Page 61 of Unmoored

It wouldn’t be the first time. But I’m used to being the backup option.

No. That’s not what’s happening, and I know it. I’m just psyching myself out because it’s such a delicate moment—between the two of us, and between my present and past.

“He’s taking the work he needs to,” I insist, suddenly cutting off whatever conversation is happening as I raise my chin and stare defiantly at the rest of the guys.

Whoops. Maybe I didn’t time that as well as I could have.

Finally, Felix helps to break the awkward silence. “Yeah. He’s a dumbass, but we love him.Andwe love his nice, flat barge and all the deck chairs that fit onto it.”

“Hear, hear,” calls out Alph, raising his drink, and the other guys follow suit.

“I’m going to make more hors d’ouevres,” I murmur, smiling and slipping back into the interior.

God. I should just keep my mouth shut and count down the minutes until Murph gets here. He’ll make everything easier. He always does.

Hosting isn’t the problem. That part comes easily enough. And the brothers really are sweet, even if they’re all boisterous as hell. It’s fun enough being around them that I could almost forget the part that’s bothering me most. Almost… but not quite.

This feels too familiar.

I can’t help remembering how George would ask me to cook and then start up conversations I couldn’t join. Or, if we were going to other people’s places or a restaurant, he’d abandon me to fend for myself once he’d squeezed out all the praise he could get for “supporting the arts”, via his poor sympathetic artist boyfriend.

Finance bros don’t want to talk about the how or even the why of art, only the how much and who. And I didn’t realize until this moment how much it would bother me to be alone—literally alone—with all of Murph’s friends.

I crouch by the fridge to stare blankly at the hors d’oeuvres. I want to save the ones that Murph will like until later… but I don’t know which ones those are.

Fuck. Get it together,I tell myself, running my hand down my face.

“Hey.”

From the Irish accent I hear in even that syllable, it must be Kieran. I met the pink-haired bartender before, the day I hauled myself up onto the ferry wharf, soaking wet and bedraggled after my fight with the inflatable fake dinghy.

“Hi,” I mumble back, standing up again. My shoulders rise as I prepare to tell him that it’s fine, that I’m okay?—

Oh. He’s not checking on me. Kieran’s here to make another drink. He heads over to the countertop with all the spirits and mixers, plucking a chipped glass from the lineup and starting work. For a moment, there’s comfortable silence.

Then Kieran murmurs, “You all right?” Somehow, he manages to do it almost without me noticing. He has this way with words—like a bartender would, I guess, if they’re good with people.

I sigh. “Yeah. Fine. I’m just avoiding getting into that stupid lifejacket again. It’s easier when Murph’s here to do it for me.”

Kieran grins and winks. “I bet it is.”

And although I blush and laugh, it actually feels nice to remind myself that the past is in the past—and I’m here, now. Murph might not be yet, but he’s coming. I know he is.

“Drink?”

“No thanks,” I shake my head automatically.

“Suit yourself.” He leans on the counter, watching me with this knowing look. “You know, it’s great that you stand up for him. But you can be mad with us, not at us.”

“I’m not…” I trail off at the look Kieran’s giving me, his eyebrows raised. “Okay, fine,” I relent with a sigh. “Maybe a little mad.”

“Yeah. We love him enough to tease the shit out of him, but he can be a clueless lump.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “I can see that,” I admit, despite how protective I feel about him. “A lovable lump, though.”

“That’s our Murph,” Kieran cheerfully agrees. “Hey, look. You’re a real one for hosting us all when you hadn’t even met half of us. I’d have been scared shiteless. And you’re allowed to be pissed off that he isn’t here.”

My chest suddenly tightens as I look up quickly at him.

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