If she’d said yes, I wouldn’t just now be hearing about it.
Sean gives me a look that’s the closest he’s come to a smile since we left the O’Sullivan Manor.
Then, in the thickest Irish accent he can muster, he drawls, “Yer a fookin’ numbskull sometimes, Cil.”
We both snort with laughter.
“Sorry,” I say when the laughing dries up. “But, uh… did she give you a reason?”
Sean shrugs. “She didn’t want the life. She didn’t want to be a don’s wife one day.”
“Did she know that she’d get designer clothes and a fancy mansion?”
That earns me a glare. All well and good—except that I’m completely serious.
“She wasn’t the type of woman who cared about that shit,” he tells me. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to marry her. But at the end of the day, she just didn’t love me enough.”
It’s the most honest admission I’ve ever heard from my brother.
Or, for that matter, from any man in my world.
They’d have all considered it weak to admit something so vulnerable. And vulnerability is one of the seven deadly sins, as far our family is concerned.
But I recognize the courage in my brother’s words.
I can see his strength shining through.
And I can see how much it still tears him up that Orla left him.
“I’m sure that’s not the reason, Sean,” I tell him with utmost seriousness. “She probably did love you.” I pause, then add, “It was just that wee fuckin’ cock of yours that couldn’t get the job done.”
Sean frowns as my joke registers amidst the somberness of the subject matter.
Then he croaks with laughter, a low guttural sound that comes out in a burst and dies almost immediately.
“You little fucker!”
I laugh and duck out of reach of his approaching fist. “Hey, the truth hurts.”
“I’ll tell you what hurts…”
The words fade away before he finishes.
As does the glimmer Sean’s eyes. He’s focusing on something past me.
I turn slowly, following his line of sight. He seems to be staring at a tiny house nestled into a forgotten crook in the neck of the cul-de-sac. Roof crumbling one shingle at a time, window shutters clinging to one rusty screw for dear life.
It looks depressing as fuck.
“This is it then?” I ask.
“This is it,” Sean confirms. “Come on. There’s no reason this should be hard.”
I let Sean take the lead as he walks to the front door and rings the doorbell. We have to wait almost a minute before I hear heavy, dragging footsteps approaching the door.
“Jesus,” I mutter, “is he a drunk or a cripple?”
Sean shoots me a glare.