by Tracey Lange
“Well, I’d love to take a quick look,” she said.
“Right.” He tossed the towel on the counter. “Follow me.” He headed down the bar, toward a door in the corner of the room.
Sunday checked her phone once more as she slid off the stool. No response from Kale yet. He must not have seen her text.
She slipped the phone into her back pocket and followed Billy.
* * *
The short, narrow staircase on the other side of the door had little light and no railing. Billy reached behind him to offer a hand, which was welcome because the shots caught up to her in a wave of dizziness. Idiot. She’d had too much to drink, and on an empty stomach. She focused on his black boots, followed his steps so she didn’t trip.
They walked down a dingy hallway at the top of the stairs to the only door up there. He opened it to an efficiency apartment and “bachelor living” came to mind. An unmade bed with no headboard was pushed up against one corner, a tattered blanket was tacked up to cover the window, clothes were thrown all over.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting company.”
Sunday stayed by the door. “No worries.”
He opened a closet and reached up to a high shelf. “Here they are.” He pulled down a beat-up shoebox and sat on a more beat-up love seat. “Let’s see,” he said, flipping through old-looking photos. “There’s some family ones mixed in here as well…”
Sunday took a closer look around. Dishes were piled high in the sink, empty beer bottles littered the tiny countertop, and what looked to be a weed pipe sat on a bedside table. She’d grown up in a house full of boys, but his personal space smelled different from her brothers’ or Kale’s mix of laundry detergent and deodorant. Billy’s apartment was more cheap cologne layered over something darker. Maybe mildew, or mold.
“Is this your dad, no?” he asked, holding up a photo.
She stepped closer so she could see. He was pointing to one of several men standing together in cleats, shorts, and jerseys, shaggy early ’80s hair. “Nope. That’s not him.”
“Shoot.” He handed her a small stack. “Take a look through those and I’ll check the rest of the box.”
She sat beside him because there was nowhere else to sit, and flipped through the photos, none of which contained her father. While he searched the rest of the box she waited quietly, though she really just wanted to go home now. The pleasant fuzziness was wearing off and her head was swimming again.
That’s when she remembered she still hadn’t called Jackie. She pulled her cell out and sent him a text: Please pick me up at the penny whistle asap
Billy showed her another photo and she shook her head.
Her phone vibrated with Jackie’s reply: Seriously?
Yes
“Haven’t seen this one in a long time,” Billy said, holding up a photo and staring at it.
The phone buzzed again: Be there in 10.
Knowing her brother was on the way instantly made her feel better.
Billy was still focused on the picture in his hand. “This is my dad,” he said.
She leaned in to see if she recognized the man who had apparently played football with her father when they were young, and later worked for him. But the photo was decades old. “You look a lot like him,” she said.
“Yeah, he was about my age here.” He shook his head. “That was long before everything went to shit.” He turned to her with a hangdog expression. “Sorry. It’s just he had a hard time later in life, you see. Drank himself to death.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” He held her gaze while he lowered the photo to his lap. “I just don’t understand it,” he said, his voice low and soft.
She couldn’t understand it either, a father doing such a thing.
“I can’t understand how your boyfriend left you home alone.”
It took a moment to process that they were no longer talking about his father. “Oh, well. His family was expecting him.” She shrugged. “He didn’t really have any choice.”
“Of course he did, Sunday.” His eyes went back and forth between hers. “He could have demanded you go with him. And if that didn’t work he could have stayed here with you. That’s sure as hell what I would have done.”
For a second she considered telling him Kale had tried those things, that they’d argued about it. But she didn’t. Because in the end Kale had backed down and gone without her. “He just doesn’t like to create conflict,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Billy said. “But some things are worth it.”
It’s not that she didn’t see his face moving toward hers, his gaze dropping down to her mouth. It was just her brain was trying to catch up to the sudden turn this conversation had taken and find an appropriate response. But when his unfamiliar lips brushed hers she jolted to attention.
She pulled her face back. “Whoa.”
“I mean it,” he said. “What kind of fella would do that to you?” He leaned in again, his arm sliding around her waist.
She put a hand against his chest. “Stop.”
His head tilted. “Come on now, Sunday. It’s just us here.” His hand skated up to her shoulder, pulling her toward him.
“That’s enough.” She moved to the edge of the love seat, scraping her fingers through her hair.
Behind her he sighed. “Christ. What did you come up here for then?”
“For the pictures.”
He laughed. “That’s it? Really?”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, at his snide smile and raised eyebrows. “Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if you misread the situation…”
“Exactly what did I misread?” He scooted forward next to her. “The way you flirted downstairs, and stayed behind after your cousin and everyone else left? Or was it the hand-holding on the stairs I misread?”
What the hell—they’d only been talking. She opened her mouth to say just that, but in a split second of clarity she saw herself. Drinking with him. Taking his hand. Alone with him in his room. Sitting this close. Everything he said was true.
But she’d only come up here because he mentioned the photos.
“You never thought you had a picture of my father up here, did you?” she asked.
He lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
She bolted out of her seat and her phone dropped from her lap to the floor.
They both reached for it but he got there first. He pulled it away from her and a cold grin spread across his face.
For the first time that evening alarm crept in. How long ago had she texted Jackie? No way he was here yet.
“Give me my phone,” she said, hoping he’d assume the shake in her voice was anger and not fear.
He stood, holding the phone close to his chest. “You too good for a Walsh, is that it?”
She put out her hand. “Give it to me.”
“I will,” he said. “But not until I tell you something about your family.”
“You don’t know anything about my family.”
“I know the whole lot of you think you’re better than the rest of us. I know Denny walked around like he owned that fuckin’ school.”
She took a couple steps backward, toward the door, away from his bitter words. It was like he’d become a different person.
He followed her. “And I know Mickey Brennan’s a selfish bastard who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He fired my father after a decade of hard work because it suited him. And that’s not all.” He paused and his mouth twisted into a smug sneer, like he couldn’t wait to say whatever was next.
“Fuck you,” Sunday said. “Keep the phone.” She turned and her stomach lurched because the room kept spinning even when she’d stopped. After touching a hand to the doorframe for momentary support she headed out into the hall.
He hurried after her and pulled her around by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “We’re not done
here.”
She tugged her arm up and down, tried to wrench it from his grip.
But he held tight. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To cry to your daddy and brothers?”
She thrust her face toward his. “You better hope I don’t.”
Then she saw it. A spark of panic in his eyes while he considered his next move. When he spoke his tone was venomous. “Get out of my sight, you stuck-up bitch!”
He pushed her arm away at the same time she pulled it. The force of it all twirled her round and she found herself staring down the dark, tight staircase directly in front of her.
She lifted a leg forward to stop her momentum, but something caught and held her foot. Then she was groping—for him, a railing that wasn’t there, anything. But her hands skidded uselessly along the wall and she pitched forward.
She was aware of falling, of parts of her body slamming against stairs—a shoulder, her back, a hip. Aware enough that she conjured up an image of herself as a rag doll and wondered what would hit next. At some point it was her head, and the world faded.
* * *
“Hello?”
That was what she remembered next, the uncertain voice pulling her up from the depths. She had been semiconscious for some time, maybe the whole time, aware that she landed on her side, the hard floor beneath her. But she didn’t open her eyes right away, just lay motionless, mentally assessing her body, waiting to see if any part of it started screaming in pain.
“Sunday?”
She couldn’t tell where Billy’s voice was coming from, she just knew she had to get up, get away from him.
“Sunday?” His tone was more urgent now, moving around, like he was looking for her.
Only it wasn’t Billy’s voice. It was Jackie’s.
She slowly rolled onto her back. So far her limbs seemed to be in working order. There was a scrambling noise and she opened her eyes to see Jackie kneeling above her. “Jesus, Sunday. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice was coarse so she cleared her throat. “Just help me up.”
He got an arm under her. When he lifted her to a sitting position the head rush was powerful.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“I fell down the stairs.”
“What…” He scanned the room, spotted the staircase through the open door behind him. “Is anyone else here?”
That’s when she experienced vague recollections of Billy after she fell, hearing him run down the stairs and call her name. The sound of his boots rushing around the room, swish of the front door opening.
“No,” she said. “No one’s here.” When she tried to push off the floor, her wrist gave way and she cried out.
“Let me see,” Jackie said. He took her arm and gently eased her hand side to side. “I don’t think you broke it…”
She brought her other hand to her head, which was pounding. And now her stomach was hurting as well. But not like she was going to be sick. More like cramping.
“We need to get you checked out,” Jackie said.
“No, it’s fine.” She pulled her arm away. “I just want to go home—”
“Sunday. You’re bleeding.”
She turned to see him looking down, but not at her arm. She followed his gaze to see bright red blood staining her jeans. On top of everything else she’d finally gotten her period, which was like weeks late. That tended to happen when she was stressed out, or if she was inconsistent taking her pill. And lately she’d been both.
“Shit,” she said. “I don’t have anything with me.” And it was doubtful this place had a tampon machine in the restroom.
Jackie swallowed. “Are you sure that’s all…?”
She looked down again, and understood his question. There was a lot of blood.
Too much blood.
When her eyes raised to Jackie’s she saw her own fear mirrored there.
“We need to get you to the hospital,” he said.
She pulled her legs up to her chest as another wave of sharp cramps rippled through her abdomen. Something was wrong. “No.”
He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Yes. You might have some kind of internal bleeding going on.”
She wrapped her arms around her knees and started rocking. There was so much blood. Way more than even her heaviest days.
Jackie glanced back at the staircase. “What the hell were you doing up there?”
Phrases started presenting themselves like bullet points: Period weeks late. Exhausted and emotional lately. Appetite all over the place. Even a couple bouts of nausea.
Oh my God. No, no, no, no …
“Sunday, did someone hurt you?” Jackie studied her with narrowed eyes. “If so, we need to call the police—”
“No, Jackie.” Though Billy did hurt her. He had pushed her … and tripped her? There was nothing else she could have stumbled over other than his foot. But had he meant for her to fall down the stairs? Even if he did, she wasn’t reporting this to the police, or anyone else. She’d been drunk, held his hand, gone up to his room. Exactly what did I misread? he’d asked.
She stood up and backed away from Jackie. “We’re not calling the police.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down.” His tone was cautious, like he was talking her off the ledge. “We’ll take this one step at a time.” He retrieved her phone from the floor—where Billy must have dropped it—and handed it to her. She looked at the screen to see that Kale had responded six minutes ago: Miss you like crazy too. Never leaving you again. Promise!
She felt her face crumple, and her legs almost did too.
“Sunday, I need to take you to the hospital.” Her brother sounded afraid, of the blood, of her crying, of the question of what had happened that night.
How could she possibly explain it to him, or to her family?
How could she possibly tell Kale what she’d done? Panic moved in with that last thought, a sense that she had irrevocably changed her life.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, hearing her voice get a bit stronger. “You can take me to the hospital. But you have to promise not to tell anyone about this.”
“I don’t know—”
“I mean it, Jackie! Otherwise I’m not going.”
He dug his hands into his hair—almost as short as Denny’s at the time—and weighed her proposal. Despite her pain and fear she had some inkling of what she was asking of him, that it was too much.
“Okay. You let me take you to the ER…” He shook his head. “… and it’s up to you from there.”
She just stared at him.
“I promise we won’t tell anyone until you’re ready.”
Even as Jackie made that promise she knew he was assuming she’d change her mind, that she’d calm down, decide to tell their family. Or maybe he thought he’d be able to talk her into it; God knows he tried. But whatever he was thinking in that moment, Jackie had kept that impossible promise for five years.
* * *
Sunday stopped talking but continued to stare at the Jameson bottle on the table in front of her. She’d taken deliberate note of it several times while telling her story, a beacon of safety that reminded her she was sitting in Brennan’s whenever the memories threatened to overwhelm her. Never before had she spoken about this. She was almost finished.
“I should have known I was pregnant, but I didn’t.” She could feel Kale’s eyes on her, sense his shock, but she didn’t dare look at him. “The doctor confirmed I had a miscarriage. I was almost two months along.”
She’d been aware of their reactions while she talked. Denny shifting in his seat while he gripped his arms tighter and tighter until his knuckles were white. Ragged breathing from Kale, who had leaned forward on the table at some point, his hands curling into fists while he listened. She almost wished there was more to say, so she could delay the moment when she’d have to look at them and they’d have to respond in some way. But there was no more, she was at the end. She’d told the story as sh
e recalled it, except for one thing. She hadn’t yet mentioned Billy Walsh’s name. They knew him as The Bartender.
She pulled her head up to face Denny. His eyes were wide and shiny and angry. He said only one word. “Who.”
“I’m going to tell you. You need to know.”
“Who was it?”
“But I want a promise first—” She jumped when his fist hit the table.
“God damn it, Sunday.”
She raised her voice. “I need your word you won’t do anything stupid.”
He lifted his brow and tilted his head, putting together that whoever it was, he must be within reach.
“You need to think about Theresa and Molly,” she said. “You can’t go off the deep end and hurt someone—”
He sprang from his chair, sending it flying behind him. Then he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, hung his head.
Still hoping to de-escalate the situation, she stayed in her seat and checked to see if Kale might help, but he still looked stunned, like he was trying to catch up.
Denny lifted his head. “Okay. Just tell me.”
That was as close to a promise as she would get, and he needed to know. That’s why she’d put them all through this. “It was Billy Walsh.”
Denny stared at her while he pulled up off the table. He’d get over the initial shock quickly so she had to work fast.
“Listen to me, Denny.” She stood and moved next to him. “We have to be smart about this. It’s not a coincidence he loaned you money. He has it in for our family. I think he’s trying to hurt you.”
Denny nodded, but then his brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell us?” There was a tinge of accusation in his question, but mostly just a true lack of understanding.
“I couldn’t.” It was the only answer she had.
“I have to go.”
“No, wait,” she said, following him as he grabbed his keys off the bar and headed for the door. “Denny, please.” She reached for his arm, but he pulled it away.
“I have to go,” he said again. Seconds later he was out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN