Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

ore, I certainly had now, knowing Michael had a wife.

When my big brother and sister left, it was around ten o’clock. I didn’t know about them, but I was emotionally exhausted. They hugged me goodbye after we swapped numbers, and Davina said she’d have me over to her and Astrid’s place on Thursday for dinner when Dad was working so I wasn’t alone in the house. Darragh already had me and Dad penciled in for dinner on Wednesday night.

The door closed behind them and silence fell between Dad and me.

I recognized his expression. “I know. You were right.”

“But I didn’t know what had set you running off and now it makes sense you’d come home when she wasn’t here.” My poor Dad seemed drained.

I didn’t want to tell him he was right and make him feel worse. “Dad, I’d been toying with coming home for months. After I saw Michael, I realized I was stronger than I thought.”

“So, you would have come home if your Mom was still here … after everything?”

“I would have come home for you. For them.” I nodded at the door my siblings had walked out of. “Don’t hate her, Dad.”

He shook his head. “You should have told me.”

“Dad—”

“I don’t hate her. But I’m furious with her. I don’t understand her.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m tired, Bluebell. I’m going to catch up on the game before bed. You want to watch it with me?”

I strode across the room and got on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to bed. Night, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

My heart twisted in my chest at the moroseness in his tone, and I gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m good. I promise.”

He didn’t seem to believe me, but something like determination hardened his expression. “I know you will be.”

Squeezing his arm, I turned and made my way to the guest room. The sound of a football game filtered upstairs and a wave of nostalgia hit me. We’d been a sports family. I wasn’t into it, but I’d loved how we all came together as a family during football season and the Super Bowl. I loved how Dad got us tickets to at least one game every year at Fenway to see the Red Sox play. There was nothing like the atmosphere at Fenway. The sound of laughter, the smell of beer, hotdogs, and popcorn. The music and sound of the announcer filling the stadium. The sounds of men and women with thick Bostonian accents running up and down the stands cradling goods shouting, “Beer! Get your beer!” “Hot dogs! Get your hotdogs!”

That pain in my heart twisted even tighter at the memories of all of us together.

My muscle memories automatically led me to the bedroom I’d shared with my sisters growing up. I’d already opened the door and was about to step inside when I remembered I wasn’t sleeping in there.

My breath caught. Mom hadn’t changed the room. Tears filled my eyes as a sick sensation took up residence in my gut. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d kept Dillon’s side of the room the same and emptied mine, but my side hadn’t been touched either.

I could still see the photos pinned to the wall by my bed.

Unable to look at Dillon’s space, I tentatively walked in, my heart thudding hard in my chest as I gravitated toward the photos. My walls were covered in them and pieces of paper with my old sketches and paintings. The dresser at the side of my bed was still littered with old perfume bottles and makeup. I sat slowly down on the bed, a lump forming in my throat, as I gazed at the photos.

Some were of my family and me. Davina and I at the kitchen table with Darragh standing at our backs with his arms around us. Dad and I outside Fenway. Dermot and I in his car after I’d gotten my driver’s license. My heart squeezed at the sight of my head tucked against my big brother’s chest and the bright, beaming smile he was giving the camera.

Then everything within me locked tight when I saw the picture of Mom and me. The photo was taken when I was sixteen, dressed for a formal dance. It looked like she was hugging me to death in the picture and we were both laughing into the camera.

Unable to bear it, I dragged my attention to the next lot of photos. Memories assaulted me. They were all of me, Gary, Michael, Dillon, Dermot, and our friends.

My eyes stopped on the lone photo I had of me and Michael. We were sitting in Angie’s Diner off Main Street, and he had his arm sprawled along the back of the booth where I was sitting. Always drawn to him, without even realizing it, my body was curled in toward him. Someone had taken the photo—I think it was Dermot—when we weren’t looking, and we were talking to each other. When I saw that photo, I’d kept it.

Because of the way Michael was looking at me. The way I was looking at him.

God, I closed my eyes. Had we really been that obvious?

When I forced my eyes back open, they shot to Dillon’s side of the room. She had posters of the bands she’d loved on the walls, piles of romance books on her dresser, and makeup everywhere.

Suddenly I could see her, clear as day, as the memories flooded me …

Following my little sister into our room, I didn’t feel the happy exhaustion she seemed to feel after the party we were returning from.