“But regardless, I will be there for you. For both of you. Always,” I add fiercely.
Of course, I don’t know what I’m saying.
I don’t know where life is going to take me.
And I definitely have no fecking clue how badly I am going to break that promise.
I marry Kathleen eight months into her pregnancy, her round belly looking like the gleaming moon in the shapeless, white dress.
It’s a small, quiet ceremony at Father Doherty’s church—late December, on the heels of Christmas. Kiki radiates happiness and triumph, Mam and Elaine are fawning over her, all my brothers and sister are weeping with pride and joy, and Sean and Daniel are here with Maeve and Heather—reluctant, but present.
During my stag party, which Daniel threw, he laughed and said Mam and Kiki finally wore me down and made me propose. I sipped my drink, smiled, and told him to feck off. But he wasn’t wrong, and that bothered me.
I promise Kathleen forever, she does the same, and we exchange rings. These past few months have been intense. Kathleen didn’t want to know the gender of the baby, but spoke only of that. She moved in with me as soon as Mam came back from Kilkenny with Bridget. I was there when the peanut kicked for the first time, I was there when it started moving in her belly—especially at night, and I was there when we could see the imprint of one of its limbs stretching her stomach.
Kathleen and I turned from sometimes-shagging to always shagging soon after we found out she was pregnant. I stopped calling her Rory, but still couldn’t face her when we were doing it. Thankfully, there were enough positions from which all I could see was her naked back.
After the ceremony, we go back to our house. Kath can’t drink, and I’ve been cutting back on alcohol, too. Mam and Elaine decided to move in together, since they’re friends and since Kathleen and I apparently need our privacy, especially since we’re about to welcome little Glen into the world.
About that name.
Aside from me being surprised and confused by the choice, Glen is a terrible name for anyone under sixty-five years old, and our Glen is expected to hit that mark sixty-six years from now.
We burst into the cottage, and Kath is taking off her big, white dress, groaning as she does. She looks like a cloud in that white thing, but I know better than to say that to her.
“Have you given any more thought to selling your songs?” she asks, removing the bobby pins from her hair one by one and clutching them between her teeth as she speaks.
I shake my head and fall to the sofa with a sigh.
“Mal,” she pleads.
I turn on the telly, crossing my legs. Cash in the Attic.
Bloody hell, Glen. You’re laying it thick, now, aren’t you?
“I don’t understand you at all.” Kiki sulks, removing her bracelets and jewelry with sharp, frustrated movements. “You’re a brilliant writer. We could get good money for them instead of relying on my da’s inheritance, which is already dwindling. We could actually buy real, expensive furniture for Glen’s room, as opposed to the secondhand crap we have now. I just cannot for the life of me fathom why.”
“Because my songs are mine.”
And Rory’s. She inspired them. No part of me wants to show the world what went through my head that day I spent with her, the day she left, and everything after. All the other songs I wrote and got offers for before her are no longer relevant. Rory changed me.
Kath doesn’t know any of this—not the story behind the songs, and not that being asked about them constantly feels a lot like being stabbed in the chest.
“You’re being so unreasonable.” She gales into the bedroom.
It used to be Mam’s bedroom. Now it’s ours. We moved all our furniture in yesterday. Well, I did. Our nightstands, bed, and Kath’s huge mirror that’s tilted so she looks skinnier. (“Don’t judge, okay? Ha-ha.”)
I’ve just closed my eyes to take a few moments to breathe when I hear a shriek from the bedroom. I jump to my feet immediately. My first thought is—the baby.
“What’s going on? Is the baby okay?”
“What in the ever-loving fuck is this?”
I’m temporarily taken aback by the fact that Kathleen has said the word fuck. I wasn’t even sure she was aware of its existence, let alone able to produce it from her good, Catholic