Page 99 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
“Padraig—no.”
“Ma. It’s Stevie. I have to—”
“You can’t.” Her voice sharpens. “Listen to me. You showing up now, after all this time, when her husband’s barely cold and she’s in a hospital bed?” She pauses. “You don’t get to make this about you.”
I drop my keys on the table, heart thundering in my ears. Thisisn’tabout me, Stevie needs me. “I’m not—”
“Youare. I know your heart’s in the right place and you want to be there for her.” Her voice wavers. “But our girl has ashattered family and her children to hold together. Don’t make it harder by confusing things.”
I don’t answer. I’m too stunned.
Ma softens. “I called with the news because I thought you should hear it from me and not someone else. I’ll be helping Lucinda, so if and when it seems okay, I’ll let you know if it’s appropriate to get in touch. Besides, you have other responsibilities now. Your focus must be on Mara. Your own family.”
She hangs up. I nod into the silence, because she’s right, obviously.
Liam watches me. “I get it. It’s Stevie.”
“Shit.” I nod once. Sit down hard. “She’s a widow.”
Liam blinks. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
The moment expands. Delicate. Raw.
I think of Mara laughing in the kitchen this morning, her hands curved around the slope of her belly like it was the most natural thing in the world. She and my son are supposed to be my future.
And yet, Stevie will always be the one I can’t stop loving, No one, including Mara, will ever compare.
Is it fair to stay in a relationship when I feel pulled toward the woman who’ll always have my whole heart? The one who lives inside the quiet parts of me? Is it right for me to string Mara along when I’llneverbe able to give her close to the version Stevie had?
Liam speaks first. “You gonna tell her?”
“No. Not tonight.”
I push back from the table and walk back to the window.
Conflicted.
Resolved.
Knowing I’m the biggest piece of shit on the planet.
twenty-eight
Stevie
Three Months Later
Mylegcreaksinprotest when I shift my weight on dining room chair.
I’m not used to the quiet.
I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.
Stacks of paperwork clutter the table in front of me. Insurance forms. Medical bills. Letters from the funeral home. A claim forwrongful death I haven’t opened sits, half-buried under a folder labeledFinal Estate Administration. The words don’t feel real.
None of this does.
