“Yeah, around that,” Ian agreed.
“So you’ve been busy, then?”
“I was deployed,” Ian said, which wasn’t the whole truth but was nicer than the truth. “Just got back today, actually.”
“Oh?” Colin said, and I heard the dare in his voice, like he was baiting Ian. “And you came right over, did you?”
“Stopped to get you this first,” Ian answered in his modulated, matter-of-fact law enforcement voice as he passed his father the bottle.
“Oh, well now,” one of the other men said, slapping Colin across the back. “That’s a nice gift there, Col.” All the men agreed the very expensive bottle was one of the best of the day.
Colin introduced Ian and then me to his friends and made sure to thank me for showing up as well. Just when Ian was about to make an excuse for our exit, Linda Doyle, Ian’s stepmother, popped out of the house to call everyone inside for cake.
Ian wanted to leave, I could tell, but his father made sure to throw an arm around his neck and lead him inside.
There was a screen set up in the living room, and Colin’s son Lorcan and his daughter, Erica, stood at each side of the screen, inviting people to sit down. Linda—a beautiful woman with gorgeous thick gray hair caught up in a chignon that appeared effortless but that I knew, from living with four women, was not—had everyone take a seat and quiet down.
Colin’s family was all dressed casually but elegantly: his wife in a black wrap dress, his daughter in a denim shirt tied at the waist with black lace skirt and platform pumps, and his son in dress pants and a long-sleeved button-down. Ian in his dark denim jeans, gray Henley and John Varvatos lace-up biker boots—they were mine—didn’t measure up.
I had tried to stay beside him, but there wasn’t room for me on the couch at the front where Colin led him with that arm around his shoulders. Ian was still wearing my black Dsquared2 leather jacket. The fact he was the only one wearing outerwear, besides me, while inside was strange. It was like they’d hustled him in and not even allowed him to get comfortable. I was torn between wanting to walk up there and rescue him and knowing that if he wanted to leave, he would. Ian was more than capable of simply getting up and walking out. I just had to wait and see what he was going to do.
“Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming to Dad’s sixtieth,” Lorcan announced to the room, his greeting drawing applause, cheering, and happy whistles. “Erica and I put together this little walk down memory lane of Colin Doyle’s life, and we hope you all enjoy it.”
There are times when you can absolutely and without a doubt see both sides of something. If I were Colin or Linda or any of their friends or extended family, I would have been touched and awed by the amount of work and time and energy that went into creating the movie. The sheer number of pictures that had been scanned, uploaded, and digitally manipulated was staggering. It also included some home movies, interviews, and letters; it was like watching a documentary on ESPN where they do those 30 for 30 films I was addicted to, except with a side of gushing love. The narration was crisp, funny, and kept everything moving with no lull. There was no way to not be overwhelmed by the production values. Linda was crying; Colin, the man of the hour, was holding her; and everyone else was riveted.
Ian sat frozen, and it was hard to tell if he was even breathing.
I knew why.
The entire presentation didn’t include one single picture of him or his mother, and in fact, there was no mention of Colin being married at all before the current Mrs. Doyle. During the show, Ian got to see family vacations he’d never been on, Christmases he hadn’t been invited to, and graduations he had not attended. It lasted an hour but felt like five. The second it was over and everyone called for a speech, Ian stood as Colin made his way up to Lorcan and Erica, and bolted toward me.
People were clapping and moving around us, gathering close to see and hear Colin. No one noticed me grab for Ian, yank him toward me, and duck into the hallway.
“Breathe,” I ordered.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice feigning nonchalance his eyes couldn’t quite muster. He was good and hurt.
“I know,” I replied, pretending to buy the fact that he was in no way affected by him and his mother being forgotten.
He inhaled deep, tugging on my jacket, fisting it in his hands, trying to get me closer.
“You can’t—this is your father’s house.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t do that. Don’t make any part of this about me not wanting you, because you know that’s bullshit,” I warned him.