Page 33 of Snowed In
“Not since the wedding,” Mam says, her voice dropping to a whisper.
She might as well have saidthe murder. “Mam.” I sigh, my good mood deflating. “I like her.”
“Then I’m sure I will too,” she says, which is probably the best that I’m going to get out of her.
“I’ll call more often,” I promise. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Text your Aunt Alma.”
We share our goodbyes before hanging up, and I feel oddly disappointed by the conversation. Then again, I don’t know what I expected. More fawning, maybe? Some more excitement? Maybe I should bite the bullet and ask Megan exactly what went down after the wedding, just so I know what I’m working with.
Or if I need to find someone else.
My gut immediately rejects the thought, but before I can get too worried, my screen lights up with another call, and I’m puzzled to see Andrew’s name flash. It’s early morning in Chicago, which means he would have just woken up.
“Brother.”
“Christian. Mam said you’re bringing a girl home.”
Oh, for the love of— “I literally just told her. How does she move that fast?”
“What can I say? The woman’s starved of gossip.”
“Has she told everyone?”
“Well, I’m her favorite, so she probably told me first,” he muses. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
I tilt my head back, staring up at the ceiling.
I had fully planned to tell him myself. But our mother’s reaction has thrown me off slightly. Not to mention that I’m a little jealous of my brother. I’ve always thought of him as a bit of an idiot, but I love him. And while he may be an idiot, somehow, in the last few years, he’s done a lot better than me in every way possible.
A bunch of badly paid freelance gigs turned into a full-time career as a photographer.
Couch surfing in Chicago turned into a two-bedroom apartment.
And a string of random girlfriends led to him falling in love with his best friend, his soulmate in every sense of the word.
I know he worked hard. I know it didn’t all fall into place, but damn, if he didn’t make it look easy sometimes.
“Christian,” he presses now. “What’s her name, where does she live, and what do her parents do for a living? Or I’m calling Mam back to ask.”
I bite the bullet. “Megan O’Sullivan.”
There’s a short pause on the other end of the line. And then: “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because she went to school with me and left Isaac Quinn at the altar.”
Andrew lets out a low whistle. In the background, I hear a dog barking and Molly shouting for it to stop. It does not.
“The runaway bride, huh?”
“She’s not a runaway bride.”
“She literally is, but I mean no offense.” He sounds thoughtful. “I thought she moved to France.”
“She didn’t. She’s in Dublin.”
“Well, obviously. What’s she up to now?”
