Chapter Three
Liam
Jesus. I watch my Angel run out of the store like her pants are on fire, and it takes everything in me not to go after her. I didn’t, simply because she seems a bit skittish, and I need to know more about her first. “Daid, who was that?” I ask, my eyes still on the door like she is going to magically reappear.
“Never you mind about her. That sweet girl is a family girl. Your galivanting around the world is the last thing she needs to get involved in. She needs a husband that wants to stay put.” He practically slaps me upside the head with that and walks out, the last word excellently doled out. I know he is right. I have no business even contemplating starting anything with anyone, and I am trying to fly out of here the first chance I get. Still, hell, the moment I looked at her, it felt like I had blacked out and woke up in an alternate universe where things I never thought about were crossing my mind.
Knowing I am going to get nothing more from him, I grab my keys and walk out the backdoor. The ten-minute drive to my parent's Brownstone is long enough for me to know that there is no way I am going to be able to pretend I didn’t just find something rare. I have to find out who she is. I think I remember him saying her first name anyway. “Oh, there you are. Are you hungry, sweetheart?” My mom walks into the living room and hugs me.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” She laughs before going into the kitchen. I follow behind and watch her in her element fussing over me, making me lunch. “Have you heard from your sister?” She asks as she busies herself.
“Not in a while. I texted her earlier to find out why she isn't here. Why is everything ok?”
“I don’t know, Liam. Something about her job seems sketchy, and her boss, the few times he answered the phone, he seemed…off. I am worried about her.” well, shit. I didn’t know all of this was going on.
“I will call Cillian and have him find out more information on her boss. In the meantime, I will message her and call her, okay?”
“Thank you, son. Now, are you going to tell me what is on your mind?” she says, spreading mustard on my sandwich. I have never figured out how she always knew when something was bothering each of us, but even now, she knows.
“I was just wondering if you knew anything about a girl named Orla? She came into the bakery to pick up an Irish Apple Cake for her grandmother. I tried to ask Daid, but he shot me down, on account of me being a busy guy and all.” I try to hide the hurt in my voice, but when her sympathetic eyes meet mine, I know I wasn’t successful. I feel like I have spent my whole life trying to make my father proud of me, and even though I tell myself I am over it, stuff like this brings it back.
“Sweetie, you know your father loves you, right?” She touches my hand, and I place my other one on top of hers.
“Yeah, I know.” Although, to be fair, I really don’t, but I would never break her heart and tell her that.
“Good. I think he just always thought at least some of our children would want to carry on the business, and it hurts him a bit to think that all you three really wanted to do was get away from us.” Is that what they think?
“Mom, no. That is not it at all. Please tell me you don't think that?” I would be gutted if my mom thought I was running from them.
“In my heart, I know that, Liam, but I have to be honest and sometimes say with as much as you three get home, it does make it hard not think that sometimes.” And now I feel like an asshole.
“Listen, I remember all those nights you and dad used to sit with us, telling us stories of adventures from other countries and islands, reading books, and studying maps. Your love of history and other cultures really sunk into me, and it made me want to experience those for myself. I didn’t run from you; I ran to the picture you painted in my head.” I see her mouth drop open and then close. She breaks a tear and wipes it away.
“Oh, my word. I never looked at it like that. Wow. I…thank you, Liam, for explaining that. I am proud of the man you are, my son, and yes, I know her. Her name is Orla Byrne. She comes to the bakery a couple of times a week to pick up stuff for her grandma, also named Orla.”