Page 33 of Tangled Control

“Is that right?” Eric’s voice has a sarcastic edge. “I’ve met her boss, and if you ask me, Catriona gives as good as she gets.”

“That’s my girl!” Mum pats my arm. “Don’t let anyone walk all over you!”

My cheeks heat and guilt sours my stomach. Mum has always been so proud of my work ethic and drive. If she finds out what I am doing with my boss, she’ll be so disappointed. She’s imprinted in me, from an early age, that I should only get to where I want to be on my own achievements.“How can you be proud of your success if it isn’t your own doing?”she would say, and I know it all comes back to her own experience with my father.

Who was my mother’s boss.Mum thought she’d won the lottery of a fairytale future when he singled her out. It turned out to be anything but. I don’t ever want to repeat her mistakes.

A burst of flames from the grill has Daniel squealing. He jumps up from his seat and seeks refuge behind me.

“They’re burning the house down!” he screams.

“They’ve got it under control,” I reply calmly. “Look, the flame is gone already.”

My twenty-six-year-old cousin peeks nervously over my shoulder, his fingers nipping at my sleeves.

“What would you do if they lost control of the flames?” I continue.

“I would walk calmly out and not run,” he instantly replies. We often go over emergency procedures, and I am very pleased with his answer. “And…and I would take the dartboard,” he continues.

I snort. “You would what?”

“The dartboard,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing at the well-worn board on the fence. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent with Daniel in front of it.

“Daniel, if it’s burning around you, you shouldn’t pick up anything. Just walk calmly out,” I lecture.

“I will walk calmly out. And not run. With the dartboard.” I know I’ll never win this argument, so I just laugh and pray my uncle and Patrick will keep the BBQ under control.

Twenty One

Rian

Afamily Sunday lunch is pretty common amongst Irish families, but whereas others head down to the local pub for a carvery meal and a pint, Mum has always insisted on a formal sit-down affair. The family dining room, which is slightly more casual than the dining room where we entertain guests, is decked with silverware and linen napkins, and Mum’s ornate flower decoration in the middle of the table obscures my view of the Irish Sea and our boathouse through the French doors.

Dad is in his usual seat at the head of the table and drones on and on about responsibilities and expectations. He’s not a bad guy; I actually like him, but since I returned home, he seems to have made it his mission in life to preach every chance he gets. Mum, stylish as always in a navy cocktail dress and her favourite string of pearls –you don’t wear diamonds on a Sunday–looks at least ten years younger than the age in her passport. She pretends to be listening to every boring word that comes out of his mouth. Rosie, my normally chatty, seven-years-youngersister, has tuned out across the table from me. She’s probably playing with her phone hidden on her lap. Knox, who’s my junior by only one year, has come up with an excuse not to attend lunch,the lucky bastard.

“…and that is only one of the reasons why it’s important that the Kearney family comes across as role models—”

“Jesus, any chance we can change thefeckingrecord?”

I speak without thinking and immediately regret it. Rosie lifts her head and pushes her dark hair over her shoulder, finally showing some interest. She probably smells blood.

“Rian!” Mum gasps. “Where are your manners? You don’t speak to your father like that!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it would be nice to talk about something else besides responsibility and conduct for a change.”

“What’s gotten into you, Rian?” Dad barks and places his hand over Mum’s, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Nothing’s gotten into me. It’s just…” I know I should shut up, but the words spill out of me. My self-control is playing hide and seek these days. “How about Rosie? Let’s talk aboutherfor a change. How are your classes going? Will you pass any this year?”

Rosie’s glare could cut glass. We share the same grey-green eyes, but hers have some unusual specs of gold.

“I’m not worried about Rosie, therefore there is no need to talk about her or her classes.” Dad’s voice is like thunder, drowning the small huff that escapes my sister.

“She never passes any—”

Dad shuts me up before I can finish my sentence. “Whereasyourbehaviour is a constant worry, and until you show some change, I will continue to lecture you on conduct and responsibility!”

He throws his napkin on the table, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floor as he gets up and storms outof the room. I swear under my breath. It’s not often Dad loses his temper, the impact stark.