1. Ciaran

1

CIARAN

M en always made fools of themselves around my mom.

Tall, statuesque, and a former Vegas Showgirl, blond bombshell Theresa Galbraith was forty-three but looked thirty. No one on the planet believed she had a seventeen-year-old son, to include the eager sportswriter leaning over our deli's meat and cheese glass display, asking her out on a date.

Hell, if I wasn't her son, I wouldn't believe her age, either.

"Dinner, coffee, lunch, anything , Theresa," Bruce the Sportswriter begged. "Or how about a hockey game. The Stanley Cup Finals are underway."

Bruce wore a Las Vegas Golden Knights jersey over a button-down shirt, beige khaki pants, and a pair of scuffed up brown loafers. Bruce was a tall man in his early-thirties with short dark hair and a pair of sunglasses perched on his block-shaped head. I studied his overeager face. It was only May, but a scorching heat wave hit Las Vegas two days ago, so his face was covered in sweat.

It was not a good look on him.

Mom's dazzling blue eyes flew to mine as I stood at the cash register, notebook in hand, as I worked on the outline of a detective novel. Two small dimples appeared in her cheeks and I couldn't hide my grin. Bruce the Sportswriter, who was a regular, could not take a hint.

These days my mom was less showgirl and more "scraping-by-the-skin-of-her-teeth" deli owner, complete with deli-branded visor, pulled-up hair, and a lightly soiled red apron. Beautiful, yes, but a layer of exhaustion clung to her skin. I wondered if all moms displayed the same kind of exhaustion.

Oblivious, Bruce continued. "Tickets are impossible at this point, Theresa, so it will be my treat."

"Ciaran," Mom said to me as she prepared Bruce's Italian hoagie, "ring Bruce up for his usual footlong combo meal." She turned her attention to Bruce. Smiling, she added, "It's kind of you to offer, but you know I don't date my customers, Bruce."

"Then I'll never eat here again, Theresa." Bruce's tone was earnest, like usual, and I wondered if he meant it this time.

"That'll be fifteen dollars, Bruce," I said. What I wanted to say was, Stop hitting on my mom and develop some self-respect.

He dug for the credit card in his wallet before studying me a moment. I'd had a growth spurt last year and I was now eye-level with the guy who'd been hitting on my mom for the last three years.

"Ciaran, my man," Bruce said, butchering my name to make it sound like Karen . "How goes the writing?" He glanced down at my chaotic notebook, where most of everything I'd written thus far had been scratched out and re-written. Most of our customers knew I was a budding novelist. "I've got a degree in journalism. If you need help in the writing department, I'd be happy to come by any night." Bruce shot a glance at my mom as he stressed the word any . "To help you brainstorm."

If I answered Bruce truthfully, I'd tell him that everything I wrote was shit and that it was a hopeless quest to get admitted into the college creating writing program of my dreams. But Bruce was not a friend. He was a man who used my love of writing as an excuse to talk to me and make inroads with my mom.

"What do you know about badgers?" I asked Bruce instead.

The detective in my novel was a badger —Badger Detective Inspector First Class Earl Shiremarch—investigating a casino heist.

"Badgers, huh?" Bruce scrunched his eyebrows. I could see the struggle in his expression as he finally gave up, shrugged, and lifted a meaty eyebrow. "I'm guessing you don't mean the University of Wisconsin's Badgers hockey team?"

"Nope." I slid his combo meal across the counter. "The animal."

"I'll do research tonight, after the game," he called out as he shuffled to the soda machine before heading toward the door.

Sure you will. I rolled my eyes but smiled. "See you tomorrow, Bruce."

I spent the next few hours scribbling in my notebook while tending to customers in a deli shop that had seen better days.

After Grandpa Tommy died three years ago, mom took over Tommy's Deli , but it had been—and continued to be—a financial struggle. Thankfully, Grandpa Tommy also owned the tiny one-bedroom apartment above the shop. Mom had ended the lease at our rental unit and we moved in after the funeral.

Mom took the sole bedroom and I crashed each night on the foldout couch in the living room. It wasn't glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but at least we had a roof over our heads, clothes on our back, and as many sandwiches as we could possibly want. When we first moved in, Mom cheerfully said, "When you sell your first novel, Ciaran, we'll buy a big house on the beach and read books all day."

"With mimosas?" I'd asked after dropping the box filled with science fiction, fantasy, and romance novels on Grandpa's dusty floor.

"You bet your ass we will," she'd said with a mischievous wink. It was a sweet, if misguided, gesture. I'd barely finished drafting a few short stories, let alone a novel. That said, I loved that she believed in my ability to become a successful novelist.

If only we didn't spend eleven hours a day running the deli. Okay, let me amend that—on school days, it was only six hours for me, but still. It wasn't easy working in the deli, helping my mom tend to customers, while finding time to finish homework, study for all five of my AP classes, and manage to carve out time to write fiction.

My high school guidance counselor was doing everything he could to help me knock out as many college credits as possible before graduating next year. Given the fact that Grandpa's meager life insurance money had run out and the deli was now operating in the red (Mom never kept these facts from me), I knew funds for college would be hard to come by. It was a dream— a pipe dream —to attend UCLA where my favorite author taught there as an emeritus professor in the creative writing department.

"I can always become a showgirl if UCLA doesn't offer a scholarship," I'd said a few weeks ago as we went over the deli's finances. I didn't like the furrow marring her face while we looked at the numbers. The joke succeeded. Mom chuckled and looked me up and down before retorting, "Start stretching those hairy legs, Ciaran. Maybe Bally's Jubilee! will reopen just for you."

Instead, Mom worked a high-end catering job on the side to make ends meet. Truth was, she was a natural party planner. Everyone—including very wealthy clients—gravitated toward her.

Men loved her legs. They loved her shapely arms, her long, graceful neck, her golden-blond hair and her healthy glow. When she walked, talked, even danced—which she did sometimes in her spare time at a small dance studio off of Fremont Street—it was like the air moved out of her way. She was that effortless.

On top of all that, she was funny, smart, and kind.

Mom said I took after her, which was clearly a lie—I'd never taken a ballet class in my life—but I knew it was said with love. She didn't mind all the attention, and me, well, I'd rather have my head stuck between the pages of a book.

She'd had all sorts of monetary offers thrown her way, but she wasn't one to date someone based on the balance of their bank account. Mom was a hard worker, just like Grandpa Tommy. Her mantra was, If I want to sleep with a man, I'll do it because I like him, not because he might give me money . When I told her the same thing, she hugged me tight, booped my nose, and said, "You date whoever you want, sweetie, girls or boys. Don't matter to me as long as they make you happy and treat you well."

At the time, it was on the tip of my tongue to repeat those same words to her, but Mom wasn't the type to be misled. She had a brilliant mind and could easily discern someone worthy of her time and attention.

Now, however, as the deli took on a lull, Mom pulled me aside, her expression purposefully unreadable. I wondered if our finances had taken a turn for the worse.

When Mom asked, "Ciaran, can you close up the deli tonight?" I knew something was different. She'd asked me this multiple times in the last year and each time she'd never worn such a blank expression.

No, that wasn't quite right…her expression wasn't blank, it was hidden .

She was withholding information from me.

In general, this wasn't a problem, but I'd already agreed to meet Mr. Jones tonight for tutoring. I mentally calculated how much time it would take me to get to his high-rise apartment, study for my World History AP test, and get back. My mind slumped. I knew I wouldn't be able to make it work. I could already hear Mr. Jones's disappointed voice in my head.

Reluctantly, I answered, "Yeah, sure, Mom. I can close the deli. Is everything all right?"

"I have a date," she blurted.

I was near speechless. Not one, but both of my eyebrows rose.

"With Bruce?" I scoffed. "He's just going to name-drop all the famous athletes he's interviewed in an effort to impress you."

"Good God, no." She laughed as she smoothed back her stringy blond locks. I could see her split ends from a mile away. Eight hours grilling meat and dishing up sandwiches would wreck havoc on anyone's hair. "His name is Stefon Vaulteneau. We met at an event I catered a few weeks ago. He's tall, dark, and?—"

"Handsome?" My lips twitched into a lopsided grin.

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. That said, there was something new in her expression, something I hadn't seen since before Grandpa died.

Hope.

Excitement.

Nervousness.

And my cool-as-a-cucumber mother was never nervous. That meant Stefon Vaulteneau was different.

A sense of unease wormed its way into the pit of my stomach.

"Handsome?" She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "Not particularly, if I'm being honest, but there's a certain energy Stefon emits, like a beacon of some sort." She paused then, clearly hoping to find the right words. "When I met him, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I liked how I felt about myself when I was in his company. That probably sounds stupid."

She studied my face for a reaction.

"Not stupid at all," I said quickly. "He sounds amazing."

Appeased, she ruffled my hair. "Stefon called this morning. He lives in Malibu, but has business in town and asked to see me tonight."

"Malibu?" I whistled. "Is he a celebrity?"

"No, no, nothing like that." She looked away briefly and I had a suspicion maybe he was a celebrity or Hollywood royalty. It wouldn't surprise me. Mom was something of a local celebrity herself, having been a celebrated Bally's Las Vegas Showgirl. People still asked for her picture and her autograph.

"I'm sure you'll have a great time, Mom."

She'd been on dates before, so it wasn't like I was worried, but a son would always be protective of his own mother. I asked her my usual set of questions, Where was he taking her ? and When would she be back? and Did she have her pepper spray?

Mom answered satisfactorily and I watched as she bounced up the staircase that led to our apartment to shower and glam up. It was nice to see her excited about something other than a new flavor of ham glaze.

I checked my phone.

My best friend, Raj, left a long, frantic voicemail about how he was absolutely going to fail AP World History. Raj was the smartest person at school, so I knew his terror was mostly due to the fear of shattering his parents' high expectations.

My stomach did a little flip when I saw that I'd received a text from Mr. Jones, my guidance counselor.

Mr. Jones's text read: Text when you start heading this way.

With Mom's blessing, sometimes I spent evenings at Mr. Jones's house. My fingers were jittery when I typed back: Sorry, can't come over after all. Mom's going out for the evening and I need to manage the deli while she's out.

Staring at my screen, I saw that he read the message but didn't reply. A different type of worry flooded my belly. I didn't want to disappoint Mr. Jones, but I couldn't let my mom down, either. I couldn't let myself brood over waiting for Mr. Jones's return text, so I silenced my phone and attended to customers as they came into the deli.

The next three hours flew by and at nine o'clock, I cleaned the deli and locked the store.

Once upstairs in the apartment, one second I was at the kitchen table, studying for my World History exam, and the next, Mom was shaking me awake.

"Have you been studying all night, Ciaran?" Mom asked with a light chuckle.

My head jerked up. I'd fallen asleep, a clear imprint of my face smudged against the workbook lying open before me. I was still wearing my red apron, my deli cap was askew, and I smelled like an Italian hoagie.

My phone said it was midnight.

"Yeah," I croaked out. "Or, rather, attempting to study." I glanced quickly at my texts and saw that Mr. Jones had finally replied by sending a crying face emoji. A sense of relief wafted over me. At least he wasn't angry with me. "Did you have a nice time, Mom?"

"Absolutely," she answered in a breathy tone.

In hindsight, I should have noticed the gleam in her eye, the twitch at her lips.

Really, I should have recognized Mom's alertness and the way she floated—literally floated —around our small kitchen like a ballerina as she put a few dishes away, humming a tune à la Cinderella. She looked beautiful, radiant, as if joy had made her buoyant. This was not the same woman who'd left the deli a few hours ago. Oh, she wore the same lovely gown, and her hair was up in a lovely bun, and her makeup was still expertly applied, but she was not the same.

Mom came back different.

But I was groggy, with drool on my face, sleep gunk in my eyelashes, and, honestly, I was thinking more about Mr. Jones's dreamy face than I was about my mom's date.

When something flashed in my eyes, a gigantic exotic sparkle on Mom's ring finger, I froze.

"What is that ?" I asked, my voice skyrocketing.

I stood and pointed at her index finger. I backed up and nearly tripped over the kitchen chair.

"Stefon asked me to marry him."

Mom's tone was soft but there was no mistaking the joy those words brought her. The dark kitchen was illuminated by the heft of that diamond ring's ability to reflect light. Good God, it was so big, it seemed unfathomable she could even lift her hand.

My mouth went dry and it felt like sawdust had coated my tongue.

Swallowing hard a few times, I managed to rasp out, "And you said no, right?"

Mom smiled. "I wouldn't be wearing this if I said no, Ciaran." She wiggled her hand. The ricocheting light was deafening and blinding.

The room spun before my eyes. I sat back down on the hard chair, head woozy. Mom knelt beside me. She smelled like vanilla, like usual, but I detected another scent—the spicy, sweet tobacco fragrance of a cigar.

There was a new man in my mom's life.

From this point forward, I knew I'd never be front and center. This wasn't upsetting. I knew at some point she'd get serious about someone. Even though I was about to turn eighteen, I still had one more year of high school before I left for college, and it was unrealistic to expect Mom to remain single forever.

"Congratulations, Mom." If anyone deserved happiness, it was my mom. "When's the wedding?"

"Two hours ago."

I wanted to laugh but I could tell she wasn't joking.

My world spun on its axis yet again.

I wasn't sure what hurt more, the fact that my mother eloped with a stranger two hours ago, or the fact that I was not present at my own mother's wedding. I raked my hands through my hair, knocking the visor off my head in the process.

When I'm stressed out, my mind tended to think logically or else my emotions might overwhelm me.

Sure, I could focus on the insanity of marrying a complete stranger, but we lived in Las Vegas, a town notorious for people waking up married to someone whose name they might not remember. At least Mom knew her groom's name.

So instead of focusing on the burning sting at the back of my eyes, I thought about the problem of logistics.

"Our apartment won't fit three people, Mom." I scanned the Lego-sized kitchen, the cramped living room that boasted more books than actual furniture, the squat hallway that led to Mom's bedroom and the shoebox bathroom. The excuses came easily as I ticked them off one by one. "The bathroom is barely functioning. The hot water heater is on the fritz. We'll need to replace the washer-dryer combo soon. The apartment is bursting at the seams as it is. Plus, we don't have enough dishes for a family of three. Add in a standing lamp and it will get crowded fast."

In my mind all of that made sense. She'd have no choice but to rethink her actions now.

"Oh, Ciaran," she exclaimed with a joyful sigh, "that won't be a problem at all, sweetie." She hugged me tight. "We're selling the deli and moving to Malibu, California. He owns a huge mansion on the cliff, right off the Pacific Ocean."

Mom kept talking. About cars. Private jets. Yachts. A staff dedicated to our every need. Stefon, apparently, owned lots of businesses and was insanely rich. Like billionaire rich.

Then there was something about Stefon having a son who was three years older than me.

"Your stepbrother's name is Matthias," Mom said.

My ears started ringing and I swiveled my head up. "I'm sorry, what's this about a stepbrother ?"

"And," Mom added, ignoring my bulging eyes. "We don't have to worry about scrounging money to pay for college. I know that's been on your mind, Ciaran." Mom said it as if I'd be happy. As if that was the one thing to convince me she'd made the right decision. And, in a way, it did, but I didn't want her marrying someone because of it. Community college was an option. "Apply to every college on your list, even the Ivy League schools. No price is too high." She studied me. "Isn't that a good thing, sweetie?"

The quiet anxiety in her voice pinched my heart.

Everything was changing.

There was no conflict big enough to make her worry. I looked at our cramped living situation. Mom deserved so much more than this.

I forced a convincing smile.

"It is a good thing, Mom," I lied, hugging her.

She sighed happily as she hugged me back. "Everything's going to be perfect. You'll see."

Like I said, men made fools of themselves over my mom. Myself included. That never affected me until now.