Page 162 of Not Another Yesterday
I nod.
“Jesus. You look just like her. And… and my dad,” he says quietly.
“So I’ve been told,” I say.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Cormac frowns. “That would’ve made my sister… seventeen?”
“Yeah,” my dad says. “We had our first son, Steve, at sixteen. Then Ronan came the year after.”
Just then, a woman descends the stairs behind Cormac—presumably his wife. “What’s going on, Mac?”
Cormac turns to her. “Ashley, this is Frank.” He motions toward my dad. “And this is Ronan. Rica’s son.”
Ashley’s mouth falls open. “Rica’s son? Your nephew?”
Cormac nods, lips tight. “Apparently so.”
“Oh my god,” she breathes, stepping closer. “Please, come in!”
We follow them into the house. Cormac leads us to the living room, and the five of us sit down.
The house is bright and tidy, with worn hardwood floors that creak slightly underfoot. Light furniture, heavy white curtains, and the faint scent of flowers fill the space. A blue sofa and matching loveseat frame a wooden coffee table stacked with oversized books on Bauhaus architecture. Family photos cover the mantel and shelves.
We never had photos in my house.
Cormac gestures for my dad and me to take the loveseat while he and Mark take the couch.
“Do you want water? Coffee?” Ashley asks as she disappears briefly into the kitchen.
“Water would be great, thanks,” my dad says, his hands resting awkwardly on his knees.
“Nothing for me. Thanks,” I say, and glance around the living room. It’s so… restful.
“You built that coffee table?” my dad asks, nodding toward the slab of walnut wood with hairpin legs in the center of the room.
“Yeah.” Cormac motions behind us. “That built-in, too. It started as a sort of hobby, until I had an entire woodworking shop in my garage,” he chuckles.
“No kidding,” my dad says. “Looks great in your home, too.”
“Ashley’s the design buff,” Cormac says. “I just build the stuff she wants.”
Mark grins. “That’s pretty much their whole dynamic. She dreams it, he builds it.”
Ashley reappears with glasses of water and a plate of cookies. “Don’t let them fool you. Mac has impeccable taste.”
Cormac leans back on the couch, his smile fading into something quieter as he studies me again.
“When I saw you at the store earlier,” he says, “it was like looking at a ghost. You looked so damn familiar… I just couldn’t place it.” Then his voice softens. “How is she? Rica. Is she… is she doing okay? I haven’t spoken to her in a long time. I think about her all the time.”
My dad clears his throat, glancing at me before answering. “Far as we know, she’s okay. But… I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over a year.”
Cormac frowns.
“Your sister… she’s in prison,” my dad says.
