A memory blossomed, unbidden, behind his closed eyelids. One thirty in the morning, when he and Theo had stepped out of their favorite club in Cork into the alley. Theo had convinced his boss to set up fairy lights and a few tables, but this night—a Saturday in July—the entire walkway was crammed with people, and the music flowing out of the club was blasting at maximum volume, and the whole place smelled of apples and malt and tar and hash. They’d been trying to find a space to talk, but a crowd of drunk university kids pushed Theo right up against Jack, Jack right up against the wall.

Bowie’s “Rock ’n’ Roll with Me” came on. One more shove from behind, and Theo’s thigh was between Jack’s legs, and Jack’s head fell back against the brick, and somehow all of that emptiness, all of the rivalry, all of the burdens, all of the things they’d carried as unloved children—they were nothing. It was just a fine mist and a golden light and the muscle of Theo’s thigh and the realization that yes, this. This man. This place.

They moved against each other, trying not to draw attention, trying desperately not to laugh, and Jack came so hard that his vision blacked out around the edges.

He had never been happier.

And he had never, not for one moment—not when she kissed him the first time on the blue-check blanket in the spring sunshine, not when they placed Johnny in her bassinet, not when they celebrated Christmas with all the Daughertys, not even when he watched her play field hockey with ferocity, her red hair burning up the blue sky—felt that way about Meg.

“Well...” Quinn interrupted his internal monologue, and thank God; Jack was dangerously close to crying. “I think it’s about time to put this little one to bed.”

He picked up Jules, tucking a few curls behind his ears, and then leaned over to pat Jack’s cheek. “You’re going to be all right, Jack. So is Meg.” Jules squirmed, and Quinn looked like he might turn away, but then he placed a firm hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, after all.”

And then he winked, threw one last comment over his shoulder.

“Welcome to the team.”

Jack laughed, thick, “Thanks, Quinn.”

He blinked and cleared his throat. Dare let him compose himself, getting up and pouring them glasses of merlot.

“Have a drink.” He placed a hand-blown glass in front of Jack.

He did, the wine acidic in his mouth. “Fuck, Dare. I’ve been so stupid.”

“It’s all right.” He took a big sip of merlot and licked his lips. “I think we all have a right to be stupid, every once in a while.”

Jack laughed again, a little bitter this time. “Yeah?”

“We know where you came from, hon.”