“Even the godly have their limits, especially considering I’ve been ignoring her for three consecutive months.” He snorts.
“Mal!” I shriek, but he only laughs harder.
We arrive at a white-bricked, black-shuttered Victorian house. Mal raps the door and runs his fingers along his dripping hair. It sticks out in a thousand different directions, making him look annoyingly delicious. A few seconds pass before the door swings open and a girl who looks like a rounder, less-edgy version of me appears. Her hair is ruby red, a few shades lighter than my original light orange, but she has the same big, green eyes and bony nose and downturned, pouty lips. She has freckles, like me, and the same beauty mark by her upper lip.
But as far as appearance goes, this is where our similarities end. She’s wearing a sensible white cardigan with a long, blue A-line dress underneath. Her leggings are pristine white, like bones. I shift in my Toms and hoodie and jam my fists into my pockets to stop myself from playing with my nose hoop.
“Mal!” she cries when she sees him, throwing her arms over his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “What are you doing here? God, you’re soaking wet!”
“Kath, I want you to meet my friend, Aurora, from New Jersey.” He flashes her a big, goofy smile and motions to me as if I’m some kind of a prize in a game show.
We’re still on her doorstep, the rain pounding our faces. But even that doesn’t stop Kathleen from taking a sharp inhale, her eyes bulging when she notices me for the first time. Mal is too busy kicking the rain off his boots and shaking his head like a dog to recognize the delicate situation he’s just created.
“You said you always wanted to meet her, and she told me she doesn’t even have any pictures of Glen. Well, bumped into her in Dublin and reckoned it was high time for a reunion. Thank me later.” He winks, knocking his shoulder against hers, his fists stuffed in his jacket pockets.
So my mom was right about one thing. Men do have the emotional intelligence of underdeveloped bricks.
I blink at her, refusing to dwell on the fact that Father Doherty insisted she didn’t want to see anyone, yet Mal says she’s been dying to meet me. Only one of those things is true, and I have my hunch.
Kathleen assesses me—not that I can blame her, it is a bombshell—and I immediately feel guilty for going against Father Doherty’s word. She shakes her head, snaps out of it, smiles, and flings her arms around me in a hug, throwing herself into the rain. I stagger back and return a squeeze.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” She crushes my bones with her hug.
I melt into her and burst into laughter and tears at the same time. It’s a total case of emotional diarrhea, but it’s not every day you meet your half-sister for the first time.
“You’re both drenched! Come! Shall I make some tea?” She disconnects from me, tugs my hand, and ushers us inside, padding to the bathroom and coming back with two warm towels. We wrap ourselves gratefully.
“Tea!” Mal exclaims, like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard in his life. “The magic word. Rory, did you know Kath makes a mean cup of tea? Best in the county. No joke.”
Kath swats Mal on the chest and giggles like a schoolgirl on our way to the kitchen. We follow a narrow hallway with coats and scarves piled on hangers. Everything is small and neat and cozy. The house has a ’70s feeling to it, with green wallpaper, brown furnishings, and yellow lights. It is soaked with familiarity. Fully inhabited—not just a space with furniture like Mom’s house in New Jersey.
“Country, not county,” Mal amends.
Kathleen swats Mal’s shoulder and keeps her hand on him, possessively. Sighing like it’s a job, he captures her wrist, turning her around and pinning her against the hallway wall in one swift movement. I halt, watching the situation unfold. He holds her like a farmer holds cattle, rough and without passion, but she is breathing hard. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dripping lust, daring him to make another move. She lets out a little moan, flinching at her own lack of control and turning bright red. He looks down at her like she’s a chewed toy. The familiar, old type that is too nostalgic to throw away, but no