Page 391 of Manhattan Bossholes

My gut twisted. There was something in her voice that made me think she wasn’t exaggerating.

Unbidden, I thought how I would feel if a drunk driver killed Olivia. I’d murder the fucker with my bare hands.

“But I realized that wasn’t what your da would have wanted,” Mum said. “And he wouldn’t want you missing out on something good for his sake.”

“The festival’s not that good,” I grumbled.

“The festival isn’t the O’Rourkes’, Declan—not truly. It belongs to the community. But I’m not talking about the festival,” Mum said evenly, and I realized she’d seen more in my initial explanation than I’d wanted to admit. “Would you rather sit home, nursing an old wound? Or would you rather go to that lonely, beautiful girl who’s waiting for you?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I tried again. “How do you know she’s lonely?”

“The same way I know you are,” Mum said.

I thought of how happy Olivia had looked when she’d asked me to go with her. And how quickly I’d snuffed out her happiness with my own pain. I didn’t want that for her. I didn’t want that for me, either.

Maybe I could put a pause on my feud with the O’Rourkes for one night, if it made her happy.

I ran a hand through my hair, barely able to believe I was considering it.

Clearly, I was starting to lose my mind.

It was a little scary to realize how badly I wanted to make her happy. It was an instinct that felt so deep and true that it was a part of me, like the way a bird just knows which way to fly. Somewhere along the line, Olivia had started to feel like my map. Her opinions my due north.

The problem was, I had no idea where she was leading me.

“Are you going to the festival tonight?” I asked abruptly.

“No, I just got home.” She yawned, overly casual. “I was going to have a quiet night in. But I’d love to have my favorite granddaughter stay the night. If, hypothetically, there was somewhere you needed to be.”

I glance at an old family photo I had on my desk, of all of us together. Mum, Da, Sinead, me. That photo used to show everyone I cared about. But that wasn’t true anymore. It didn’t have Catie. It didn’t have…anyone else.

I looked at that photo and made my decision.

20

OLIVIA

“Istill can’t believe you asked Declan to come here,” Molly said, shaking her head over a pint of Heineken. “Way to poke the dragon.”

She, Oisin, and I were clumped near a hedge in the O’Rourke mansion’s famous garden—famous, that is, to fans of The Deer and the Warrior. Unlike Declan’s wild, overgrown garden, this place was manicured to within an inch of its life. Hedges were orderly, trees were tidy, and flowers were organized by color.

The only thing unruly was the bonfire, which various village men were busy coaxing higher and higher. The fire was blasting so much heat, I worried it would melt the ice in my drink.

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I protested, mostly because I didn’t want it to be a big deal. I knew I should have stayed calm and talked it out with him. But as soon as he’d tried to forbid me from going, I’d seen red.

Oisin cleared his throat. “The thing is, Mark O’Rourke is kind of the worst. Everyone knows it, but if you stay in Ballybeith, you have to pretend he isn’t, because sooner or later you’ll need something from him. A house to rent, a loan, a job. The only person who always fought back was Mr. Byrne.” He sipped his beer. “And when he died, Declan took up where his dad left off.”

“So…it’s not just Declan being upset about his dad’s accident?” God knew that was a big enough reason for Declan to be upset.

“The accident is likely most of it. But it’s also about Mark O’Rourke being a proper bastard.”

“If he’s so bad, why do you come to his party?” I asked, feeling a little indignant.

“Because it’s good craic,” Molly said. “And it’s not really Mark’s party. It’s ours.” She said the last part with quiet pride, nodding to all the people around us.

People were laughing, telling stories, and eating and drinking. Two young women stood farther away from the noise, rocking their sleeping babies as they chatted. The musicians returned from their break—a fiddle player, a flautist, an accordion player, and a man with a flat hand drum. They settled back into their seats and started playing. Once the music started, people stomped their feet and sang along. An older woman stood up and start stomping and shuffling her feet with rapid fire movements I couldn’t quite follow.

It was like I’d said to Declan—like Molly had said just now. Mark O’Rourke might have been hosting the party, but it didn’t belong to him. It belonged to all of Ballybeith.