And then, after enough time passed, she didn’t want to think about it again.
“He moved back in here after my dad died.”
“I didn’t know that,” Padraig said.
“He didn’t stay long. Only a month or so. Said with our parents dead, it fell to him to look after me. I pointed out I was twenty-four and not a kid, but he insisted.”
“Why did he leave after a month if he wanted to protect you?”
“I’m getting there. Sam had been crashing at a friend’s house before moving back. The last time he’d been home when my dad was alive, he’d stolen a bunch of stuff to sell for drug money. My dad had kicked him out and told him not to come back until he was clean. I know that sounds bad, but the truth is, my dad had tried a hundred different ways to help my brother, but…Sam has always been his own worst enemy.”
“I don’t think your dad was wrong to kick him out. You know what they say about having to hit rock bottom.”
“Sam hadn’t hit it when he moved back in. He only came back because Dad was gone. So, you know, free place to stay, free rein to steal stuff. I hid everything of value, everything I cared about, in my bedroom, and put a lock on the door. Sam’s friends started coming by, getting stoned, drunk, basically trashing the place. I stayed in my room, sneaking out for food whenever they left or passed out.”
“Jesus,” Padraig muttered.
“One night, I woke up to a loud crash. One of Sam’s friends had kicked in my bedroom door.”
“Fuck.” Padraig shifted closer, his expression so fierce, she felt a tremor of fear, even though she knew it wasn’t directed at her. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing. He never laid a finger on me.”
“What?” Padraig asked, unconvinced.
“He was walking toward my bed, but before I had time to reach for something to use as a weapon or scream, Sam was there. He pulled the guy out of the room and pummeled him. Then he kicked him—and everyone else—out of the apartment. The next morning, Sam was sitting on the couch when I came out of my room. Said he was leaving. And he was sorry.”
Padraig reached for her, and she accepted—needed—his hug. A lot of the guilt her father had felt in regards to Sam had transferred to her after his death, and she’d spent more than a few sleepless nights wondering if there had been some way to reach him, to help him.
She gone to visit him in jail shortly after his arrest—intent on bailing him out—but he’d refused the money and to see her. Sent word through his state-appointed attorney that he wouldn’t accept the bail and that she was better off without him in her life.
She’d refused to accept that, so she started writing him letters after his conviction, and after a year or so, he’d finally relented and agreed to start taking her occasional phone calls. Emmy still hoped that eventually he would let her visit him at the prison in person.
“I’m glad he protected you, but I’m still going to kick his ass when he gets out of jail for putting you in danger in the first place.”
Emmy started to pull back. Padraig tightened his grip, just as he’d done at the pub on Thursday. The self-sabotaging part of her decided to think it was because he didn’t want to let her go. In reality, he probably thought she needed the extra bit of comfort.
“You’ll have to wait three more years, two if he behaves himself,” she said, lifting her head, trying to lighten the moment.
“I wish I’d known you then.”
“Me too.” Suddenly she became aware of how close they were, their faces just inches apart. She cleared her throat, putting some distance between them, lest she lose her mind and do something insane.
Like kiss him.
“We’re getting off track,” she said, reminding him of their practice date.
“You’re right. Sorry about that. Strangers again,” he said with an endearing grin. He took a moment and then said, “So what made you decide to become a romance writer, Emmy?”
She grinned. “That’s easy. My parents.”
“How so?” he asked curiously.
There were two subjects she and Padraig had never really delved into.
Mia and her parents.
Every time those subjects came up, they managed to keep the conversation factual and surface-y.
She knew how Mia died, and she’d picked up a million tiny details about Padraig’s beloved wife, simply through eavesdropping on his conversations with his family.
And he knew how her parents died as well. But she’d never really talked about them to him, just as he’d never really discussed Mia.
When they’d first met, they’d both been grieving and unwilling to share that pain.
But now…for the first time, it felt as if enough time had passed that she wanted Padraig to know about them. To really know about them.
“My mom was the greatest storyteller ever. She had this huge, vivid imagination and a way of creating these make-believe worlds that felt real. For the first eight years of my life, I was convinced we shared this apartment with a town full of nocturnal fairies who lived under the furniture and only came out at night when we were asleep.”
Padraig chuckled. “Fairies, huh?”
“Yeah. Every now and then, I still say hello to Hungry Harry, the chubby fairy who lives in a condo behind the refrigerator. I don’t doubt for a minute that it’s him who steals all the cookies because they seem to vanish quicker than they should. I mean, I know it’s not me eating them.”
He reached out and ruffled her hair playfully. “I’ve seen you when Aunt Riley brings out a tray of her homemade chocolate chip cookies at parties. No one—fairy or otherwise—would get between you and that platter.”
Emmy didn’t bother to deny her sweets addiction. “Your Pop Pop reminds me of my mom. He has that same talent for weaving tales, for drawing pictures in your mind of times long past. I think that’s why I’ve always been so drawn to him. Because of his stories about Sunday and your aunts and uncles when they were younger, as well as the ones about you, your cousins, your brother. Colm sounds like he was a bit of a handful.”
“Still is,” Padraig agreed. “Pop Pop is a great storyteller. So you got your romance writing skills from your mom.”
Emmy shook her head. “Nope. Got the storytelling from my mom. The romance part was all my dad. He was, quite simply, the most romantic man I’ve ever known.”
Padraig considered that for a moment. “Is that right? How so?”
“He was super sweet and really thoughtful. He worked long hours. Like ten- to twelve-hour shifts, six, sometimes seven days a week. But every single day, he’d come home with some small gift for me and my mom. Flowers, candy, sticks we could use to make Harry Potter wands, or even rocks.”
“Rocks?”
Emmy stood up and crossed to the pile of rocks in a small dish on her bookshelf. “You never wondered what these were?”
Padraig nodded. “Actually I did, but I thought maybe they were just some kind of girly decoration I didn’t understand.”
Emmy laughed. “No. They were gifts from my dad. He would come home with a rock that caught his eye, either because of its color or shape. He’d give it to us, and then my mom would tell us the story of the rock.” She picked one up. “This one has magical properties. And this one,” she said, lifting up a second, “traveled all over the world in the pocket of a great adventurer. You couldn’t believe all the things it’s seen.”