Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She makes me laugh. Really laugh. The kind that slips past my ribs before I can cage it. I forget for a moment that the fucking Irish are on the move, that we’re about to lock down in a safe house so nobody gets hurt. That I’m supposed to be dead inside.
And somehow, here I am—I’m drinking cheap beer and laughing with my sister-in-law, hiding out like fugitives in a place no one knows exists.
Feels a little rebellious. But Rafail told me to take my time.
“I love shitty bars,” I mutter, leaning back as she finishes telling me a story.
She smiles. “Me too. No pretense. Drown your sorrows at a discount.”
I tilt my head. “So people hit on you at the bar?”
She snorts. “Not really. I’m not pretty enough for that.”
I stare at her. Blink. She means it. She actually believes that.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say, leaning forward. “Is this some kind of self-deprecating bullshit?”
“What? No.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. “Ruthie, Jesus. You’re beautiful.” She is.
She gets shy, eyes darting away. Then she clears her throat and straightens up. “We should go.”
Of course. We should. But all I can think about is how wrong she is about herself—and how dangerously right she feels beside me.
"Yeah," I tell her. "We should."
But we don’t.
Instead, we order another round.
“I know your dad was an asshole," she says. "But I was too young… or maybe too self-focused to understand.” She sips her drink. There’s a little froth on her lip, and it’s adorable. “Tell me about your dad?”
So we’re going there.
"My dad was a biker," I say. “I don't mean the weekend bikers with leather vests and toy drives. I mean the kind who ran meth across state lines. People thought he was all chill because he never raised his voice, but the real reason was because his fists did the talking.” I shake my head. “And I was his fucking punching bag. He said I had to be ‘toughened up.’ That the world doesn’t spare weak boys. By the time I was ten, I could stitch my own eyebrow and lie to the ER nurse without flinching. By fourteen, I stopped crying when he broke something in me—because I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.”
I said too much. I’ve barely scratched the surface. I look away.
“He died when I was nineteen. Bike wreck. Drunk and fast and finally out of luck.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t go to the funeral. I just stood in the kitchen, blood still drying on my cheek from the night before and thought: You finally did one good thing. You left.
“I’m sorry he wasn’t good to you.”
I shrug and bury myself in my drink. I’ve almost made my peace with it. “I used to tell myself he had a hard life, that he didn’t know how to deal with his anger. But now that I have a kid of my own, it’s harder for me to reconcile the way he treated me. Kids are innocent. They trust easily and love so hard.” I shake my head. “They deserve to be treated with love and respect.”
I pause.
The memory surfaces unbidden, like something half-drowned. The beer’s made me talk more than normal.
“I remember when I was seven. I dropped a glass of milk—barely touched it, and it slipped right out of my hands. He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed the broken pieces and threw them in the trash. Then he made me kneel on the kitchen floor until my legs fell asleep. One of them was cut on the broken glass. Said I needed to learn consequences.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ruthie glares.
My voice goes quiet. “I remember how cold the tile was. I remember the sound of the clock ticking while I tried not to cry. That sound stuck with me longer than the pain. I mean, I got the damn milk because I was thirsty.”
There’s a silence between us now—thick but not empty.
She reaches her small hand out to mine and rubs her thumb gently across the top of it. Her nails are short, unpainted, and shaped in soft ovals.
"I’m sorry," she says, and I know she means it.
Mariah was the one who helped me when I struggled with my own anger. When I was frustrated that Luka wouldn’t sleep, when he had his first tantrums—throwing things, shouting "No!" She would lay her hand on my arm and say, "Walk away. I’ve got this."
She stayed calm. Always calm. She learned that early—she had to. She was the one who took care of her mom and her sister. I learned patience from her.
“Mariah was so patient,” I say, my voice shaking. “I hated that my first impulse was toward anger. I had to walk away. But Mariah explained that when you're raised like that, it’s harder to break the cycle. It becomes second nature. You have to willfully break the chain. Learn. Do better.” I shrug. “And she was right.”