I let Locke go.
Folk’s mum—Jekka—hustled us inside, passing out dry clothes, and I found myself enveloped in the family home I prayed we’d give our own kids. Hot food and open fires. Photos on the walls. Sports trophies. Rowdy family Christmases.
A big armchair took me hostage. Jekka plied me with lasagne and homemade bread that would make Rubi weep. Then she stole Locke, and I found myself caught in the vortex of watching Ranger play LEGO with the boys while Viktor, overcome by the same view and knackered from the road, fell asleep on a nearby couch.
Decoy knocked out too.
I ate my food, emotion squeezing my chest with every nurturing fucking bite. I needed company, but Folk had disappeared and Locke was thoroughly ensnared by the Whitlock parents.
That left me still watching Ranger, the brother who claimed to hate kids, but maybe a few exceptions had snuck through. Swear to God, I saw him pick up Hope the other week and hold her for six seconds before passing her to Viktor.
My gaze strayed to the sleeping Russian mobster I now counted as a friend. His head rested on his bent arm, boots tucked beneath the couch. The sitting room was cosy enough, but fretting he’d get cold had me up and dropping a blanket over his legs.
Ranger caught me, the surfer hoodie Jekka had brought him loose around his lean shoulders. His coal-dark eyes were red-rimmed and weary, but he smiled, and I banked it for when I needed it later.
I returned to my chair. Ranger built more LEGO, one of Rocco’s little fellas content to watch from his lap, the other tracking every brick while climbing Ranger’s back from behind, reminding me of Logan’s boys—Billy and Sam. OfLockeand Logan. Three sets of magical twins, and blessings like that came in threes, right? What if that meant there was no room in this world for ours?
The dark thought came out of nowhere. Unprepared, fear barrelled through me, eviscerating my composure. I needed out before I lost my shit in front of Rocco’s perfect boys.
I rose from my armchair sanctuary and slipped outside. I hadn’t brought a vape—I was trying to quit. Needing a distraction, I leaned on my phone, scrolling through the hourly updates our family were sending from home. Orla and Willow. Orla with Liliana and Hope. Already the best ma in the world without even trying.
I sniffed.
Fuck, I was a mess.
Later messages showed Orla asleep in our bed, Ivy tucked under her arm, her hair thicker and longer than ever. I stared at the photo for a hundred years, but as dawn began to turn the sky over the Whitlock farm hazy and grey, I needed more. So I called a brother I knew for sure would already be wide awake.
“She’s fine.” River’s prickly voice filtered down the line. “Still asleep.”
“I know.” I found a bench on the frosty porch, lanterns and plant pots everywhere.
“Why are you calling then?”
“Can’t a brother call a brother to say hello?”
River made a noncommittal sound. I heard the whine of Orla’s fridge door, the hiss of the kettle. The clash of pans as River opened a cabinet and fucked everything up.
I winced. “What are you doing?”
“Making hash.”
“Corned beef or a zoot?”
“What do you think?”
Logic said the first—it was Orla’s favourite thing to eat right now and only her brothers could make it the way she liked it. Found myself craving the second though. And the brawny comfort of my best friend, even as his loud as fuck voice rumbled in the background.
“That my Nashie?”
“Course it is.”
River gave up the phone without saying goodbye. I heard Rubi plant a smacker on him, then he was right there, exactly where I needed him. “What’s got you all emosh?”
“How do you know I’m emotional?”
“You called Riv for some tough love.”
“Didn’t.”