Cillian
Later That Evening—Cillian’s Room
“Well, damn, boy!” Kian chirps the moment he limps into my room. “You planning on proposing tonight?”
I scoff at his reflection behind me in the mirror. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Me, ridiculous?” he guffaws. “You’re the one wearing a fucking suit!”
I turn my back on the mirror to face him in person. “I could be wearing a goddamn trash bag and still look better than you.”
“Dude, don’t deflect. I’m merely observing.” Kian chuckles to himself.
“Fuck you,” I grumble, but I strip my jacket off immediately and fling it right at him.
It hits him square in the face. Then it’s my turn to laugh.
Rolling his eyes, Kian tosses it aside on the bed and plops down, wincing as he rubs gingerly at the edge of his cast.
“Does she know this is a formal affair?” Kian asks. “I assume you sent a save-the-date with dress code and all that.”
I ignore his taunting. “I just told her we were having dinner,” I admit. “Outside.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“I don’t know. It was an awkward invitation.”
Kian frowns. “Why?”
I sigh. “I found her in the library,” I say. “She found our old home videos.”
“Fuck me. Those still exist?”
“Apparently. I thought Ma got rid of them ages ago.”
“She probably did,” Kian says. But he has an oddly thoughtful expression. “Or tried to, at least. This has Quinn’s fingerprints all over it.”
“Quinn?”
“He’s a sneaky old sod,” Kian remarks. “Surprisingly sentimental.”
“Quinn?” I say again.
Kian laughs. “I know, I know. We always joked he was the robot butler. But he’s seen more family history than all of us put together. And to be honest, he knew her better than any of us. They were close.”
I don’t have to ask to know who he’s talking about.
The rule was established a long time ago. An unspoken rule at that.
Don’t say her name.
Denial was how Da dealt with any uncomfortable reality. And somewhere along the way, his way became our way.
Deny, deny, deny. Deny ‘til you die.
It can’t hurt you if you just pretend it never happened.