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  Seeing Ma give birth like that changed me. Made me want a family rather than simply be a part of one. If I’m being honest, I thought I’d have one by now. Or at the very least, be married to someone without a rap sheet. I’ve taken it easy for the most part, not even feeling pressured to date. That changed when my older brother and sworn bachelor for life, Declan, met the perfect woman and the youngest O’Briens agreed to forever.

  Wren frowns, her smirk gone. “Seamus, what is it?”

  I yank at my collar. “Nothing, just hungry.”

  Finn steps forward, his expression as solemn as Ma’s. “Are you sure?”

  I knock him on the shoulder and laugh. “Yeah. It’s all good.”

  It’s what I say, even though it’s not.

  CHAPTER 2

  Allie

  “Yes, Mr. Traynor. Your house will officially be on the market at midnight tonight.” I reach for the messages my assistant, Roxanne, passes me. Ten calls, ten possible listings. She texted me earlier, but she knows I prefer a hard copy.

  “Coffee?” she mouths as I continue to reassure Mr. Traynor.

  I nod, keeping my smile. I learned a long time ago that if you keep your smile, your composure remains intact, no matter the obstacle.

  “I know you’re anxious, Mr. Traynor. Retirement is an exciting time, but it does mean letting go of the life you’ve had and starting a new one.”

  “Yeah, new life,” he says, recognizing I hit the nail on the head.

  “I promise I’m going to take great care of you. We won’t sell unless you’re happy with the terms.”

  Most real estate agents wouldn’t make promises like this. I do and keep my word. It’s why my company is so successful. That, and because I have no social life.

  “You get me. Don’t you, little girl?” he asks.

  I try not to laugh. At thirty-five years old, I’m long past childhood. But given my youthful features and the large population of seniors I serve, I suppose I seem very young.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” I assure him.

  Upon disconnecting with Mr. Traynor, I fall into my chair and fire up my laptop. I’ve already returned two messages by the time Roxanne returns with my coffee.

  “Thank you, Roxanne.”

  I lift the contract in front of me and take a sip of my coffee before I realize Roxanne isn’t leaving. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  She makes a face. I know that face. “Your mother has been calling all morning. She says it’s important and that it involves your sister.”

  There are only three reasons my mother typically calls. She needs help with a business matter, wants money, or wants to brag about my sister Valentina. I handle the first two fairly well. The latter is something I’ve never grown accustomed to.

  God was generous to Valentina. He blessed her with striking beauty, a modeling contract with Wilhelmina, and intelligence that earned her a full scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania.

  Perfection is a foreign concept to me. I was diagnosed with ADD and raised in a family that couldn’t afford the medication to treat it. Oh, and modeling? Wilhelmina usually passes on women with buck teeth and frizzy hair who don’t grow past 5’3”.

  The teeth I straightened with my first real estate paycheck, and the business degree I earned studying an extra year in college. My achievements never measured up to Valentina’s accomplishments. She reigns as queen and her crown remains untarnished even after she slept with the man I was supposed to marry.

  My office phone rings. Roxanne and I both stare at it. “That’s probably your mother,” she says.

  “Probably,” I agree, watching the light across the monitor blink with every ring.

  It eventually stops ringing. Not that it offers me a reprieve. I know I’m not safe. I do my best to ignore the sympathy splaying across Roxanne’s features when the phone rings again.

  I wish I had the kind of mother I couldn’t wait to speak to. But every conversation with my mother is the equivalent of, “Is that what you’re wearing? What you look like? Who you are?” Insert a pained groan. “Perhaps it’s best to just lay down and die.”

  My hand sweeps across my forehead in anticipation of my impending headache.

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” Roxanne says, hurrying off.

  “Allie Mendes,” I say, keeping my voice professional.

  “Oh, Alegria, when are you going to stop using that ridiculous nickname?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. I ignore the dig. There’s plenty more to come.

  “I received a letter about our 401(k) from the financial planner. The one you recommended. Something about investment opportunities. Such an annoying man.”

  “Tyrese is very good at his job. If he’s contacting you, it’s because there’s an opportunity for you to make more money.” Now, I have her attention.

  “This is wonderful. He wants to schedule a meeting. You’ll be here won’t you? You know the family and I don’t understand such things.”

  I rub my eyes. “I’ll call him and set something up.”

  I wait for her to continue, but all that greets me is the gruesome silence that comes with bad news. “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  “Everything is wonderful, mija,” she says. I don’t miss the hesitation in her voice or the over-animated tone that follows. “I have exciting news about Valentina.”

  Valentina and I haven’t spoken in years. But our mother has spoken enough for her. I assume things that should be impossible, like she was selected to be the first celebrity in space. Or that she’s the new face of Chanel. Or that she’s dating a member of the royal family. Never mind. She accomplished those amazing feats before turning thirty.

  “Very exciting news,” my mother adds, her voice strangely forced.

  I make a note to call Tyrese. “Okay . . . what is it?” I ask.

  “She’s getting married.”

  “She is?” I’ll admit I’m surprised.

  It’s not that my sister can’t have anyone she wants. I just never pictured her marrying anyone. She’s stunning and so ridiculously elegant, men pant behind her. She loves attention, but becomes bored quickly, moving on to the next celebrity or billionaire playboy. I envisioned her having affairs until she died in a lavish apartment in Paris surrounded by servants and her devoted lover, forty years her junior, weeping at her bedside.

  “There’s very little time to plan. The wedding is just a few months away.” My mother’s voice drops to whisper as if she’s sharing juicy gossip. “I think the young lovers couldn’t wait to start their family.”

  “Valentina is pregnant?” Aside from never getting married, I never imagined Valentina with children. Kids are “dirty, selfish things.” Her words, not mine.

  “She didn’t exactly say that. But I’m certain she’ll bless us with our first grandchild.”

  “Hmm,” I reply, thrilled my mother isn’t on one of her “why have you denied me grandchildren” tirades. I scroll through my emails, leaving my mother to her thoughts.

  “Honestly, she hasn’t given us much time to plan.”

  I don’t want to remind her that Valentina wouldn’t allow our family to plan anything. She’s likely hired the celebrity wedding coordinator and Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are duking it out for a chance to be the ring bearer.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” my mother asks.

  Her tone is off again. I wonder briefly if I missed something she said. “Sorry, Mom. I wasn’t expecting the news.” It’s true, but I can’t stop my small smile. If this is what Valentina wants, I’m happy for her.

  I pull my laptop closer when an email pops up regarding an upcoming closing. “Who’s the lucky guy?” I ask.

  Another dramatic pause, followed by and something I don’t quite catch.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  She sighs. “She’s marrying Andres.”

  The air around me vanishes in a rush. I try
to speak. To breathe. For a long moment, I don’t manage either. “A-Andres who?”

  “The boy you used to know,” she replies.

  I don’t know if my mother is trying to spare me by choosing the words she does. If so, it doesn’t work. Slowly, very slowly, a sting spreads across my eyes, expanding like a web to entrap my heart.

  I tell myself not to cry. It’s been years. Years since Andres and Valentina betrayed me. But there’s that pain, tearing open the stitches I carefully placed.

  Andres and I met when we were in middle school. We were the nerds who read comic books and could recite any line from any Star Wars movie. We moved in together right after college, much to the dismay of my family, who would’ve sworn on my grandmother’s grave that I was still a virgin. I worked and paid the bills, while he finished his masters in nuclear engineering and saved enough money to pay for the first year of his doctorate.

  We were supposed to get married.

  We were supposed to have children.

  He wasn’t supposed to break my heart.

  And now, now…

  I start speaking before I remind myself to whom I’m speaking. “How . . . how did this happen?”

  My mother senses my sorrow, even though she’s not here to witness my tears. “Alegria, you and Andres have been apart for years. What he and Valentina share is very special. He’s promised to give Valentina everything a mother can hope for.”

  This is the final blow she casts and it hurts more than the rest. Andres wasn’t good enough when I was with him. But he’s with Valentina now, and the education I helped pay for allowed him to create a nuclear weapon he sold to the military for millions. He’s no longer the geek my family made fun of. Like Valentina, he’s royalty now.

  “When did this happen?”

  “The proposal? This past weekend, I believe.”

  “No,” I say, my tone sharp. “When did Valentina and Andres happen?”

  My mother’s words release stiffly. If she had any sympathy for me it’s gone. “They’ve been together for years,” she replies.

  Years? No . . . “It wasn’t a one-time thing?” Once more, I forget to whom I’m speaking.

  “Not if they’re getting married,” she replies impatiently.

  She continues speaking, moving past my feelings and focusing on my sister. I’m not certain how much time passes. All I can think is that I’ve been kept in the dark for years by my family.

  My mother keeps speaking about venues and fittings. How Valentina’s wedding will be unlike anything anyone has ever seen. “You know your sister. She will make her mark on this city.” She mentions something about an upcoming engagement party and bridal luncheon, assuring me not to worry. “You’re not being considered for maid of honor. That would be cruel and Valentina doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  Most of what follows is gibberish, fragmented sentences intended to gloss over what’s happened and to keep me silent. I was never good enough for my mother, sister, my family, or apparently, Andres. Today is another reminder.

  I don’t say anything, attempting to hang up the receiver. My mother is still speaking. I wish she would stop. Just as I wish the tears that flow wouldn’t come.

  CHAPTER 3

  Seamus

  I maneuver down 8th Street, while Wren chews my ear off through my Bluetooth. Most people from out of town would have their navigation system on. But I’m not from out of town and only losers and out of towners use their navigation systems in the city. Anyone who’s lived in Philly at least five years should know where Termini’s bakery is. If he doesn’t, he needs to get the hell on outta here.

  “Don’t forget. Sol wants Finnie to have a groom’s cake. She doesn’t care what kind and neither does he.”

  I roll to a stop at the light. “Why can’t he pick it out?”

  “He and Killian are guest commentators for that big fight on Saturday. They’re leaving for Vegas some time tonight. They’re also hosting the next few Fight Nights and have to sort through the next batch of contenders.”

  “That’s right.”

  In the background, I hear her fingers flying across the keyboard at rocket speed. “I’m going to seriously owe you for helping us out,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe all the stuff I have to do at the office before me and Evan leave for Sweden.”

  “It’s no biggie. I’ll take care of you and Finnie.”

  “Good. The venue Ma picked out for the engagement party has a separate room for desserts. A separate freaking room!” she repeats. “We have to fill it and make it pretty, so try out as many of those little cakes as possible. The place can make their own, but they don’t compare to Termini’s. Their cake was dry enough to use as bricks and the icing would have made damn good mortar. You feel me?”

  “Dry cake, shitty icing. I got you.”

  More typing, some quick talk to someone asking for Evan’s schedule, and what sounds like paper being ripped. I’m tired just listening to her work.

  “I need those little bitty cakes,” she says, sounding like I don’t understand and might screw up. “Stuffed little pastries or whatever. I also need them to be different each time.”

  “Different?” I ask.

  “Yeah, like a theme.”

  “Theme?” I ask. Okay, this was supposed to be an easy job. Me eating cake and her liking me for doing it.

  “Seamus, I have a rehearsal dinner, the bridal luncheon, the reception, and the breakfast the day after, and anything else Ma comes up with. I don’t want to look like a cheap ass who recycled the same thing over and over again.”

  “I can respect that,” I say. I stop at a light, waving to two women who stop to admire the goods.

  “Ma thinks I have time for all of this,” Wren adds. “Like all I do all day is fetch Evan’s coffee and write notes up in shorthand. Shorthand, Seamus. She thinks that shit still exists.”

  “Aren’t you his secretary?”

  “My title is administrative assistant to the CEO of iCronos, moron. Believe me, I do more than order him coffee.” She sighs. “Evan’s under the gun to finish a project he’s presenting to Sweden’s Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, as well as to the Regional Medical councils, and I’m helping him. I don’t have time to pick out desserts for events I don’t want to have. We’re running an empire here.”

  “Evan’s out of his mind about marrying you. I thought for sure he’d want the two of you to take care of all the wedding stuff.”

  “He does,” she says, her voice softening. “But this deal is important and we have to wrap it up before the big day so we can actually enjoy our big day. The ceremony, reception, and honeymoon we’re planning together. Those are the things we’re excited about. Everything else, though . . .” She groans. “I just can’t. I never signed up for this blushing bride-to-be bullshit. I wanted to get married on the beach with just us. But no. Ma insists I get married in a church or risk God releasing a plague that will have flying monkeys shooting out of my lady bits. No one needs that shit.”

  I swipe a hand over my mouth to cover my laugh. As the only girl in the family, Wren is screwed ten ways from Sunday and twice from Saturday. I can picture her waving her arms like she does when she’s pissed. “You know when I mentioned the beach to Ma, she asked if I wanted to be responsible for unleashing the apocalypse?” Wren adds. “She asked me that bit of crazy right to my face.”

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I told her that the second coming doesn’t depend on me and Evan getting married in a Catholic church, and you know what she said?”

  “Are you trying to kill your mother?” I offer, taking shortcut when I see an accident up ahead.

  “Yeah, she did! She even brought up all that fire and brimstone shit. You know that always gets me. I tell you, Catholic guilt can slap you upside the head like a drunk, nasty bitch.”

  This time I do laugh out loud. “You sound a little stressed, there, Wren.”

  �
��That’s because I am, genius. Did you know I’d have all this crap to do?”

  “Nope,” I say, cursing when I run over the mother of all pot holes.

  Wren ignores me going full speed ahead. “No wonder so many people get married in Vegas. This isn’t natural. All these different events to mark the only big event that matters. Can’t I just get married and skip the rest?”

  “You can if you want Ma to die and come back to haunt you leading the Four Horsemen. You know Ma’s been waiting for this day. Remember when Grammie—God rest her soul—used to pray the rosary?” I drop into my best expression of Grammie, her Irish accent so thick you could spread it across soda bread. “Oh, sacred Jesus, forgive this undeserving and hell-bound child for her many sins and let her find a man deserving of your grace. Do not strike her down with your mighty spirit. Bless her womb as your beloved father blessed your mother’s so she may have strapping, intelligent, and dashing boys, in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  “You remember all that?” she asks.

  “Hell, yeah. It was how she said good night.”

  “True. God rest her soul,” Wren agrees. “To be fair, I wasn’t the hell-bound child. That was Finnie. I was the destroyer of dreams and all things pure.”

  “Yeah?” I frown. “I thought that was Grammie’s nickname for Curran?”

  “No, he was God’s answer to birth control. Killian was Damian from the Omen.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, turning back onto 8th. “I remember her squirting him with holy water every Sunday before mass, so God would let him in.”

  “In Grammie’s defense, he did look like that creepy kid after the bowl cut Ma gave him,” Wren adds. “Angus was ‘Gluttony’ and a few other of the seven sins, depending on the day. You were Judas, on account of you always ratting us out.”