And I’ve never signed up for that.
Kian doesn’t leave me a lot of room to walk in slowly, to take it all in like I want to. He marches me into the building, up the stairs, and to the bar.
Looks a hell of a lot worse than I remember. My patronage must’ve really been keeping the place afloat back in the day.
It’s pretty fucking early, though, so the bar is quiet, mostly empty.
Just a couple of drunks in the back booth and one lone bartender manning the fort. The guy’s got a full ginger beard and ranging eyes that stare a little too hard and linger a little too long.
“You two starting early today?” he asks in a strong brogue.
I’m acutely aware that my accent has faded hard with time. I’ve never been embarrassed of that until right now.
“Two pints,” I say instead of answering the question.
“And make it fast,” Kian adds.
“Jesus. When did you get to be so fucking uptight?” I demand.
Kian doesn’t betray a thing he’s thinking. “Around the time my two older brothers took off without a backward glance and left me to deal with the shit that was meant to be their responsibility.”
Well, shit. Fair is fair.
From a certain angle, there’s a lightness in him that reminds me of myself.
But that last statement betrayed a brooding storm that’s pure Sean.
Maybe I’ve been naïve to assume that Kian just understood things implicitly. He was only ten when I left. When Sean left, too.
Neither one of us gave him the goodbye he deserved.
Neither one of us gave him a goddamn thing, actually.
And I highly doubt that Da held his hand through what must have been a harsh transition.
As for Ma, there’s no telling what she might’ve done. She could be compassionate. She could be patient. Even kind.
But her softness was short-lived, and her moments of tenderness were fleeting. Which meant she rarely tolerated it in others.
In that way, my parents are perfect for each other. Probably why their marriage has lasted as long as it has.
“There were many backward glances, Kian,” I tell him gently. “Many.”
“If you’re gonna tell me you had no choice, then save it,” he says, taking a sip of his beer with forced detachment. “I don’t need to hear it.”
“I didn’t want to leave Ireland.”
“Yeah, yeah. Spare me.”
“I thought you understood.”
“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t mad,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.”
“At which part?” I ask. “Losing your brothers? Or becoming the heir?”
“Both. All of it,” Kian acknowledges.
“You’re better suited to it than Sean or I ever were.”