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We didn’t grow up in Boston, so the city’s charms don’t hold any childhood memories for me. My dad would fly back and forth from our house in Tennessee to his ‘job’ in South Boston. I never questioned it or gave a second thought as to why he was gone more than he was home. It was just normal for us. Eventually, he brought Mom, Siobhan, and me to live in Southie when I started high school. There were simply more opportunities in hockey for me and the best private STEM schools for Siobhan across the river in Cambridge.
As much as I resent my dad now, I am grateful, at least, for getting to play hockey in one of the best sports towns in the country. This is where my agent scouted me. I don’t know if I would be where I am today, playing pro, if it weren’t for our move to Boston.
And then there’s Maggie.
Sometimes I think of the butterfly effect, and how all my past experiences have led me to her. I can’t resent that at all.
My heart is full. Maggie’s childlike excitement hasn’t dimmed since we boarded the plane. I can still picture her face pressed against the window, gasping at every cloud formation and squealing with delight when the flight attendant handed out those tiny bags of pretzels. She’d never flown before today. I found myself grinning like an idiot, caught up in her unflagging joy.
“Welcome to Boston,” I say, gesturing to the row of elegant brownstones lining the street. The crisp autumn air nips at my cheeks, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant sea salt.
Maggie is all wonder as we walk up to Siobhan’s home. The reddish-brown sandstone facade stands tall and proud, its bay windows catching the late afternoon sun. A small set of stone steps leads up to a wrought-iron gate, beyond which lies a heavy wooden door.
I glance over my shoulder, my eyes scanning the street with practiced caution. Two burly figures catch my attention, their presence both reassuring and unsettling. Uncle Whitey’s guys, no doubt.
“What are you looking at?” Maggie asks, following my gaze.
I lean in close, my lips brushing her ear. “See those two meatheads trying to look casual? They’re about as subtle as a hockey puck to the face.”
“Oh! Are they…you know…?”
“Yep. Irish Mob’s finest. Don’t worry, they’re here to protect Siobhan.”
One of the guards stands at the bottom of Siobhan’s steps, arms crossed. His biceps are practically bursting out of his leather jacket that screams ‘I’m definitely not an Irish mobster.’ I bet he eats nails for breakfast.
Across the street, his partner leans against a lamppost, trying way too hard to look casual. He’s sporting a flat cap. He looks like he watchedPeaky Blindersonce and made some life choices. The cap sits at a jaunty angle, because why not, and from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s missing some teeth.
“Should we, um, say hi?” Maggie asks, as if they’re the HOA patrol and not guys who paint houses.
I chuckle. “Um, I don’t think they’re exactly the chatty type. Unless you want to discuss the finer points of kneecap relocation.”
Maggie’s eyes go wide, and I quickly add, “Kidding! Well, mostly. Let’s just say they’re more the strong, silent, and slightly terrifying type.”
I take Maggie up the steps to Siobhan’s door, my hand hovering at the small of her back. As we reach the top, the door swings open before I can even knock.
“You’re here!” Siobhan squeals, squeezing us tight. “Come in, come in!”
She immediately pulls Maggie into a hug as if I’m not even here. “How was your flight? Oh my gosh, I’m so excited to see you. Eh…I mean, despite the circumstances. She pokes her head outside and waves at her guards before closing the door. A lopsided grin plays on Peaky Blinders guy’s face.
We follow her up the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking under our feet. Maggie’s eyes dart around, taking in every detail of the historic brownstone.
“Watch your step,” Siobhan warns, as Maggie nearly trips on a particularly ornery floorboard. “This place is older than dirt and twice as cranky.”
“I’m used to cranky,” Maggie quips. “Have youseenyour brother when he’s hungry?”
“Har, har, short stuff,” I say. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine before your morning coffee.”
Maggie shoots me a playful glare.
As we reach Siobhan’s floor, I’m hit with the familiar scent of leather-bound books and rich mahogany. A fire crackles softly in the ornate fireplace, casting a warm glow across the room, and with her window cracked, the smell of polished wood mingles with the distant aroma of fresh-baked bread from the bakery down the street. Her place is a riot of colors and textures, with a little bit of Downton Abbey academia. It screams Siobhan—elegant, timeless, and just a little bit quirky.
“Siobhan,” Maggie gasps as we enter the living room. “This is…Wow.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, my sister’s decorating style is best described as ‘I raided a museum gift shop while blindfolded.’”
Siobhan swats my arm playfully. “Excuse you, it’s called ‘Maximalism,’ and it’s very in right now.”
“Is that what they’re calling ‘hoarding’ these days?” I tease, dodging another swat.
