When Jack and Theo thought about this undiscovered path, they couldn’t be sure, really, if they would have run away—if they would have shared that tiny apartment in Cork, or had a scalding hot bath in a fancy hotel, or fucked with such frenzy against the wall of a nightclub. Theo wondered if he would have learned the value of plain, hard work, scrubbing floors and counting the till. And Jack thought that maybe he wouldn’t have his three children—four, now, counting Jazz—whom he loved so completely. Both of them longed so hungrily for a better past, a history which didn’t hurt so damned much, and Theo dreamed about a life without the scar on his lip and the heavy press of his father’s hand; Jack craved parents who cared.

Nothing could ever excuse that pain, nothing could justify it, and there was no “but” at the end of that sentence. They had been children and they had been wronged. They were the amalgamation, the culmination of all of those things, the hurtful things; could there ever be any justification? Any prize which made that all worth it?

The mystery of those other lives was not for them to know.

Not for us to know about our own.

But there, in the beautiful apartment secured by Franklin’s generosity of spirit, his willingness to love an unloved child—there, wrapped up in a new kind of forever, Theo resting in Jack’s arms, finally uninjured—they loved each other with all of that history and the sorrow and the ecstasy borne of choices they’d had to make. They were happy, finally, and they didn’t take it for granted.

And they loved their children as they should have been loved.

And that was just the way it was.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, deep gratitude for Mackenzie Walton, my lovely editor, and Carina Press for getting my first novel out there in the world. Eternal thanks to George Shafer, the best friend of my young adulthood, who put up with my insane, manic, irate typing and reminded me to eat and sleep every once in a while. Gratitude always for Jamie MacGillis, my platonic soul mate, who has listened to and believed in me on my best days and my worst. Thanks also to Meredith Shafer, who provided such genuine excitement and support as this novel started pouring out of me at a rapid and alarming pace. To my mother, Julia McCready, words just aren’t enough—thank you for being my first reader, and sorry (not sorry) for the naughty bits; and to my father, Richard McCready, thank you for the gifts of David Bowie, Ireland, and true parental love. And finally, thank you to PJ Chwazik, the most demanding partner in the universe, for inspiring my ambition and never letting me get away with being less than who I am. I love you all.

About the Author

About the Author