“Next week. He’s a year ahead of Brennan,” she tosses out another name, “his cousin, who’s a year ahead of me.”
Next week.I take it the guy attends school in the greater Los Angeles area, placing his commencement in early June, perhaps. It dawns on me that my days have run together. Before Kieran, before Ireland, before all my inhibitions were tested, every day was an eternity in hell. In thought, I rub the yellowish chalk from my fingertips.
Kiera argues, “That’s it! I get ushered to the furthest ends of the earth. Did you know—”
“No,” he groans.
“Brennan is to live with Aunt Nan and—”
She spouts off two Brodys—one big, one little—and a whole list of masculine names. I connect the dots that they’re family. I wiggle in a murmur, “But Brennan’s a MacKenzie?”
“Aye, the son of Big Brody’s brother,” Kieran says.
At the same time, his little sister asks why I’m no longer on her side. I guess implying that Brennan’s a MacKenzie signifies he has a right to live with this Nan person, and she doesn’t.
I groan, “I didn’t mean—”
“Everyone has a clan. Not me,” Kiera peels out of her vest, shoving it into her brother’s chest.
Grinding his teeth, Kieran says, “Teenagers, Ava. Don’t mind her.”
“No,mind me! Mind me because if you don’t, I’ll go extinct. I’ll wither away! I’ll finally do something with my life!I’ll become fossil fuel.Oh, here’s anotherusefulidea. I’ll turn my brother’s lies into truth!”
“What thefeckdid I lie about?” Kieran growls, throwing the vest to the ground.
“I’m dead,” Kiera declares, nostrils flared. With overwhelmed, red-stained cheeks, Kiera stalks over to me. “I’m dead, Ava. Died a bairn, straight frommy mam’s belly!”
“Oh . . .” I blink, suddenly speechless at her insinuation. Kieran hasn’t retorted nor debated the latter. The stark truth resonates over his sharp features. He told everyone she died. She truly never existed.
To conclude her dramatic segment, Kiera stalks out of the stables. Kieran jumps into action a few seconds later. I spear my bottom lip with my teeth and take a few hasty steps to match his lengthened stride. Kieran’s a few yards from the opening of the barn when a silly pang of empathy ripples through my chest. It hurts to view afamiliatorn apart. I touch his arm and instantly drop my hand.
“Don’t go.” My head lowers too. Like anidiota,I focus on the sharp line of light coming from the exit.
“Thoughfeckingyou brings me immense pleasure, little bird, I’ve to handle—”
“No,” I interrupt, shoulders snapping into a confident position. “Who’s all aware of Kiera’s existence?”
The muscles in the side of his jaw ribbon. I force myself not to press my lips on that exact spot and encourage tranquility.
“At the very least, do the MacKenzies know?” I inquire.
“Aye,” Kieran growls. His hauntingly dark eyes blaze in annoyance. “Everyone who mattersmindsthe lassie, Ava. My clan. The MacKenzies. You. I may have told you the lassie is a topic I’ll not be discussing with you, albeit it’s not penetrating either of your heads. My wee sister’ssafetyis of the utmost importance!” His tone becomes mechanical, harsh as if suppressed memories have resurfaced. “All I have is her.”
“May I ask you one thing, Kieran?”
Again, his gaze flickers toward the exit, and I haven’t a shadow of a doubt the extent to Kieran’s love for his sister. He mutters, “Anything, little bird.”
“How do you think she feels, Kieran?”
A few excruciating seconds pass between us. I feel like shit for asking. I start to lower my eyes again, but Kieran’s calloused thumb tips my chin.
“That ain’t a valid question, little bird. You’ve gotta understand—everything I’ve put into keeping her safe. The day I was . . . I was . . .” The rant ceases. “Do you know what it feels like not keeping your kin safe, lassie?Being thisfeckingfar from them.” He pinches off an inch of the air. “Still feeling like you’re a million miles away. And something happens. . . someone dies. Someone you love isfeckinggone like that. But you know that if you had been there, they’d . . . they’d still be alive.”
A massive wave of emotion crashes down my cheeks in the form of brutal tears. I recall edging into the conversation with Bertha. While massaging my throat, I determine that now is as good a time as any to broach the subject. In a hardly audible tone, I ask, “Your dad was murdered?”
Restless, Kieran paces a few steps before nodding. “Aye.”
“I’m sorry.”