She spoke so differently, so eloquently, like aprettier version of that cartoon leprechaun touting his cereal on TV. She was aforeign creature from a far-off land, and I wanted her to love me the way Iloved her voice.
“Oh, thank you!” My mother never tookcompliments well, and her thanks was a little shrill. She rested a hand on mysister’s head. “This is Kathleen, or Kate.” A hand came to sit over mypigtails, and she said, “And this is Kinsey.”
As my mother filled Mrs. Kinney in on our ages,my eyes had fallen upon a little boy, peeking through the long legs of hisred-headed father. He was blonde, like his mother, and his skin was a starkwhite in the glow of the summer sun, just like his dad. After all this time, Ihave no idea how I can so distinctly remember a little boy, not to mention sofondly. But, in my mind, I can still see the way the light breeze tousled hisbowl haircut. The way his little fingers clenched to the linen of his father’spants. The tan and scuffed sandals that poked through the lively green of theirfront lawn, and the oceanic eyes that seemed to focus on mine with an old soulintensity. Too old for a little boy.
“Ah, she’s three,y’say?Like our Patrick here,” Mrs. Kinney seemed to sing in her melodic voice. “Comehere, Paddy. Come say hi to your new friend.”
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Patrick Kinney.
Our fates were determined in that moment: yournew friend. We didn’t have a choice, did we? We didn’t stand a chance.
Patrick was pulled from behind his father withan embarrassed chuckle over his boy’s reluctance, as the strong hand pushed himalong faster than his little legs could move.
“Say hello to Kinsey, son,” Mr. Kinneycommanded in his own special voice, wearing a friendly smile and mussing up thelittle kid’s hair.
“Hello.”
I hadn’t expected a kid my age to also speak inthat special voice, like his parents, but smaller and higher pitched. I alsohadn’t expected his pudgy arms would wrap around my neck, pulling me into himfor a hug. I remember wondering why he was hugging me, and then, God, why did Ihughim?
Our parents laughed and fawned over us, as westood there on their front lawn in a tight embrace. Neglected due to her age, becausethree was the age to be, Kate had run off to play with a ball that had come allthe way from Ireland and the babies in Mrs. Kinney’s arms were there, butforgotten as they slept.
Nothing mattered, except for Patrick and me.
“Looks like we’ll be planning a wedding soon,”my father said, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his new neighbor.
“Aye,” the freckle-faced Mr. Kinney replied,followed by another rumbling chuckle.
Like I said, we never had a choice.
We never stood a chance.
CHAPTER3|
Hot Dogs & Trash Cans
There was asmall sliver of hope carryingme through the remainder of my workday. I thought there was a chance thatPatrick would forget about the money growing more and more cumbersome in mypocket. Maybe he had gotten the unlikely emergency, calling him away from thegoing out he had insisted on, and when the old cuckoo clock chimed sevenwithout so much as a rap upon the door, my hope sprang to all-out certaintywith the distressing pangs of disappointment pulsing through my chest.
I hurried to lock the door, to flip the sign to CLOSED, andjust as I was about to walk away, I saw him. He had changed out of his uniform,into jeans and a worn t-shirt that wrapped the slim frame saying he was hisfather’s son. The muscles it clung to and emphasized said he worked out andliked everybody to know it.
Arrogant Irish bastard.
I pretended to not notice him as I secured the lock, and Icontinued to pretend as I turned from the glass paneled door. He knew I had seenhim, and I knew a smirk would blanket his face as he softly knocked on themetal frame. I wondered what he would have done if I just continued to pretend,whether he would eventually walk away or not. But I knew Patrick waspersistent, always had been, and with reluctance and niggling excitement, Iunlocked the door.
“Goodevenin’, Kinsey Kinney,” hesaid in that gravelly voice belonging to his father, stepping inside as Iclosed the door behind him.
Locking the door again made me feel trapped, stuck, andlike limitless possibilities had been laid out in front of him. But, I followedthe rules, and the rules said I had to lock the door when the store was closed,and so, I did.
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
He cocked his head to the side, scratching the back of hisneck. “So, you won’t be takin’ my last name?”
My head fell backward with a groan.
“Hey,” he said, shrugging those broad shoulders, “I’m justwonderin’ what I’m supposed to callyaafter we’re married.”
“In two seconds, I’m giving you your money and making youleave.”
He held his hands up in surrender. I stole a glance at hisring finger, and I wondered if he ever missed it: the wedding ring. How longhis hand had felt naked without it, if he had agonized over pulling it off andcasting it aside forever.
