Angel's Mark

Thirty-five

Alan and I lounged in the courtyard outside the courthouse, propped up against the brick retaining wall. Alan worried at the petals of a daisy he'd plucked from the earth, while I shut my eyes and tried to find the right words to say.

Having a secret was one of the worst feelings I'd ever experienced, and it made me realize that anyone who kept so many so well—my father, for example—was someone to be wary of.

Years from now this entire situation would feel stupid. I'd laugh about it. Right?

I guess it didn't matter about what it all felt like years from now, because at this moment, the world was swaying underneath my feet. Everything within me was knotted and incomprehensible, nausea rolling within my stomach. Words that wanted to be said and didn't want to be said. It felt like I was constantly on the verge of throwing up, but I never actually did.

And I wasn't in there. Listening to Cian, easing him, providing him with the support he doubtless needed. Some brother I was. Truth was, he didn't have to tell me I was an asshole to convince me I was one.

Alan said, "Vinny."

I looked up, but Alan's face was turned away, towards the courthouse's entrance instead. The grand double doors, of deepest mahogany, swung outwards, and Cian stalked out between the Roman columns, trailed closely by Lucie. I didn't see Mom anywhere.

Cian's dress shirt was wrinkled and half-untucked, and each step he took was tense. He was barely put together, and Lucie, beside him, wasn't far from the same.

They looked at me. At Alan.

Then Lucie looked away.

There was a strained moment of silence before I realized the only way any conversation was going to happen was if I spoke first. So I asked, "How did it go?"

"Guilty," Cian answered. "Like everyone knew the bastard was."

Guilty. He was right; everyone had known. I had known. Something about the word struck me, just like seeing Dad in that jumpsuit had. There was a certain finality to it all. He really would be behind bars for a few years. He really would struggle with gaining his reputation back when he got out. And he really was everything we'd been accusing him of being.

It shouldn't have stung, but it did.

It was unseasonably warm today; I shucked my jacket off, draping it across my lap instead. "I'm sorry," I told Cian again. "I forgot, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"I told you not to say that."

I opened my mouth to speak, but was cut off by Lucie. "Oh, come on, Cian, don't be like that. What else is he supposed to say?"

Cian glanced at her, exhaled, then slid his eyes to me instead. His gaze skipped over Alan entirely. I hadn't felt any aggression towards him at all until then. The regret, the guilt, ebbed just a little, replaced by something more vexed. "He's not supposed to say anything," Cian said. "He was supposed to be here. That's it. That's all there is to it."

I took in a long breath, thought about saying something to him. But I'd be saying more than enough to him in a few minutes.

I turned towards Lucie and Alan instead. "I think we should get coffee."

Alan said, voice small, "Actually, I don't really—"

I kicked him in the shin, not hard enough to injure him, but hard enough to make him shut up.

Lucie nodded her agreement, snaking her arm around Cian to pull his car keys from his pocket. "Coffee," she agreed with a heavy sigh. "Let's."