This Life II

by Dee, Cara

  “Anything else you need from me, hon?” Sarah asked, washing her hands in the sink. “I thought I’d give Patrick a call before we eat.”

  “Why?” I wondered. “I thought you broke off the engagement.”

  Sarah just had a funny way of doing it. She was keeping the ring.

  She shot me a bitchy look. “I can still care about him, can’t I?”

  I shrugged.

  Maybe I was being overprotective, but Sarah was no longer part of my family. Everyone had seen the breakup coming a mile away, especially my brother, who was torn about it. Part of him was too tired to care, part of him didn’t wanna quit, because he knew the life we led right now was temporary. We weren’t normally this uprooted, nor did we expend so much energy on hiding.

  “Go call him,” Emilia encouraged softly. “I’m sure he’ll like that.”

  Sarah left, leaving me alone with Emilia.

  I knew how to clear out a kitchen.

  “I’m just relieved she’s talking to me again.” Emilia dumped two handfuls of chopped spinach into a big bowl. “I want her to stay with us until this blows over. Then maybe I can convince her and Patrick to give things another chance when we’re not pretending to be the Avengers.”

  Emilia had given me a second chance once. I’d blown that one too.

  “We can’t let her leave yet, regardless.” I drew the peel off the clementine absently and made a mental note to speak to Pat when we got back from Paris and Amsterdam. It’d been a while since we’d had some casual brother time.

  “I figured.” Emilia wiped her hands on her short apron and lifted the towel from a bowl that revealed rising bread dough. “I asked her to come along for my doctor’s appointment after Christmas. She was a little excited about that, at least.”

  Great, so we’d have another woman with us who couldn’t stand me.

  “I have to try harder to include her,” she murmured, seemingly to herself. “When she closes herself in downstairs, she forgets who we are. She goes back to square one where everything is black-and-white. Right or wrong.”

  I stuck two pieces of clementine in my mouth and observed her flitting around, doing a dozen things at once. A lock of hair fell into her line of sight as she stirred the sauce on the stove, and I noticed she was holding her breath.

  I threw back another couple pieces of fruit and left my seat. With a wordless “Let me help,” I took her place and earned myself a sheepish smile from her. Did she think I couldn’t tell when shit bothered her?

  “Fucking gray areas,” she whispered under her breath and returned to the dough.

  “What’s gray?” I asked.

  “You,” she muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. By the way, you should sleep in our room tonight. Nessa and Autumn want to have a sleepover in her and Eric’s room, so he offered to take the couch. Shan and Alec will go downstairs. I figured we don’t want to crowd the living room with the air beds—they’ll just be in the way tomorrow morning and, you know, we only have an hour or so to go through our stockings before we go to Mass again. Also, can you check to see if the meat is done? These rolls will just need twelve minutes, and then we can eat.”

  Holy shit.

  I blinked slowly, processing the word-vomit, and looked at Emilia.

  She was busy with the rolls and had some flour on her cheek.

  After a beat, she glanced at me over her shoulder. “The meat?”

  “Right.” The meat.

  18

  Finnegan O’Shea

  I’d never gone from dead to the world to wide awake as fast as I did the following morning. The sound of Emilia throwing up in our bathroom reached my ears, my eyes flew open, and I ran for her. It took a couple seconds, and then my body screamed in protest. I winced and cursed just as I opened the door to the bathroom. My neck was fucking killing me.

  Ironic, wasn’t it? Sleeping on the couch for so long—nothing. One night back in my own bed, and I was dying. Possibly because I’d been tense and insanely careful to give her space. I’d even slept in my pajama bottoms, which I hadn’t done—when sharing a bed with my own wife—since she moved in with me in Philly.

  “Get out,” she croaked.

  No, for this, she couldn’t have privacy. I soaked a small towel in cold water, then joined her on the floor and pressed it gently to her forehead.

  She whimpered and hugged the toilet. “It’s gross, Finnegan. Go…oh God.” She gagged into the bowl.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I gently combed back her hair with my fingers and stroked her back.

  The worst seemed to be over a minute later when she flushed the toilet and slumped against the seat.

  “Want me to get you some ginger ale?” I murmured.

  She nodded pitifully without lifting her head. “Some dry toast too, please.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  On my way out to the kitchen, I tightened the drawstrings on my sleep pants and saw that Eric was still fast asleep on the couch.

  It was too early for bright lights, so I settled for flicking on the small lamp in the kitchen window. Christ. I yawned as I saw the time. 5:46 a.m. We’d come home from Midnight Mass around two-thirty, and we’d be back for the first Christmas Day service at nine.

  Christmas was the holiday all the half-assed Catholics joined us in the pews too. They couldn’t be bothered for the rest of the year, but Christmas, for some reason… That was why I wanted to attend the early service. The one at eleven would be full, in my experience. Didn’t matter where in the Western world I was. Same everywhere.

  While waiting for the toast to pop up, I poured Emilia a glass of ginger ale and dumped a shit-ton of crushed ice in there.

  There was no use in going back to sleep again, so I prepared the coffeemaker too. We’d agreed to meet up for breakfast here at seven—and to go bananas over the stockings Emilia had filled for all of us. Except for hers; I had actually done hers.

  “Hey.” Emilia stumbled into the kitchen and rubbed her eyes. Hair in disarray, her tiny pajama shorts disappearing under one of my T-shirts, and bare feet. She was fucking beautiful. “I decided today is not the day I start eating breakfast in the bathroom.”

  I smiled faintly.

  She hopped up to sit next to the sink, where she could reach the window—or rather, open it. “Ah, fresh air.”

  The toast popped up, so I plated two slices and gave her the ginger ale.

  “Thank you.” She squinted and smiled sleepily.

  Had she taken a bath in toothpaste? It was all I could smell from her.

  “Anytime.” I bent over and nuzzled her stomach. “Be nice to Momma, little one.”

  Emilia grinned affectionately as she munched on the toast, and I leaned back against the island. “You’re gonna be a great daddy, you know that? In fact—” She jumped down from the counter with the toast sticking out of her mouth. “I’ll be right back. I wanna give you a Christmas gift.”

  “Whoa, wait,” I said, rolling with the punches. “Get the dark blue box with the white ribbon too. Please.”

  If she was giving me something, I was gonna give her a gift too.

  “Blue box, white ribbon—got it.” She darted out of the kitchen, evidently feeling a lot better.

  So was I. I was suddenly glad we’d woken up before everyone else.

  It was me in a nutshell. Even though it hurt to be with her without being with her, however that made sense, I craved any minute I could steal.

  Not wanting Emilia to worry about breakfast for the others, I started hauling out shit from the fridge I could prepare. Guys could multitask too—sometimes.

  I was cracking eggs into a bowl when Emilia padded back into the kitchen with two boxes, one smaller than the other. I hoped she liked her gift. It’d been one of the cheapest of her bunch, but the one with the most sentiment.

  “This one’s heavy.” She appeared curious about the blue box.

  “It’s a list of all my fuckups,” I
joked.

  She snorted softly and jumped up on the counter again.

  I poured myself some coffee and took a careful sip on my way back to her.

  Emilia extended a small box wrapped in red with tiny snowmen on it, and she smiled uncertainly. “Merry Christmas, Whistler.”

  Nerves tightened my gut for some reason, and I set down my mug. After removing the bow, I tore off the wrapping to find a jewelry box. I opened it and took a quick breath. A thin gold necklace, like the one I already wore, rested on a soft bed of silk with a gold charm. Similar to the St. Christopher medallion I wore, yet…not quite the same. I peered closer and recognized the saint. St. Joseph. St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus. St. Joseph, who was the patron saint for many things, one of them being fathers.

  Emilia brushed a finger over the medallion around my neck. “You think St. Christopher can take a break from protecting you?”

  I cleared my throat, unable to speak, and nodded once. Then I leaned closer so she could fasten the new necklace around my neck. A shiver ran down my spine as the cold metal got acquainted with my skin.

  “Most of the other guys tend to wear a cross instead,” she noted.

  “Most of the other guys don’t have a Celtic cross tattooed across their backs.” I flashed her a little smile, one she mirrored with a pinch of amusement. When she was done, I caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Thank you. This means the world to me.”

  Her gaze softened, and she used her free hand to ghost her knuckles over my cheek. “Like I said, you’re gonna be a great father.”

  “You’re already a great mother.” I released her hand and adjusted the chain around my neck. “The guys and I have given you plenty of practice.”

  She laughed quietly.

  It was my turn. “Merry Christmas.” I gave her the blue box.

  She grinned and wasted no time. She made quick work of ripping off the paper, her excitement a joy to see, and dumped the wrappings in the sink. Lastly, she lifted the lid and tissue paper.

  “A photo album?” She flipped open the leather-bound cover and received an answer to her question. Yes, technically, it was a photo album. “Oh…” She touched her lips and swallowed hard.

  I hoped it would be our child’s baby book. I’d finished the first page already. There was a picture of the three positive pregnancy tests, another photo of Emilia—a stolen glimpse. I’d seen her standing in the window in our bedroom, cast in shadows and Christmas lights, a soft smile on her face, her hands resting on her stomach. Hair damp from her shower, a white tank top and matching pajama shorts.

  At the bottom of the page was a dated letter from me, and I watched Emilia’s lips move as she read it.

  This was the day my heart expanded. I read online that you’re just the size of a sweet pea, but I won’t call you that. To be honest, I find it weird when parents nickname their kids after fruits and vegetables. It’s the thing you look forward to the least on the dinner table, am I right? I can’t nickname you after candy either, because then you might grow up to be a stripper.

  Emilia let out a tearful laugh before she read on.

  For now, you’re the little one I already love with all my heart.

  Your mother, be kind to her, will keep you safe for the next eight months.

  It’ll be my honor and duty to protect you after that.

  And as you grow up, I hope you will look back on these memories we collect for you, and you will know that you’re always our blessing.

  Love, Dad

  “Christ, Finnegan.” Emilia sniffled and set down the album, then scooted out a bit and slipped her arms around my midsection.

  I exhaled and hugged her to me. Love and gratitude burned in my chest. Gratitude because Emilia wasn’t shutting me out of her life, love because we’d be welcoming our child into the world next summer. I cupped the back of her head and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  When she lifted her face, I brushed the pads of my thumbs under her eyes.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I wish you had as much faith in me as you have in God.”

  I furrowed my brow and looked at her quizzically.

  “I never once said you and I are done,” she murmured. “Trusting you with certain things will be one hell of a journey, but I hope you’ll do anything in your power to make it happen.”

  I swallowed hard, hope threatening to burst inside me. “Are you saying…”

  Her lips twisted wryly, and she cupped my cheek. “Since when are O’Sheas quitters, Whistler?” When I opened my mouth to respond, she pinched my lips together and raised a brow. “A priest got into my head, and we’re gonna do this right. We have to build a more solid foundation to stand on. Additionally, as a certain Liam Murray got into my head too, there will be times when I go against your wishes. Because it’s what you do to me. We are not unbreakable, though, so it’s up to you. I can’t change you—or the stupid core of the Sons of Munster.” She took a breath and let her hand fall. “We’re a bunch of liars, but we love fiercely, and we’re loyal to a fault.” She quoted my mother. “Tread carefully when you lie to me, Finnegan. If it’s something I should know, keeping it from me will hurt us until we’re beyond repair. And I don’t want my marriage to turn into a game of revenge.”

  I couldn’t form a single word. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness, or a third chance, but here she was, offering it to me. I hugged her tightly to me and did my best to suppress the onslaught of emotions.

  She was right. I hadn’t had enough faith in her love for me.

  Who could blame me?

  But the evidence of her devotion was staring right back at me now.

  “You’re not normal,” I said thickly.

  She choked out a chuckle and bit my shoulder. “You never wanted a normal wife.”

  How fucking true. Maybe I should quit expecting normal reactions from her.

  “I won’t be able to convince you to stay here while we take care of Paris, will I?”

  She found that one funny too. “Not even at all.”

  I sniffled and inched back, only to see some light returning to her eyes.

  “I hope your stomach will be a twisted mess of worry the whole time,” she said bluntly.

  “Okay, that one hurt.”

  “Good.” She smiled up at me. “You’ll learn to have faith in me. Hopefully. Otherwise, there will be a lot of sleepless nights for you in our future.”

  The woman played hardball. Jesus fucking Christ, I’d met my match.

  “Luna and I will earn your respect,” she went on. “And the respect of the others. We’re not going anywhere.” That was becoming abundantly clear. “I might be your princess, but one day I will give orders like a queen.”

  I stared at her and clenched my jaw, torn between wanting to shake her and fuck her into next week. It wasn’t the first time she’d made me feel that way, and it wouldn’t be the last. And I was the junkie who couldn’t resist watching her grow, watching her reach her potential.

  There was humor in her gaze, because I knew she was too humble to say something that assertive with a serious expression, but I also saw her determination. My pop had warned me. She would change everything.

  She cupped the back of my neck and drew me down so we were forehead to forehead. Her mischievous eyes gleamed. “My king may kiss me if he wants to.”

  Oh, he fucking wanted to.

  And figuratively, his knees had never hit the floor for his queen faster.

  …Hide him or her under Your protective wings so he or she can develop to maturity in my wife’s womb. Thank you for answering my prayer. In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.

  I did the Sign of the Cross and walked away from the altar.

  The service was over, and Emilia and the others were waiting outside.

  A good fucking nap waited for us at home. We’d spent our Christmas morning together, we’d emptied our stockings and eaten too much candy, we’d watched the kids argue over nothing, and we’d enjoyed Mass. Now we were
tired. We’d have a couple hours of rest before I banked on my hunger to return. The turkey was already in the oven.

  After shaking hands with the priest and thanking him for a nice service, I joined my family outside and grabbed Emilia’s hand.

  “Did you get your prayin’ done?” she asked with a little smirk.

  “Hush, you filthy atheist.” I smirked back. “Yes, I did.”

  Liam, Kellan, and Luna had plans with mutual friends in the city, but Liam said he’d be with us tonight. Then he hugged the twins and took off with the Fords in a taxi. The rest of us had cars waiting, and we made our way home to the flat.

  Alec wanted to play video games, Nessa and Autumn were gonna watch a movie, and the grown-ups aimed to catch some sleep. I steered Emilia straight into our bedroom and—

  “Wait! I didn’t remind the kids not to eat too much candy.”

  “They’ll learn their lesson.” I sincerely doubted they would; at almost twenty-six, I still hadn’t, but it’d been too fucking long since I’d gotten to cuddle up next to the wife. That was my one and only priority.

  It wasn’t even sex. I was nowhere near hard. I just had to shake the trauma of having been without Emilia. I needed her naked, in my arms, under the covers, with no interruptions. I wanted her breath tickling my neck, her fingers drawing aimless circles in my chest hair, a fistful of her perfect, round, soft little ass—okay, there was a chance I’d get hard…

  I stripped her down to panties and a bra while she removed my vest, unbuttoned my shirt, and unbuckled my belt.

  “I missed you,” she murmured.

  “I missed you more.” I couldn’t describe how much.

  It was freeing, all of this, to have everything out in the open. To have her forgiveness, to have a goal—something for us to work on to grow stronger as a couple—and the vow to myself to be as honest as I possibly could.

  There’s that minor detail about you having her pop killed.

  Oh God. I staggered back. The nausea came at me so violently that I couldn’t hide it for shit. The backs of my knees hit the bed, and I slumped down as I felt the color drain from my face.