Finally, we returned to the dining room. My parents and Sam were there, back from their own tour from hell. I hugged them.
Sam said, “Whoa, a dress.”
I punched his arm. “Take a hike.”
“No, thanks. I’ll get lost in this nightmare of a house.”
Aisling, who stood next to Sam, let out a nervous laugh, blushing as she looked at him. He ignored her.
“Again, I’m right fucking here.” Hunter narrowed his eyes at me.
Sam’s gaze flicked to my roommate. “Is he treating you well, little sis?” he asked, not breaking his hold on Hunter’s gaze.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s for me to take care of. Welcome to the twenty-first century, big bro.”
“That wasn’t a yes,” Sam pointed out.
“He is treating me fine,” I said.
When we sat down, Mom squeezed my hand from across the table and winked.
“You look good, my love.”
“I feel good.” I smiled, reassuring her. I felt like crap, actually, except for my shoulder, which was better now. I was hysterical about the Lana business, and the proximity to Hunter didn’t help matters, either. I had the terrible sense of losing control, or maybe realizing I’d never had it in the first place.
“Not too good, I hope.” Dad flashed Hunter a look full of menace, which Hunter met, unblinking.
“Way too good, unfortunately for me,” Hunter muttered.
“Aaaand it’s showtime.” Cillian plucked a glass of wine from a silver tray offered to him by a servant, sitting back indulgently.
“Front-row seat,” Sam remarked next to Cillian, and the two clinked their glasses with condescending smirks.
“Ceann beag, do you think you can manage one dinner without offending everyone at the table, including some of the dishes and decorations?” Gerald inquired coldly, taking a seat at the head of the table.
He hadn’t bothered greeting me when we walked in, and he’d barely glanced at Hunter. In fact, the only time he did look at us was when Hunter was oblivious to him. Then he’d sneaked a peek. It was like he was having a one-sided power struggle with his own son. It made me want to hurl a fork in his direction.
Hunter took a glass of wine from the tray, offering it to me, before plucking one for himself. He was walking on thin ice—stomping on it, more like—and I couldn’t blame him. The air was thick with aggression, and he needed to save face. “Do I think I can? Certainly. Do I want to? No, that would be boring. Care if I treat myself to a glass of wine?”
“I do, actually. You are nineteen.” Gerald sniffed his wine, swirling it in its glass.
“Yes, an age when it is legal to drink in every western country save the United States.”
“Which is, unfortunately, where you are currently situated.” Cillian grinned at his younger brother.
“Could’ve fooled me. This place feels a lot like hell,” Hunter mumbled.
I jumped into the conversation headfirst, wanting to avert the looming family crisis.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I can assure you Hunter hasn’t had a lick of alcohol since we moved in together. He is the designated driver. I’m sure one glass of wine isn’t going to hinder his progress.”
“Are you that lax on him with other rules, too?” Gerald frowned at me from across the table.
I smiled, batting my eyelashes. Forget the fork, I’m throwing the steak knife at him, and I’m aiming for his heart.
“I’ve never been accused of being lax before, sir.”
“I’m sure you were not accused of anything, sweetheart,” Dad said through clenched teeth, staring Gerald down.
Gerald raised his hands in the air, backing off. “Clearly. I was merely teasing.”
“Tease someone your age.” Sam flashed a smile that didn’t match the danger lying behind it.
We had some kind of raw fish as a starter, followed by bread, cheese, and various tapas dishes. Then came the main course: steak and whipped mashed potatoes with butter and chives, with shavings of a type of mushroom that cost hundreds by the ounce. Mom seemed to hit it off with Jane conversation-wise, I talked to Aisling, and Dad, Gerald, and Sam discussed business, which left Cillian and Hunter to try to form some kind of a tête-à-tête. I half-listened to them while discussing colleges with Aisling.
“How is Syllie’s wife doing?” Hunter asked.
I’d noticed that when provoked about his antics, Hunter never missed an opportunity to flip his family the finger, but when he was actually talking to them, he walked on eggshells.
Cillian shrugged, cradling his wine glass and staring through his brother like he didn’t exist. “Unfortunately, I don’t keep tabs on women’s health unless they frequent my bed.”
“And you speak of my manners,” Hunter said tightly, throwing a large piece of steak into his mouth and chewing.
“I have the refinery to care for. Syllie is a very resourceful person. I’m sure he can help his wife with whatever she’s dealing with.”
“Resourceful enough to hurt us?” Hunter asked, arching an eyebrow.
Aisling was telling me about the merits of going to an out-of-state college, but I was drawn to the conversation between the brothers.
“Probably.” Cillian yawned, picking up a blueberry and examining it coldly.
I saw what he saw, what he liked about the tiny fruit—that little crown each perfect blueberry had that made it regal.
“Yet you wouldn’t back me up in front of Athair.”
“Correct.”
“Why, pray tell, is that?”
Cillian considered him through narrowed eyes. They’d fit on a snake better than they did on a human being. Cillian was gorgeous, his colors warm against the iciness of the rest of him. The older Fitzpatrick brother always looked a step away from gracefully dipping a sword into your chest and watching you draw your last breath with a pretty smile.
“Because you didn’t have sufficient evidence and you reeked of hysteria. Both made your case weak.”
Hunter said nothing, watching his sibling under a deep-set frown.
“Did you know that the word hysteria derives from the Latin word for uterus?” Cillian asked conversationally, dissecting his steak meticulously into pieces the exact same size, a la American Psycho. “In ancient Greece, it was believed that a wandering and discontented uterus was to blame for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion.” He put his fork down and stared at what he’d carved on his plate.
I watched him behind the diamond-studded rim of my wine glass.
Cillian’s hawk-like eyes and panther gestures gave me violent, uncomfortable shivers. He made me feel uneasy, unequipped—like the dirt beneath his shiny loafers, and he hadn’t even tried all that hard to provoke these emotions in me. I didn’t envy the people he actively hated.
“Do you speak Latin, Cillian?” I asked, taking a bite of my steak.
Aisling stopped talking, shooting me a do-you-want-to-die? horrified expression. The rest of the table fell silent, the tension hovering above our heads like a thick, dark cloud.
“A fair amount. Any particular reason you’d care?” He popped a piece of steak into his mouth.
He’d requested his steak so raw, so bloody, the juicy meat made the corners of his perfect lips glisten.
“I was wondering if the word jerk derives from the Latin word jealousy. Thought you could shed some light regarding that.” I smiled sweetly, cocking my head to look at him.
Jane sprayed her red wine across the table, making a choking sound that prompted Gerald to pat her back. Dad, Sam, and Hunter exchanged amused looks, chuckling under their breaths. Mom’s eyes glittered with pride. Sticking it to the big man ran in our family.
Cillian tucked his chin down, regarding me for the first time with faint interest, like my existence was a brand new thing he needed to consider.
“Do you think you’re clever, Miss Brennan?”
“Not a genius by any means, but I get by with my perfectly adequate, average IQ.” Another mocking smile touched my lips. “I’d ask you the same question, but I already know the answer. You think you’re the smartest person in the room.”
Cillian sat back and watched me, enjoying a private joke at my expense. “Prove me wrong.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I made a show of taking my phone out of my purse. I knew it was the equivalent of taking a dump on the table as far as etiquette went, but I couldn’t help myself. I browsed through my images until I found the one I was looking for and passed my phone to Cillian across the table.
“Hunter’s IQ test from when he moved to Todos Santos,” I explained. “I found it in one of the packed boxes in our apartment. Actually, I can see all the Fitzpatrick siblings’ scores. Hunter must’ve packed them by accident. Your baby brother sits at 147 points, which marks him as a literal genius. Yours is merely 139. Still above average, but no 147. Now tell me, Cillian, is your math as good as your Latin?” I blinked innocently.
“Mo órga.” Gerald cleared his throat behind his napkin, signaling Cillian to kill this conversation.
But I couldn’t stop myself. I was on a roll.
Cillian sat back, refusing to show signs of discomfort.
“Measuring one’s competence by their IQ level is like measuring a horse by its coat.”
“Or a woman by her bra size, to put it in a form ceann beag could relate to,” Gerald jested, his potbelly wobbling with laughter.
Jane winced at her husband, slapping the tips of his fingers across the table. She muttered an apology to my parents. Dad and Mom exchanged looks, relieved. Compared to the Fitzpatricks, we were actually a normal family.
Sam, however, watched the entire thing, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth, with a smile behind his pint of Guinness. I had no idea where he’d gotten it. No one else was having Guinness. But this was my brother after all, the most resourceful man in Massachusetts.
Hunter sipped his water. I noticed he hadn’t touched his wine. Everybody in the room was probably under the assumption he’d devour his little treat. It was a long middle finger to what was expected of him. A tinge of pride prickled my chest.
“Thank you for explaining it to me in simple English, Athair. For a minute there I was, hysterically at a loss,” Hunter said.
“Do not speak out of turn,” Gerald warned, stabbing into his steak like it was his enemy.
“I wasn’t planning on speaking at all. Mom was hella adamant I be here, though.” Hunter fingered his chin, throwing the ball back to his father’s court.
“She has her vices. You are one of them.” Gerald turned his attention back to his steak.
“And you’re not, which is why I’m here, taunting the hell out of you with my presence alone,” Hunter deadpanned.
Aisling sucked in a breath, and Jane paled and coughed out her drink—her MO, apparently.
Gerald’s chair scraped back with a screeching sound. He rose to his feet, slapping the table with a roar. “Enough! It’s bad enough that you have brought shame on this family—”
“Don’t talk to him like that.” It was Jane’s turn to dart up to her feet. She looked even more frail and bony next to her husband.
I glanced between Hunter and Gerald, knowing I was missing a very big piece of the puzzle.
Jaw clenched, eyes dead, Hunter stood, turned around, and stalked out of the room. I couldn’t blame him. This house—this family—seemed to purge him whenever he made an attempt to fit in. His father despised him, his brother ridiculed him, and his mother was too weak to stop either of them.
I rose, pressing my fingertips to the table. I could feel all eyes but the Fitzpatrick parents’ on me. Dad, Mom, Sam, and Aisling watched my reaction to Hunter’s meltdown. Even Cillian eyed me, probably curious what other ill-mannered tricks I had up my sleeve.
“I just want you to know one thing.” I pointed at Gerald, feeling my eyes narrow into slits. “When I agreed to this arrangement, I thought I was helping a loving dad guide his son back to the right path. But you’re not loving, and honestly? You’re barely even a dad. You’re a patronizing, bigheaded schmuck. You have no right to be mad at Hunter for turning to booze and sex with random people. He never seems to get any love where he needs it the most—his family. Whatever failure you see in him, be sure to know a big slice of it is your own.”
Without waiting for his reaction, I turned away in the direction Hunter had gone, my veins sizzling with rage. I stomped my way along the wide corridor. It was long and vein-like, twisting here and there. Every time I thought I’d found the farthest part of the floor, I was met with another golden curve decorated by a statue that led to yet another corner. This house was too big to manage. I wondered if Aisling knew every part of it.
At some point, I noticed three granite steps leading to an untouched, heavily decorated family room. All the furniture was angled toward the glass door leading to a beautiful English garden. The door was slightly ajar—on purpose or by design, I’d never know. Without thinking, I pushed the glass door open all the way, stepping outside.
I knew wandering off unannounced after Hunter, whom I’d defended ruthlessly the entire night, looked suspicious, that his father was likely wondering if I, too, had drunk the Hunter Kool-Aid and succumbed to his charm. But I needed to calm myself, far away from the Fitzpatricks. My mother jogged to get rid of the humming energy beneath her flesh. Me? I used my arrow and bow. But I didn’t have them now.
I wanted to ruin something to make myself feel better, even if that something was myself.
The weather had cooled. The chilly breeze coated my bare arms as my heels dug into the damp earth under the lush grass of the backyard. Although calling it a backyard was the understatement of the universe. It was more like an entire meadow, stretched into a barbecue area with an Olympic-sized pool complete with sunbeds, and on the far right, there was some sort of ivy-covered, medieval-looking glass structure. I eyed it, wondering what it could be. I’d already gathered that Gerald Fitzpatrick liked flashing his wealth like a creeper on a subway.
What could be more excessive than a candy bar? Maybe the glass house was where Gerald kept his compassion and sympathy—sealed, locked, and shoved far away from the main property.
It wasn’t in my nature to be nosy, but I wanted to know if Hunter was there. The need to console him clawed at my skin.
I marched to the ivy-laced room, patting it for the door handle. I hoped it wasn’t locked. As I dragged my fingernails along the door, I felt a long, muscular arm stretch behind me, brushing my shoulder. I jumped back, gasping. The hand reached for a secret door handle nestled behind a thick coat of ivy, opening it effortlessly, creating a sliver of space between the door and its frame. An unnatural amount of light poured from the crack. My head twisted back, my blood roaring between my ears, signaling me it was a fight-or-flight kind of situation.
Hunter smiled down at me calmly. “Butterfly garden.”