Page 19 of The Bossy One

“I don’t want to go to the toy store! I want to go home!” Catie’s face was flushed, and she was blinking a lot, like she was trying not to cry. “Mom says you can buy anything you want. So I want you to take me home.”

“Love, that’s not an option,” I said gently.

“You’re not listening to me!” Catie stood up so fast, she knocked her chair down. “I hate you!”

I stood. “Catie, wait—”

But she was already running upstairs to her room.

I hesitated, listening to her angry little feet storm away from me. Every instinct I had said to go after Catie and comfort her, but I had no bloody clue what I would say. Everything I’d tried had only seemed to make it worse.

“So,” Olivia said, almost to herself, “that went well.”

“Oh, and you would have told her the truth?” I snapped. “‘Catie, your mum’s an alcoholic, and she’ll live with that disease for the rest of her life, even if the treatment she’s on now helps her figure out how to control it. Also, there’s a genetic factor, so you might be at risk too. Isn’t that grand?’”

“Obviously not like that.” Olivia stood and started clearing the table. “But yes, it’s always best to tell kids the truth. An age-appropriate version of the truth, but the truth, all the same.”

I grabbed the salad bowl and followed Olivia into the kitchen. “Thereisno age-appropriate version of this. Trust me.”

Olivia set the plates down on the counter and turned to face me, hands on her hips. “So it’s better for her to hate you for it?”

“I can be the bad guy, if it means shielding her from something that would crush her,” I said stubbornly. “If rehab works, and Sinead gets sober, Catie never has to know.”

Something like sympathy flickered across Olivia’s face. “Declan. You have to know that’s not realistic.”

Maybe I did. But in my experience, “it’s not realistic” was the thing people said right before they gave up. And I wasn’t ready to give up.

“I’m not telling her the truth about her mum,” I said, deadly serious. “Neither are you. And that’s final.”

“But—”

“Cross me on this and you’re fired, Olivia. Understand?”

She pressed her lips together and took the glass salad bowl from me, setting it down on the marble counters with enough force that it cracked.

It took her a moment to realize what she’d done. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that…”

“It’s fine,” I said, feeling worn by the turn the night had taken. “I’ll toss it in the bin.”

But Olivia beat me to it. When she was done, she said, “Maybe you should call Sinead? It might calm Catie down to hear her mom’s voice.”

“I will,” I agreed. Then I noticed. “You’re bleeding.”

“What? Oh.” She blinked down at her left hand, surprised.

“I’ll get you a plaster,” I said. I was pretty sure there was a first-aid kit in the pantry, next to the bottled water and emergency torches.

“A what?” Olivia asked, confused.

I found the first-aid kit and squirted some antibacterial stuff on a bandage. “Give me your hand.”

“I can do it myself,” she protested.

“Sure, like you could get your suitcase into the overhead,” I said.

Olivia gave an exasperated sigh, but surrendered her hand. I carefully covered up the small spot of blood, trying not to notice how soft her skin was.

Olivia pulled her hand away from mine as soon as possible and ran her fingertips around the edge of the plaster, as if to double-check my work.

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