He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go, really. Didi’s house was out of the question. He felt as if he’d been sliced open with a blade so sharp he was a little confused as to why his guts were spilling onto the street. Hey, where’s all this blood from? Are those intestines? That’ll leave a mark, won’t it? Band-Aid’s not gonna help that one, pal.

He spent the night on a bench in the little cemetery, a place where Colleen wouldn’t see him just in case she drove past. The sky was black, and somewhere nearby, a stream shushed gently, counting the hours as they dragged past.

The next morning, when the sky was just turning pink, he hitchhiked into Corning and caught a bus to Chicago.

He skipped his graduation ceremony the next week. Started both jobs he’d lined up for the summer. Took his nieces to the beach. Went running along Miracle Mile.

And then one day, he ran into Ellen Forbes, a classmate from college. Also a political science major, also from Chicago itself, though not a Southie, no way. A Cubs fan and everything.

He knew her, of course. Ellen was nice. One time this past year, she’d had a study group at her parents’ apartment—a two-story, massive penthouse overlooking the lake. Her parents had been away, but a maid or housekeeper set out trays of food: lobster macaroni and cheese, filet mignon sliders, Greek salad, sweet potato fries. Wine and microbrewed beer. Ellen was cool about it, neither embarrassed by her family’s wealth nor stuck-up about it. It was what it was. He mentioned that he worked on a Forbes Properties job the summer before; she said she hoped they treated him well.

She’d always seemed happy. Pleasant. Nice. They were friends, a little bit, anyway. Ate together occasionally, always with other people, too, and took a lot of the same classes. She always said hello and chatted, the kind of easy and graceful conversation he imagined they taught in finishing school, whatever that was. She was headed for law school, too, at Northwestern.

It was about a month after graduation when she came to the construction site where he was working. It was his third consecutive summer working for Forbes Properties, and there she was, talking to a silver-haired guy in a suit—Frank Forbes himself. Lucas waved.

“Hey, stranger!” she called, and he went over, wearing carpenter shorts and an aging T-shirt, hard hat in hand, and met her father.

“Daddy, this is a classmate of mine,” she said brightly. “Lucas Campbell, my father, Frank Forbes.”

“Good to meet you, son,” the man said, shaking his hand firmly.

“Likewise, sir.”

“You work for me?”

“Yes, sir. This is my third summer here. Johnny Hall hired me.”

“He’s good people, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir. It’s a beautiful building.”

Mr. Forbes smiled. “That it is.” He turned to Ellen. “Sweetheart, I have to talk with the building inspector. Give me ten minutes, okay, and then we’ll grab that lunch.”

“You bet,” Ellen said. Her father walked away.

“I should get back to work,” Lucas said.

“Oh, sure, sorry, Lucas, I didn’t mean to keep you.” She smiled. “We should grab a drink, since we’re both here for the summer. Talk about law school.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Are you free tonight?”

He hesitated.

“I meant as friends, Lucas,” she said gently. “I know you’re seeing someone.”

“No, no, I’m...not.”

Since he’d seen Colleen with that other guy, it felt as if a hard, wooden block had filled his chest, as if that hot, soft place that Colleen had created with her very first glance at him had petrified into something unbreakable.

A beer with a pleasant woman who’d never been anything other than nice? Why not? “Sure. Let’s grab a beer,” he said.

He met her at a bar near her place. They had a drink. They had another. Two beers for him, two glasses of white wine for her. He paid and walked her home, the smell of chocolate from Blommer’s thick in the air. Talked about mutual friends, professors, the usual.

When they got to her place, a town house on North Astor Street, she asked him if he’d like to come up. He said yes. When she offered him another beer, he took it. When she told him to have a seat on her sleek gray couch, he did. Then she kissed him, and he kissed her back, slightly drunk and feeling oddly surreal.

He hadn’t kissed anyone other than Colleen in four years.

Colleen, on the other hand, had already moved on.

Ellen was nice. She smelled good. Her lips were soft.

“Do you want to stay?” Ellen whispered.

“I don’t have anything with me,” he said.

“It’s okay. I’m on the Pill.” She smiled and kissed his neck.

So he took her to bed for the simple reason that she was nice, and she was uncomplicated, and he was almost unbearably lonely.

The hard place in his chest remained.

In the morning, he thanked her for a nice time and said he’d call her. She smiled, said she had a nice time, too.

Nice. It was the only word applicable. Ellen was nice. They’d had a nice time. He’d been nice, too.

Jesus.

She didn’t seem to have any expectations, and she didn’t seem needy or desperate. It certainly hadn’t felt like his heart might stop because he loved her so much. It had just been sex, and despite the reputation of the twentysomething American heterosexual male, Lucas was finding that just sex and making love were miles apart.

Because he didn’t want to be a dick, he called Ellen that weekend. They went to a movie and he held her hand, and when it was over, he apologized. He had to be at his construction job at 6:00 a.m., which was the truth. Maybe they could do this again, since it was all so nice. He kissed her quickly. She emailed him a few days later, saying she was going away for a while with her mom. Have a great time, he responded.

Three weeks later after they’d gotten that beer, she called him and said she needed to see him. It would be best if she could come over.

Before she even got there, he guessed. She waited until he’d gotten her a glass of water and sat across from her at his tiny kitchen table before saying the words.

“It appears that I’m pregnant. And I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he said. “It’s...it’s not...it’s fine.” There were probably better responses he could’ve made, but his mind was a roaring white space at the moment.

Ellen cried a little—hormones, she said, and apologized repeatedly. She’d been on antibiotics a few weeks before, and apparently, that weakened the birth control. He told her it wasn’t her fault, just biology. She admitted to being in love with him since freshman year but knowing that he had a girlfriend back home. She wasn’t asking him for anything, but he had a right to know that she’d be having a baby, and even though the circumstances were far from ideal, part of her felt blessed.

He looked at his hands for a long minute.

“Let’s get married,” he said finally, meeting her eyes.

She made some token protestation, but her eyes lit up at the prospect.

Besides, what else was he going to do? Be a baby daddy? Hopefully get some visitation rights? His father had gotten his mother pregnant with Steph, and they’d worked out okay. They’d been happy.

He’d been raised to be honorable, despite how things might’ve looked from the outside. He’d gotten a girl pregnant, and he’d stand by her.

Just how things had become so badly butchered between him and Colleen...he couldn’t think about that anymore. He was going to be a father.

CHAPTER TEN

“MOM, LET’S GO already!” Colleen bellowed up the stairs of her childhood home. “We’re gonna be late.”

“This is Satan’s plan,” Connor said mildly.

“Oh, yeah? Got any better ideas, brother mine?”

“You could set yourself on fire. That’d probably be more productive.”

Colleen narrowed her eyes at him. “Look. She’s finally interested in meeting someone else. Take a gander, Con. This place is a shrine to Dad.” She looked back up the stairs. “Mom! This place is a shrine to Dad, for the love of God! You should redecorate!”

“You’re right, Colleen. Maybe I’ll just burn the whole house down.”

“Is she serious?” Connor muttered. “It’s always hard to tell.”

“I don’t know. You’re her favorite.”

“Don’t burn the house down, Ma,” Connor said as Mom emerged (finally) from the bathroom. “And you look very nice.”

“Are you ready to go, Colleen?”

“I’ve been ready for forty minutes,” she said. Any outing with Mom tended to be like this. Suicide-provoking, in other words.

“Have fun, you two. You’ll be the prettiest ones there,” Connor said, securing his position as favorite.

“Thanks, Mr. Cutie Potatoes.” Mom beamed.

“You know what would be so great, Cutie Potatoes?” Colleen said. “If you came with us.”

“That will never happen.”

“Why? You’re single!” Mom said. “I want grandchildren. Now.”

“I’m not going to art class,” Connor said. “Is it even art class, or is it just a meat market?”

“It’s art class. Please.”

It was art class with a side of meat market. Singles art class, mind you, and yes, Colleen was trying to trick her twin into coming along. Granted, Colleen loved singles events. Loved them! Singles events were to her what Gaul was to Julius Caesar. She came, she saw, she conquered. Granted, her search for a sugar daddy had been fruitless thus far. The truth was, she had a soft spot for older men and liked to give them an ego boost by flirting with them. Sharing her gift with the world, that was all. Looking for a serious relationship...not so much.

Mom took a look in the mirror, hoisted a bra strap and sighed. “If only your father hadn’t had a lapse in judgment,” she began.

“Dad’s Lapse in Judgment,” Connor said. “Now in its tenth year at the Winter Garden.”

“Connor Michael O’Rourke, shut it,” their mother said. “You don’t have a love that was more than a love and not realize how special and wonderful it was.”

“So wonderful, the cheating and the lying,” Con said.

“Well, yes, there’s that,” Mom said. “No one’s perfect.”

“Dad’s not even close.”

“I’m aware of your father’s many flaws, Connor. I love him anyway. If he’d come to his senses...”

“Mom,” Colleen said patiently, “Dad’s been with Gail for ten years. A third of your children’s lives. Please get on with your own.”

“I’m trying, Colleen,” Mom said, sighing as only a Catholic could. “If you’d prefer, I’ll just be the stupid, aging rejected first wife, traded in for a whore, and I’ll start drinking and become a bitter, fat alcoholic. Would that be better?”

Connor and Colleen exchanged a look. “We could give it a try,” Connor said.

And that was the weird thing with Mom. She knew Dad wasn’t leaving the Tail. Then again, he might well trade her in for a newer model, now that Gail was staring down forty. But he wasn’t coming back to Mom, and Mom knew this...she just wouldn’t admit it.

Colleen looked at her watch. “Okay, Dad’s a cheating dog, and Mom’s a martyr, and Con, you and I are emotionally scarred for life. Can we get going? Let’s find you a new man to smother, Mom. Hopefully, he’ll be a good stepfather and get me that pony I always wanted.”

“I want season tickets to the Yankees,” Con said.

“Oh, me, too. And a pony. A black pony named Star Chaser. Also, the Barbie Dream Van.”

“And a Foosball machine. And new soccer cleats.”

“You two materialistic little monsters,” Mom said fondly. “As if I’ll meet anyone. Certainly no one as handsome as your father, because if there are men like that at this thing, they’re all looking for whores like Gail.” One more glance in the mirror, one more Catholic sigh. “Fine. Let’s go. I suppose it beats staying home and scrubbing the bathroom floor.”

“Does it, though?” Connor muttered, and Colleen smacked him on the back of the head as she passed. Yes, there were times when Colleen wished she and Connor had grown up in a nice clean orphanage. Dad was a complete jerk, but he was the only father she had. Not everyone got the John Holland type, those gentle, faithful, sloppy dads who still had his daughters sit on his knee and remembered not only their birthdays but how much they weighed at birth and what Santa had brought them for Christmas when they were five.

She got Pete O’Rourke.

But Mom was trying, or pretending to try, even if it was so she could have another failure on her list— Dating: A Complete Joke, Your Wretched Father Ruined My Life/If Only He’d Come Back.

Thus, Singles Art Class.

Yes.

* * *

MANNINGSPORT WAS HOME to the Wine Country Art League, whose offices squatted between the optometrist’s office and the pizza place in the strip mall over by the trailer park. Every year there’d be an art show, and since O’Rourke’s was one of the sponsors (as was every other business in town, you really couldn’t get out of it), Colleen would go, pretend to admire the crooked mugs and plates the same weight and thickness as discuses, the smudgy landscapes depicting—guess what—vineyards—and the still lifes of—guess what—wine bottles and grapes.

But it was kind of cute nonetheless.