Page 43 of Lyrebird

‘Seriously, I overhead a conversation between Mam and Dad about you being gay.’

‘Shut up,’ Donal says, pretending not to care but dropping the phone.

Solomon picks it up. Thirty-two photos of his own bollox on his phone.

Donal changes the subject. ‘Mam said you were in Boston. How did that go?’

‘The Irish Globe gave us an award.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So you’re happy.’

‘I’m always happy.’

‘So are you going to marry her?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘What’s with the blonde?’ he repeats his opening question.

‘Laura.’

‘What’s with Laura?’

Solomon fills him in on Laura’s background and her lyrebird qualities, everything he knows about her.

‘Why wouldn’t she go to Dublin with Bo?’

‘Because she wanted to stay with me. I was the person who found her. She trusts me,’ he shrugs. ‘Go on, tell me it’s weird.’

‘It’s not.’

Solomon searches his face for the sarcasm.

‘Man, would you put your jocks on.’ He throws a pillow at him.

‘This is what you get for taking photos of my cock. I’m going to text it to you and you can stare at it all you like.’

The door opens and two more brothers squeeze through the doorway. ‘Wahay!’ they all cheer, bundling into the room with a six-pack of beer.

Solomon laughs and catches the boxers Donal throws at him.

‘What’s going on here?’ his eldest brother Cormac asks, looking Solomon up and down. ‘Nice bollox.’

‘Your date is standing at the window of the orchid room imitating cuckoos,’ his youngest brother Rory says, opening the bottle’s cap with his teeth.

‘Yeah. And?’ Solomon tenses up. He slides his legs into his jeans and faces them all, ready to fight, ready to defend. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d punched any of them in the face.

‘And. She’s hot,’ Rory says with a grin, and passes him a bottle.

Going downstairs, Laura hears the sounds of the crowds and stalls a little in fear. The brothers notice but keep on going without a word, which Solomon appreciates. If it was Bo they would never have let her go, probably would have picked her up and carried her down over their heads themselves.

‘It’s okay, I promise,’ Solomon says gently. He wants to place his hand on her waist, guide her, he wants to take her hand. But he doesn’t do any of those things. He looks down at her, seeing the light freckles on her nose through her long lashes. She did change her clothes after all, a dress that she must have made herself. A simple design, long sleeves, but short hemline. Different fabrics sewn together. When she moved to the Toolin cottage she obviously moved with the garage of fabrics.

‘You’ll stay with me?’ she asks him, looking up.