Page 129 of The Pucking Date
She steps back without uncrossing her arms. “You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that. Come in. Mam’s been waiting.”
“Waiting?” I ask, heart suddenly pounding.
Aoife shrugs. “Finn told her about you a few weeks ago. Said there was someone he couldn’t stop thinking about. Didn’t give details, just that it was complicated.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Mom figured grief over Dad wasn’t the only thing pulling him apart. Turns out she was right.”
The words land low. Heavy. True.
The foyer opens around me, grand without being cold. Polished floors, high ceilings, a chandelier that probably predates the internet. But there’s life here, too. A worn pair of sneakers by the door. A plastic dinosaur wedged into the banister. A house that’s grieving, but still breathing.
Two toddlers are flopped on the living room rug, transfixed byBluey. Goldfish crackers are everywhere.
“Boys,” Aoife calls, “say hi to Miss Jessica.”
One waves without looking away from the TV. The other doesn’t blink.
“Charming,” I mutter.
She smirks. “Give it five minutes. They’ll be asking you to marry Bluey and solve a fight over invisible juice.”
From the kitchen comes the sound of chopping, theclatter of metal, and a low, off-key baritone trying to harmonize with Dolly Parton.
Aoife tilts her head. “That would be Nate. Goalies apparently cook when emotionally stressed.”
I follow her into a kitchen that could feed a football team and still have room for dessert. Nate Russo, all six-foot-four of him, is behind the island in joggers and a Defenders tee, wielding a knife like he’s doing surgery on a pile of celery.
“Little more onion, sweetheart,” comes a voice from behind him. “And stop singin’. You’re scarin’ the roux.”
“My mama taught me this recipe,” Nate replies. “I’m following sacred tradition.”
“Well, your mama’s not here. I am.”
Vivian O’Reilly turns toward me, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She’s got Finn’s eyes—clear, cutting—and the kind of smile that says she already knows how this ends.
“And you must be the woman who’s had my son tied in knots.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say, voice thinner than I’d like.
She looks me over once, not unkindly. “Well. You’re prettier than I expected.”
That throws me.
“And if I can see it,” she adds, folding the towel, “no wonder he hasn’t been right for weeks.”
“Jess!” Nate grins when he spots me. “About damn time. Though I gotta say, bold move showing up with luggage.”
I glance at my bag. “Too optimistic?”
He shrugs. “If everything goes to hell, I’ll bring it back to New York for you. But trust me, your bag won’t be the thing that hurts.”
I try to laugh. It comes out half choked.
Vivian gestures to the island. “You hungry? Nate’s makin’ his mama’s jambalaya. Which means it’s edible and slightly dramatic.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Sit,” she orders, already reaching for a bowl. “Eat. Then you can go track down my son and see if you’ve still got a place in his life.”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.
