Even if the world was coming down around her, Reagan would never tell her mother anything else. She already had to deal with a drunk for a husband, she didn’t need to worry about the stress Reagan was under too.
“I’m glad. Your brother should be here soon.”
Reagan nodded. Jimmy never missed Sunday brunch, even the one time when he was hung over to the point that he threw up as soon as he cleared the entryway.
After she said the words, Isabelle’s eyes skirted past Reagan towards one of the framed pictures. Reagan didn’t have to look to know which one had her attention. It was the one she always looked to when she made reference to Jimmy.
No, Jimmy never missed brunch, and back when her other brothers were still around, they would never miss brunch either.
But that was before Conor made it clear that they weren’t welcome anymore.
Reagan had seen them maybe twice in the last seven years.
There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think about her brothers, and when she came home, sitting around the dining table with Jimmy, Conor, and Isabelle, she felt their absence more than ever. They all did.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Reagan asked changing the subject.
“Almost finished here, love.”
And even if she weren’t, she would still do it all herself. That was who Isabelle O’Callahan was. She was a wife and a mother, and her main priority in life was caring for her family. Reagan admired her for it, even if she couldn’t understand the sentiment completely.
She loved her mother and her brothers unconditionally. Her father…well she had learned to tolerate him. But she couldn’t imagine giving up everything for someone like her father—and she knew that was a shitty way to feel. He might have been different, back when they had still lived in Ireland, but now, she was only plagued with the bad memories.
“Why don’t you go and relax—wait for your brother to get here.” Isabelle’s voice pulled Reagan from her thoughts.
Seeing no other choice, she did as asked, pulling her phone from her pocket as she went. There were a couple of texts from Liam, but she didn’t bother to read them—a couple more hours of ignoring him couldn’t hurt. Instead, she scrolled through her contacts until she reached Shannon’s name.
As she clicked on it, opening up a new screen, she sent a text that made a chill run down her spine.
I saw Niklaus last night…
More than anyone else, she would know exactly who she was talking about. Shan had been the only person around that Reagan let know how hurt she had been when Niklaus disappeared out of her life as quickly as he had entered it.
Her phone chimed with another alert, but before she could read it, the front door opened, Jimmy stepping in. He looked annoyed—one of his usual expressions when he was asked to come for brunch—but when he glanced over at her, he did smile.
Jimmy came straight over, pulling her into a fast hug before kissing both her cheeks. “How was last night?”
He had wanted to stay behind and close with her, but after she insisted she could handle it, he had taken off. Now that Niklaus had popped up, she was glad she had sent him away.
She was more glad that Liam’s guy, Bobby, had already left for the night. She didn’t want to think about what Bobby would have done if he had seen Niklaus—especially with the reaction she’d had to him—not to mention when he told Liam.
Rourke might have been the scarier of the two, but Liam could hold his own. Reagan had witnessed that firsthand.
“Is that my boy?”
Isabelle called from the kitchen, sounding a touch more excited than when Reagan had come in, but she didn’t mind this. Reagan was the ‘good child’ as her father liked to put it during one of his rare bouts of sobriety. She came around to see her parents often and did, mostly, whatever they wanted—in his eyes, that constituted as good.
Jimmy, on the other hand, only showed up because their mother begged. Otherwise, if it was just their father at home, he refused to step foot inside.
Speaking of…
A crash sounded from the back of the apartment, and Reagan was immediately filled with unease as she waited for Conor to come stumbling out.
He did come, but at least he wasn’t stumbling, swaying more like it. Since the last time she had seen it, he’d grown out more of his wiry beard, his hair greasy and unkempt. The shirt he wore was stained, and the jeans looked faded—but at least he wore pants this time so she couldn’t complain.
She could smell the whiskey on him from well across the room. Glancing up at the clock, she shook her head. It wasn’t even noon yet.
But she didn’t voice this, merely pasted on a smile as she moved to greet him, wrapping her arms around him. Once, he had looked fit, made it a point to look his best, but after he’d lost his way, he’d gained a beer belly, and looked sallow.
“Reagan,” he said, only slightly slurring her name. “How’s my wee girl?”
Despite the years spent in America, he still retained his accent, refusing to let it go. It was his pride and joy, he’d always said.