Page 125 of Override

My mother's eyes had widened.

Confusion flashing across her face. Concern quickly following.

The memory twists something painful inside my chest.

Because the more distance I get from the moment, the worse it feels.

My mother lives this life too. She understands expectations. Appearances. Family obligations.

But I cannot remember a single time my father has spoken to her the way Ronan spoke to me.

Not once. I can remember arguments. Raised voices. My mother threatening to murder him on at least three separate occasions.

But not like that. Never in that tone.

The realization follows me downstairs. Into the kitchen. Into the library. Into every quiet room of this giant house.

And for two days, Ronan has done nothing except make it worse.

He's either gone. Or locked inside his office.

The rare moments we do cross paths are worse. Brief. Cold. Disappointed.

Like he's waiting for me to understand what I did wrong. And apologize properly this time.

The problem is I still don't know. I saw my mother. I talked to her. I smiled.

The thought settles heavily in my chest.

Because somehow that feels important.

Like maybe that's the real issue.

Not that I left the bar.

That I was happy.

I sink into one of the chairs in the library and pull my phone from my pocket.

The movement has become embarrassingly familiar.

Dangerous or comforting. Probably both.

The screen lights immediately. And just like that, some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

Because over the last two days, while Ronan ignored me and this house slowly swallowed me whole, someone else didn't.

The thought should make me feel guilty.

Instead it makes me smile.

I think about the ridiculous debate over cereal being soup. The argument about whether motorcycles are statistically safer than horses. He had insisted cereal could not be soup because milk lacked “the necessary savory intent,” which might be the most ridiculous sentence anyone has ever sent me.

The way Taibhse somehow manages to answer simple questions in the most complicated way possible.

He never asks why Ronan is angry. Never pushes when I avoid a question. Never tells me what I should do. He simply stays.

A laugh escapes me. Soft. Unwanted. Real.