Page 15 of Broken Blood Ties

I sigh. “Fine. Sounds good. I’ll meet you in the lobby after we wrap up the day. You’re going to feed me, right?”

“O’Brien’s has some of the best food in Beacon Hill. Of course I’d never depriveyouof food.”

Shelly ducks out, and I stand from my desk to walk over and observe each of the student’s shapes they were asked to put together. I pause at Aoife, looking down at this little girl, who, come to think of it, looks nothing like her father. Different eyes, different hair. Her face is rounder and soft. Add to that her charming and inclusive personality—the exact opposite of Mr. O’Donnell.

She turns to glance up at me, lifting her Play-Doh square. “Is this right, Miss Summer?”

“Yes. Looks great!” I smile.

Her blue eyes sparkle, and it makes my meeting with her father and the principal worth it. She’s excited about our field trip next week. While I never want to judge the parents of my students—I know fathers like Mr. O’Donnell, and I’m glad I said something.

She jumped up and down, then tossed herself in my arms when I mentioned her dad had brought the permission slip in. Her tiny frame clinging so tight to me melted my heart.

I step back from their tables, glancing at the clock to signal the start of our learning station rotation: art, dramatic play, and technology. I spent two weeks building a lemonade stand out of kitchen appliance cardboard boxes I fished out of the trash. It’s painted in yellows and pinks, plus a teal-blue plastic picnic table. It’s part of the dramatic play station and I’m pretty sure it’s the one all the kids look forward to. iPads aren’t even a contender anymore.

The rest of the afternoon hurries by, and though my feet are killing me, I pull on my coat and boots to meet Shelly in the lobby.

“Nice boots,” she deadpans when she sees me coming.

I shake my head. Shelly isn’t wearing boots, despite a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Nope. Instead, she’s swapped into taller heels than before and traded her dress pants for a short black dress that hugs her curves.

“You look nice.”

She grins. Then wrinkles her nose at my puffy coat and faux fur boots. “Gotta look the part if you want to get the guy.”

I stiffen. “What guy?”

“Relax. I only meantaguy,” Shelly says while stepping backward toward the exit. “Come on. We’ll take my car.”

Smirking, I follow her and chuckle at the way she says car. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the full-on Boston accent. Shelly grew up here, in the heart of downtown. She’s been my personal tour guide to this city.

Shelly’s white Subaru is one of the few vehicles left in the Academy’s parking lot. She leaps between slushy puddles, trying to avoid drenching her heels. I, however, plow right through them. There may have once been a time when I wore only stilettos and steered clear of messing up name-brand outfits, but now …

“H-E-L-L. I’m ready for some warmer weather,” she says, unlocking the car.

I nod while opening the door and sliding inside. Shelly starts the car, then fiddles with the knobs to crank up the heat; even my butt starts to warm. It makes me want to sit back and take a nap.

The drive to Beacon Hill isn’t too far and during every other season, other than winter, it’s a joy to walk. It’s not long before we’re on the narrow hilly streets that make up most of the community.

I’d love to live here. Something about the old carriage houses turned into car ports. Or the treelined roads creating a scene like a town from a storybook. Unfortunately, you have to have money to live here, andIdo not.

We pull off to a side street and pay for the metered parking. Shelly hooks her arm through mine, and we walk down the sloppy sidewalk. A bunch of chatter rings out from a few other establishments along the way, but the loudest is the slurring of voices and Irish music pouring out of none other than O’Brien’s.

Shelly stops abruptly, inhaling the air. Nothing like sucking in sweet sweat and stale beer. I roll my eyes and she elbows me.

“Someday you might appreciate this smell.” She giggles and drags me inside.

Everything gets louder and louder with each step into the bar. But despite the noise, the bar is surprisingly warm and inviting.

It’s all wood tones and low lighting. Vintage signs, old photographs, and Irish memorabilia hang all over the walls. Reminds me of my past oddly enough. But where that’s muddled with fear and detestable events, this feels tight-knit—family focused and almost enjoyable.

“Booth or bar?” Shelly asks. “Personally, I prefer the bar. Lizzy always keeps the drinks coming.”

I motion forward. “Lead the way.”

We weave through the full tables, and I shoulder off my coat when we finally reach two barstools. Shelly hops onto the seat closer to the door while I slide onto one beside her. Both her hands rub her thighs over her dress, and I fiddle with my hair, causally scanning the clusters of people inside the bar.

Five young men sit on the far end underneath an Irish flag hanging on the wall. They’re rowdy, clinking glasses full of beer, and laughing while ogling some women seated next to them.

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