Page 22 of The Secret We Keep
“Bad one?”
I shake my head, inhaling deeply.
Unexpected relief washes over Paddy’s face, hearing that he isn’t the one who upset me.
“He wants me to get a job working for one of his clients.”
Deep, dark-set eyes stare back at me. “You don’t want to?”
“No.” My voice is barely audible.
“Whatdoyou want to do then?”
We take a few more steps in silence; the only sounds are those of our shoes hitting the tarmac. “I don’t know, writing maybe.”
Paddy makes a noise somewhere between surprise and shock. “Still using that old typewriter of yours?”
I throw a confused, nervous look at him.
“Don’t be shy. I remember the songs you girls used to make up and the stories you’d type out on that old thing.”
My cheeks heat. “Actually, it broke. The part I need can’t be fixed. I’ve just used my notepad and pen.”
The day the carriage lock snapped felt like something also cracked inside me. My favourite possession was suddenly no more.
“Ah,” he chirps. “Much simpler.”
A soft laugh escapes me before fading into a sigh. “Dad said it isn’t normal to want to be a writer anyway.”
“Is he fucking stupid?” His fiery response catches me by surprise. “I don’t mean to cause offence, but what would he know?” He shakes his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Actually, he thinks it’s time I grow up and get a ‘normal’ job. Start doing all the normal things that normal people do at my age. Like you, I suppose, with your nice car. Good job. Living in London.”
Paddy’s shoulders slump. “It ain’t all roses, curly fries.” His voice wavers.
“No?”
He lowers his head. “No. More like one bad decision after the other.”
I look down at my feet, steeling my spine in the wake of his words. “Want to talk about it?”
He sighs heavily. “Really, really not.”
“Okay.” I respect his decision and keep walking, ignoring the pull of my heart. “So, Kevin,” I begin lightly. “Interesting name. As in Costner?”
A smooth chuckle rumbles from his chest. “As in dead uncle.”
My eyes snap up.
Paddy shrugs, hands in his pockets. “He was an idiot. Mum never liked him.”
Eyes widening, I ask, “Then why name the dog after him?”
“Because he always hated dogs. Made my grandad get rid of their family pet when Mum was younger, claiming to have allergies.”
I can’t help but smile. “And did he?”
“No. He just hated dogs, period.” We both laugh. “I think it was Mum’s way of holding up a giant middle finger to the bastard.”
