Page 18 of One Night Only
“Only when they can prove I’m the father.”
“Do you even have a pension?” he asks, his expression souring.
“I don’t need a pension,” Declan says. “Sure, climate change will kill us all in a few years anyway.”
Trevor’s face turns a deep shade of red. “You’re not spouting that conspiracy rubbish again, are you?”
My mouth drops open in surprise as Declan hands me my wineglass with a pleasant smile.
“Drink up,” he whispers before turning back to Trevor. “Have you met Sarah yet? Annie’s maid of honor.”
5
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were at the reject table.
There’s Uncle Trevor, who lectures both Declan and me about the dangers of liberal New York; Great Aunt Eileen, who doesn’t acknowledge me for the rest of the evening; two teenage boys, who don’t look up from their phones; and their parents, who must have argued on the drive over, as they spend the entire first course swapping pointed comments with each other that make no sense to the rest of us.
It’s not how I imagined my first night to go.
By the end of the main course, I’m exhausted trying to keep the peace and am relieved at the natural break that occurs before the dessert is brought out. At some unspoken cue, the guests begin to move, stretching their legs as they visit other tables to talk to family and friends. Thankfully our table is no different and soon there’s no one left but Declan and me.
It’s the perfect time to escape, except for the fact I have nowhere to escape to. Without Annie or Paul beside me to make the introductions, the promised Irish welcome isn’t exactly enveloping me. No one approaches us. Or rather, no one approaches Declan. Besides the odd clap on the shoulder or polite hello when they move past, no one stays to chat.
Declan doesn’t appear to notice how ostracized we are. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
I watch him from the corner of my eye as he methodically pulls apart a flower arrangement in the center of the table. I’d heard Paul mention his brother once or twice over the years, but always in passing. I got the impression they weren’t close. I certainly can’t see any resemblance. Both handsome, sure, but in completely different ways. Paul, with his sandy hair and golden skin, looks more like he belongs on a California beach than the Irish countryside. Declan meanwhile looks like he just got off the plane. His slacks are creased but his shirt looks freshly ironed if not slightly too big for him, as if he borrowed it from someone else. His dark hair is just as unruly as it was back in New York and his eyes are a little bloodshot. But whether that’s from the flight or the alcohol I can’t tell. What I can tell is that he looks exhausted. And more than a little unhappy about having to sit next to me all night.
“It’s impolite to stare.”
I start, embarrassment making my tone sharper. “You can leave if you want to,” I say. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I have no idea what you’re doing. All I know is I was looking forward to eating dinner with my best friend and instead I’m stuck here listening to Uncle Trevor trying to convince me the KGB is listening to me through my phone.”
“Not a big fan of the Murphy family then?”
“Not when I’m stuck with the black sheep.” I say it without thinking, immediately regretting it when he stiffens.
“The black sheep?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You met Aunt Eileen, didn’t you?”
“You’re obviously uncomfortable being here,” I say, flustered. “And I’m not that much of a narcissist to think it’s just because of me. You’re surrounded by family and yet…” I gesture around us, at the invisible force that cuts off our table from the rest of the party.
“So I’m the black sheep.” His gaze turns mocking when I don’t answer. “It’s like you can see right through me.”
“Maybe because you’re not that deep.” I turn back to the table, folding my arms over my chest. “You can leave,” I repeat. “If you’re uncomfortable being here. You don’t need to stay on my account.”
He mutters something under his breath, focused back on the flowers.
“Did you say something?”
He sighs, crumpling a leaf into little pieces. “I said you’re a middle child.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
