call, more drained than stern. “Slow your roll. The hallways are not a racetrack!”
