Page 22 of The Games We Play
I feel my ponytail bounce as I shake my head. “No. I am not getting myself involved with you or them. Women always get caught in your crossfire, and none of you give a shit.”
Cillian stands. “Well, that’s a shame. Because I have some decisions about how much of Michael’s care I’ll fund once he turns eighteen.”
My heart begins to thud at the information. “Are you saying you’ll stop his therapy?” Michael thrives because of it. He gets stimulation every day; he has people properly equipped with tools and training to help him live the very best version of his life.
“I’m saying that at eighteen, I can terminate my responsibilities for him and turn him over to the state. I’m sure you’ll find a half-decent caregiver for him eventually. Or you can quit your job and do it for him. I believe they have assistance programs you might qualify for.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow the rise of emotion. I could do those things for Michael and would do them willingly if I had no other choice. But what Cillian provides is so much more than I’m capable of.
Michael would suffer.
Withdraw into himself.
I can’t even begin to think of what it really means to try to get information from Spark. But surely spying on the Iron Outlaws is better than Michael losing access to what he needs.
“I hate you,” I say through clenched teeth.
Cillian smiles softly. “One day you’ll realize you can’t escape this, Iris. And not only will you accept it, but you’ll also learn to embrace it.”
“How exactly do you think I’m going to get this information from Spark? I’m related to you, and I don’t know a thing.”
Cillian shrugs. “The man has eyes for you. That’s all you need.”
“What, so you want me to use my body to get information from him? That’s prostitution.”
A cold steely glint appears in Cillian’s eyes. “You’re a clever girl. Do what it takes.”
“I can’t believe you think so little of me.” Tears sting my eyes again, but I refuse to give him the gratification of seeing me cry.
“Ahh, Iris. It’s because I think so much of you. You’re theonlyone who thinks you can’t get me the information I need. Always remember that.”
I need to leave before I say something I shouldn’t. I grab my coat and hurry to the front door, where I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. My skin looks gray.
I don’t know how to be the person he wants me to be, even as I grapple with the fact that I’ve imagined more than once what it would be like to sleep with Spark.
My traitorous libido is excited at the idea.
But taking it further with Spark because of Cillian would not be on my terms. It’s not with the intent of a happily ever after. Or evenhappily for now.
“Jesus. Just stop already.” I mutter the words as I climb into my car. None of this is good news.
None of it.
If I didn’t love my job and my children, I’d run.
If I didn’t love Michael, I’d run.
I curse my parents for the millionth time. Why couldn’t they have been different people? Why couldn’t Dad have run a sandwich shop or Irish bar in Tribeca? Why couldn’t Mom have quit smoking and been healthier? I know she didn’t choose cancer, but none of us stood a chance.
“Why does all this come down to me?”
Because you’re the oldest. It’s your job to protect your brothers.
The last part was said with an Irish lilt. That of Mom, born and raised within sight of Galway Bay. Every time Mom couldn’t cope with life, just before she’d disappear into her bedroom for days on end, she’d say, “Iris, I need to go lie down. Look after your dad and protect your brothers.”
From what, Mom had never been clear. But over time, it became apparent. Protect them from life. Protect them fromthelife. Protect them from each other and everyone else.
And yet, I failed. I thought I’d done the right thing when I’d begged Uncle Cillian to take us all in, but there are days when I think it might have been better for all of us to have been fostered and adopted, even if it had been separately. At least we would’ve been away from all this.
