His eyes are sad even as he smiles at the familiar words. “Your mother used to tell me that all the time.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You do?” he asks. “You were a wee little thing when she passed.”
“I remember a lot about Ma all the same.”
“You look like her,” Pa murmurs. “The crazy red hair. The eyes.”
His gaze softens, moves past me and backwards in time.
“I remember,” I whisper—more to myself than to him. “It’s funny, her face is fuzzy to me. When I remember her, I think of the pictures we have of her rather than actual memories. I can’t remember how she moved, how she smiled or laughed. But I do remember her voice. I remember things she told me. I remember the bedtime stories she read to me. And after each story, before she kissed me goodnight, she’d say that to me: You’re stronger than you think and braver than you know.”
Pa smiles. But there’s no joy in it. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My heart cracks.
“When she died,” he says, “she took the best part of me with her.”
I ache from head to toe. Mostly because there are some days when I believe that’s true.
What if your strength comes from someone else?
The day Mama had died, I felt like I’d lost Pa right along with her. He became morose and withdrawn. He stopped trying. He gave in to all those weaknesses Mama had always curbed.
I meet my father’s cloudy eyes. “Pa, I don’t know why, but I feel this… Call it instinct; call it a sixth sense. But I think the Kinahans are more dangerous than the O’Sullivans.”
He blinks again. Processing that. I can already tell it doesn’t sit right with him.
“What did the boy say to you when you were outside with him?” Pa asks.
He doesn’t sound suspicious. Just curious.
“He… Well, it wasn’t anything he said,” I admit. “It was in the eyes.”
Recognition sparks across his face. Another Mama expression. Everything a person is lives in their face. It’s in the eyes.
“Saoirse…”
My heart sinks, and I already know what he’s going to say.
“Trust Tristan,” he tells me, twisting our hands around so that now he’s the one holding onto me. “He’ll take care of you.”
I shake my head. “What does that mean, Da?”
“It means he’s got money and influence. He’s got the tools to protect you.”
“I can protect myself.”
“No, you can’t,” Da says without hesitation. “You’re eighteen, Saoirse. And after me, I don’t know what will become of you.”
I frown. “In case you’ve forgotten, Da, I’m the one taking care of you most of the time.”
It comes out harsher than I meant it to, but I refuse to take it back all the same.
“My girl,” he mutters, “I have debts…”
I sigh. “I know that already.”
He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes. “These are the kinds of debts that won’t be forgiven if… if I die.”