She gave a nod at the chair across from her, which was usually reserved for guests because it was beside her father. “Sit down if you want.”
He hesitated, then sat. “I really didn’t realize I’d be coming for a family meal. . . .”
“Don’t worry. My mom is a better cook than whoever is running the kitchen at the firehouse tonight.”
Irish smiled. “I’m not worried.”
They fell into silence for a moment.
Hannah was very aware she’d never answered his question.
“Michael isn’t James’s father,” she finally said quietly. “I’ve known him since high school, but we’ve only been dating a few months. Sometimes I wish . . .” She shut her mouth and cut herself off.
“You wish what?”
She glanced at the kitchen door. Her parents still seemed to be engrossed in conversation. She looked at her water glass. She never talked to anyone about these things, but she’d seen a different side of Irish this morning, and it had added a new level of closeness to their relationship. She always felt like an outsider at the firehouse, and now she knew he did too.
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but sometimes I wish he was.”
“You guys are that serious?”
A blush found her cheeks. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way at all. “No. Not really. Maybe. Ah—I don’t know. I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean?”
Hannah hesitated and wondered how she’d dug herself in so deeply. She sighed. “I mean, Michael would have stepped up.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am sure. He’s a good guy, you know?” She paused, surprised by the sudden well of emotion in her chest. “He’s been taking care of his brothers since his parents died. He’s the type of guy who’d do the right thing, no matter what. He’s sacrificed a lot, just for his family.”
Irish frowned. “You know, your dad thinks he had something to do with those fires last night.”
Hannah glared at the doorway to the kitchen and wanted to throw something at it. She didn’t want to upset her mother, so she kept her voice down. “My dad is an asshole. He’s looking for an easy target. Michael didn’t set those fires any more than you did.”
Irish put his hands up. “I’m just saying. Sometimes it pays to keep your eyes open.”
James came flying into the dining room. “I washed my hands, Mom!”
His sleeves were soaking wet. Hannah couldn’t help but smile. She looped an arm around his waist and pulled him in for a hug. “Good boy. Dinner isn’t ready yet. Do you want to watch YouTube videos on my phone?”
“Yeah!” He took the phone and flopped on the couch in the living room.
Irish watched this exchange. “I don’t think your friend Michael is the only one who knows something about sacrifice.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Are you the type of girl who’d do the right thing, no matter what?”
His voice was full of something she couldn’t identify. She lost the smile. “I like to think so.”
Irish shrugged a little. “I’m just saying. Sometimes right and wrong aren’t easy to identify.”
“You’re a lot deeper than I expected, Irish.”
He smiled. “Sometimes people see a big guy and they think stupid. I like to prove them wrong.”
She smiled back.
Just as she wondered if his smile meant a little more, Irish stood, breaking the eye contact. He gestured at the back wall of the dining room, where more than fifty photos had been arranged in mismatched frames. Some were old: her parents’ wedding picture, or a shot of Hannah as a baby. Some were new, like James’s kindergarten photo.
He glanced down at her. “Your mom loves family photos, huh?”
“You should see the basement.”
One broad finger touched the edge of an old photo in a faded frame. “Is this you?”
She noticed the one he was indicating and froze. These photos had been here for years, and she rarely noticed the old ones anymore. The one he’d touched featured her as a little girl, not much older than James, standing beside her father, who was kneeling. She was in a Sunday dress, all pink lace and frills and crinoline, her blond hair long and curled. Her father was kneeling in his fire gear, soot on his cheeks and hands, probably fresh from a fire. She was holding his helmet, a huge toothy smile on her face. Her father was smiling back at her as if she made the sun rise and set each day.
She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her like that.
“Blondie?” Then Irish caught himself and smiled. “Hannah?”
“Yeah.” She coughed. “It’s me. That’s back when my dad was just a fireman.” She paused. “He didn’t start training to be a fire marshal until I was in middle school.”
Irish studied her. He must have heard the bitterness in her voice. “You don’t like what he does for a living?”
“Not as much as he does.”
“I don’t understand.”