Chapter 2

Private Yes Fiona had survived a lot of things in her life. She’d survived being nineteen in a town where everyone remembered your baby teeth and your worst haircut with equal fondness. She’d survived a marriage that had emptied her out quietly, as if love could be siphoned away in teaspoons. She’d survived the leaving—the packing, the paperwork, the way the world insisted on narrating it for her. But the sight on her doorstep made her body go strangely still, like an animal catching scent of a trap. Máiréad stood front and centre, chin tipped up as if she owned the air in front of Fiona’s house. Mary was beside her, serene and lethal. Eileen hovered like a delighted prophecy. Niamh—traitor—shifted a bag from one arm to the other with the expression of someone who’d been emotionally kidnapped. And then there was Tomás Scully behind them, damp-haired, holding a packet of biscuits in one hand and a folded chair in the other, like he’d been recruited by force but decided to be polite about it. He lifted one brow at Fiona as if to say, I tried. Fiona’s voice came out very calm, which was usually a sign she was about to lose it. “What is this.” Máiréad breezed past the question like it was a fly. “We’re in.” “You are not,” Fiona said, tightening her grip on the door handle. “My house isn’t a community hall.” Mary smiled sweetly. “No, but it’s draughty from the hallway. We’ll only be a minute.” “I don’t want you in,” Fiona said. Eileen clucked her tongue. “Ah now, love. Don’t be saying that. We brought things.” Niamh held up a plastic bag like evidence. “Bread. Milk. I tried to stop this.” Máiréad sniffed, offended. “You did not. You drove.” “I drove under duress,” Niamh muttered. Fiona’s gaze snapped to Tom. “And you.” Tom’s mouth twitched. “Hello.” “This is my house,” Fiona said, as if reminding him might remind her own nervous system. Tom nodded once, all serious. “I’m aware.” “And you’re… here.” “I was told there’d be a meeting,” he said, as dry as the biscuit packet. “I assumed it would be in a public building. I now see I’ve overestimated your aunties’ respect for private property.” Mary’s eyes narrowed pleasantly. “I’m not her auntie.” Tom glanced at her. “That’s what makes it worse.” Niamh made a sound between a laugh and a cough. Máiréad stepped forward, voice brisk. “Fiona, stop acting like we’re burglars. We knocked.” “You knocked,” Fiona repeated. “On my door. To come into my house. With bags.” Máiréad’s eyes hardened. “It’s raining. And you’ve keys in your pocket that don’t belong in there.” Fiona’s stomach clenched. “How do you know I put them in my pocket.” Máiréad shrugged. “Because you’re not a fool.” Fiona stared at her. “You left parish hall keys on my door handle.” “And now they’re safe,” Máiréad said, satisfied. “See. Community.” Fiona took a breath. “No. That’s not community. That’s you deciding I’m on-call for your life.” Mary leaned closer. “Oh love, everyone is on-call for everyone here. That’s the deal.” Fiona’s throat tightened. That was the problem. That was always the problem. She looked past them to the street, half hoping a sudden sinkhole would open and swallow the entire group. No such luck. The rain had eased, leaving everything slick and shining, like the town had been polished for display. “Move,” Fiona said finally, voice tight. “I’m not having this conversation on my doorstep.” Máiréad smiled like she’d won. “Grand. In we go.” “No,” Fiona snapped, stepping forward, blocking the door with her body. “Not ‘in we go’. I’ll step out. We’ll talk here. Outside. In the rain if we have to.” Mary’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ll catch your death.” “That’s between me and my immune system,” Fiona said. “But you’re not coming into my house.” Niamh mouthed, Good girl. Tom’s gaze stayed on Fiona, steady. Not amused now. Just… attentive, like he was watching her choose herself in real time. Máiréad’s face tightened, then smoothed. “Fine,” she said with the air of granting a favour. “We’ll stand. For a minute.” Eileen peered around Fiona’s shoulder. “It’s warm in there though. Smells like tea.” Fiona’s patience snapped. “It’s tea for one, Eileen. That’s the point.” Silence—brief, loaded. Mary’s voice softened. “Tea for one isn’t a point, Fiona. It’s a warning.” Fiona’s chest went tight. She hated that they could land on truths by accident, like a dog finding a bone. She swallowed and forced her voice back to firm. “Why are you here.” Máiréad adjusted the bags on her arm. “To plan.” “To plan what.” “The fundraiser,” Máiréad said, like Fiona was slow. “Saturday. Roof fund. The hall needs repairs.” Mary nodded. “And if the roof collapses in a storm, the town collapses with it.” Eileen leaned in. “Also preparedness.” Fiona shut her eyes briefly. “For the apocalypse.” “For common sense,” Máiréad corrected. “Generators. Torches. A list of people with medical needs. A rota for checking on the elderly if the roads flood.” Fiona blinked. That sounded… almost reasonable. Which was deeply annoying. Niamh spoke up, arms folded. “They think the world is ending, but they’re accidentally doing emergency planning.” Eileen sniffed. “It’s not accidental. The Blessed Mother sends signs.” Tom murmured, “I’m fairly sure the Blessed Mother isn’t behind the price of diesel, but I’m open to correction.” Mary glanced at him, amused despite herself. “You’re bold.” Tom shrugged. “I’m tired.” Fiona looked at him again, startled by the simplicity of it. Not tired as in yawning. Tired as in life pressing down. She recognised that kind. Máiréad clapped her hands once, decisive. “Right. We’ll need tables. Tickets. Teas. And someone on the door.” Fiona’s jaw clenched. “I’m not on the door.” Máiréad fixed her with a look. “You are.” “I have a job,” Fiona said. “A real one. Where I’m on the door every day.” “And you’re good at it,” Máiréad said, as if praise was an argument. “Also, it gets you out.” “I’m out,” Fiona snapped. “I was out. You came to my house.” Mary’s tone went gentle again, the kind of gentle that made you feel like a child. “You’re out, Fiona, but you’re not… present. You’re like a ghost that pays council tax.” Niamh made a strangled sound. “Mary.” Mary shrugged. “It’s true.” Fiona’s hands were cold on the door handle. Her palms sweated anyway. “I don’t want ‘present’. I want peace.” “And peace is not the same as isolation,” Tom said quietly. It slid into the space like a knife laid down carefully. Fiona’s head turned sharply to him. “Excuse me.” Tom didn’t flinch. “You said you want peace. Fair. But peace isn’t locking yourself in and hoping the world stops touching you.” Fiona felt heat flare in her cheeks. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.” Tom’s gaze stayed steady. “No. I don’t. But I know the difference between quiet that heals and quiet that hides.” Niamh’s eyes widened. Eileen crossed herself like a priest had spoken. Máiréad looked pleased in a dangerous way. “See. Doctor agrees.” Tom sighed. “I didn’t say that.” Fiona’s voice went sharper. “Why are you even here, Tom.” He lifted the biscuit packet slightly. “Bribery.” Mary’s mouth twitched. “He brought Kimberleys. That’s not nothing.” Fiona stared, almost laughing despite herself. “Of course you brought Kimberleys.” Tom’s expression warmed a fraction. “I’m not a monster.” Fiona’s laugh threatened again—tiny, rebellious. She bit it back because she didn’t trust it. Laughter was the first crack in the wall. Máiréad pointed at Fiona. “Right. Teas and tickets. Saturday. You’ll be on the door, and you’ll stop acting like it’s an assault.” Fiona took a breath. “No.” The word landed hard. Máiréad blinked. “No.” “No,” Fiona repeated, louder. “I’m not on the door. I’m not doing tickets. I’m not joining your WhatsApp group. And I’m not having meetings in my house or on my doorstep like I’m a public service.” The aunties went still. Rain ticked softly on the pavement. Somewhere down the road, a bin lid clattered in the wind. Fiona’s heart hammered. Máiréad’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being difficult.” Fiona laughed once, sharp. “Yeah. That’s the point.” Mary’s voice softened again. “Fiona—” “No,” Fiona cut in, then forced herself to slow down, to speak like she spoke to the teens when they were about to blow. “Listen. I care about the hall. I care about the town. I’m not heartless. But I’m not… available the way you want me to be. I’m not a resource.” Eileen looked genuinely wounded. “We’re only trying to help.” Fiona’s throat tightened, and she hated that it did. “I know. But your help feels like… control.” Niamh exhaled slowly, relief in it, like she’d been waiting for Fiona to say those words for years. Tom watched Fiona with something like respect—and something else that made Fiona’s stomach tilt. He wasn’t looking at her like she was broken. He was looking at her like she was brave. Máiréad’s expression changed—not softer, exactly, but more careful. “So what are you saying.” Fiona swallowed. “I’m saying: ask me. Don’t assign me. Don’t leave keys at my door. Don’t add me to groups. Ask.” Mary nodded slowly. “That’s fair.” Eileen sniffed. “It’s fussy.” “It’s boundaries,” Niamh said sharply. “Try them sometime.” Máiréad stared at Fiona for a long beat. Then, abruptly, she nodded. “Fine.” Fiona blinked. “Fine.” Máiréad lifted her chin, like a queen granting terms. “We’ll ask.” Fiona’s shoulders loosened a fraction, surprised by the quick concession. “And,” Máiréad added, eyes narrowing, “we’re asking now.” Fiona’s stomach sank. Of course. Máiréad held up the bags. “Can we come in for five minutes. It’s wet. And you’ll catch your death out here. And we’ve brought food.” Fiona stared at the bags like they were a weapon. Her mind screamed no. Her body screamed no. But her house smelled of tea and she could feel the cold seeping into her bones. She looked at Niamh, who gave her a small, pleading look: Please. We can manage them if you let them in. If you keep them outside, they’ll escalate. Fiona looked at Tom, who didn’t move, didn’t push. He just waited, as if he understood consent in the simplest, most respectful way: a yes that wasn’t coerced was the only yes worth having. Fiona swallowed. “Five minutes,” she said. “In the kitchen only. Nobody goes upstairs. Nobody opens cupboards. Nobody—” Mary’s smile widened. “She’s giving conditions. Proud of you.” “Five,” Fiona repeated, pointed. Máiréad breezed in like she’d always owned the place, but she didn’t cross the boundary of the hallway without Fiona stepping back first. That mattered, even if Máiréad would never admit it. The aunties piled into the kitchen. The warmth of it hit them like a blessing. Eileen immediately made a noise of approval at the kettle. “Oh lovely,” she said. “She’s got the good teabags.” “Eileen,” Fiona warned. Tom came in last, pausing in the doorway as if he felt the weight of entering someone’s private space. Fiona’s pulse jumped at the sight of him there—too tall for her small kitchen, coat dripping lightly onto the mat, eyes scanning the room with that quiet carefulness. He set the folded chair against the wall. “I brought this in case someone needed to sit.” Mary eyed him. “We’re not invalids.” Tom looked at her. “No. But you’re human.” Mary’s mouth twitched, then she looked away like she didn’t want to enjoy him. Máiréad began unpacking without asking—but she did it on the table, not rummaging, not invading. Loaves of bread. Milk. A tray wrapped in foil. A tub of butter like it was gold. A stack of paper plates. A notebook. Of course a notebook. Fiona’s gaze went to it. The Auntie Council notebook. It hit her like a wave of annoyance and affection she didn’t want. “You brought the notebook,” she said flatly. Máiréad patted it. “It’s our constitution.” Niamh dropped into a chair with a sigh. “Kill me.” Eileen crossed herself again. “Don’t say that.” Niamh rolled her eyes. “If the world ends, I’m haunting all of ye.” Mary glanced at Fiona. “Tea.” Fiona stared. “Is that a question.” Mary’s eyes were innocent. “Ask me. Don’t assign me.” Niamh barked a laugh. Tom’s mouth twitched. Even Máiréad’s lips pulled slightly, which was basically a full emotional confession for her. Fiona exhaled, turned to the kettle, and poured tea because refusing would only turn this into a bigger performance. “Sugar,” Mary said. “Milk,” Eileen said. “No,” Fiona said, then pointed at Tom. “What about you.” Tom blinked, almost surprised to be included. “Black is fine.” Fiona handed him a mug and their fingers brushed—barely, a quick accidental contact. Her skin sparked anyway. She hated that. She hated her body for reacting. She hated her heart for waking up at the wrong time. Tom’s gaze flicked to her face, quick, and something in his expression softened—not smug, not flirtatious. Just… gentle acknowledgement, like he’d felt it too and wasn’t going to make it a thing. It made her throat tighten. Máiréad cleared her throat with the deliberate noise of someone about to start a meeting. “Right.” Fiona glanced at the clock. Four minutes, thirty seconds. Máiréad opened the notebook. “Agenda.” Fiona groaned. “Máiréad.” Mary sipped her tea. “Let her have her agenda. It’s her love language.” Tom murmured, “Mine is leaving early.” Niamh snorted. Máiréad shot Tom a look. “You’re staying.” Tom’s voice stayed mild. “Am I.” Máiréad nodded. “We need someone sensible.” Tom’s gaze slid to Fiona, and Fiona felt her stomach flip like a teenager. He said, very quietly, “That’s not me.” It made Fiona laugh, properly this time—a short, genuine laugh that startled her like sunlight through cloud. Mary looked pleased. Eileen looked suspicious, like laughter was the gateway to sin. Máiréad pushed on, voice brisk. “Saturday. Doors at seven. We’ll need—” Fiona cut in. “I’m not doing the door.” Máiréad blinked, then corrected herself smoothly. “We’re asking you to do the door.” Fiona held her gaze. “No.” The room went still again. Fiona forced herself not to look away. She’d said it outside. She could say it here too. No performance. No apology. Just no. Máiréad’s jaw tightened. “Why.” Fiona’s voice stayed calm, but her hands shook slightly around her mug. “Because I spend my week managing people. Teenagers. Parents. Crises. I’m not spending my Saturday doing it too, just because you decided it’ll ‘get me out’.” Mary nodded slowly. “Fair.” Eileen frowned. “But sure it’ll be fun.” Niamh laughed without humour. “Eileen, nothing in that hall is fun unless you’re six or drunk.” Tom’s mouth twitched. He glanced at Fiona, then at Máiréad. “What about a rota.” Máiréad’s eyes narrowed. “A rota.” “Yes,” Tom said. “Two people on the door, switching every hour. That way nobody’s trapped. It’s also more efficient.” Fiona’s chest tightened at the word trapped. Máiréad looked like she wanted to argue for the sport of it. Then Mary said, “That’s actually sensible.” Eileen nodded reluctantly. “Sensible is good in the end times.” Tom sighed. “We’re not calling them the end times.” “They are,” Eileen insisted. Tom looked at Fiona, deadpan. “Help.” Fiona pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “I can’t. I’m trapped.” His eyes warmed, just a fraction. “Touché.” Máiréad scribbled something in the notebook like she was writing a treaty. “Fine. Rota. Fiona, you’ll do one hour.” Fiona’s stomach clenched. “Máiréad.” Mary put down her mug. “Ask.” Máiréad’s lips thinned. Then, through gritted dignity, she said, “Fiona. Will you do one hour.” Fiona stared at her, heart hammering at the absurdity of it—this grown woman, forced to use basic manners like she was being punished. Fiona inhaled. One hour. One hour didn’t sound like her life being swallowed. One hour sounded… manageable. But she didn’t want to give in just because they were in her kitchen, just because she’d been cornered with tea and biscuits and community. She looked at Tom. He didn’t nod. Didn’t push. Just watched, calm. The choice was hers. Fiona swallowed. “I’ll do one hour.” It was quiet. It was simple. A private yes. Máiréad’s shoulders eased, victorious but restrained. “Grand.” Fiona lifted a finger. “On conditions.” Mary’s mouth twitched. Niamh grinned. Tom’s eyes stayed steady, approving. Máiréad’s patience was visibly thinning, but she nodded. “Go on.” “One hour,” Fiona said. “And I choose the hour. And if I need to step outside, nobody follows me. Nobody asks where I’m going. Nobody makes it a thing.” Máiréad opened her mouth. Tom said calmly, “That’s reasonable.” Mary nodded. “Very.” Eileen frowned. “If she steps outside, she could get snatched.” Niamh stared at Eileen. “By who. The rapture.” Eileen looked offended. “Don’t mock.” “I’m not mocking,” Niamh said. “I’m coping.” Máiréad glared them all into silence, then looked back at Fiona. “Fine. Your hour. Your rules.” Fiona exhaled slowly, relief and irritation mingling. She checked the clock again. Two minutes left. “Anything else,” she said flatly. Mary’s gaze softened. “Yes.” Fiona’s stomach tightened. “What.” Mary glanced at the empty chair opposite Fiona’s. “We’re asking you to eat dinner at Máiréad’s tonight.” Fiona’s jaw clenched. “No.” Máiréad’s eyes narrowed. “Why.” “Because I don’t want dinner,” Fiona said, then corrected herself honestly, because she was tired of lying. “Because I don’t want to feel… managed. Because I want to come home from work and be alone and not have to perform.” A beat of silence. Tom’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to perform with them. They’ll argue anyway.” Niamh laughed, genuine. “True.” Mary leaned in. “We’re not asking you to perform. We’re asking you to let yourself be looked after.” Fiona’s throat tightened. “I can look after myself.” Mary’s expression didn’t change. “Of course you can. That’s why you’re exhausted.” Fiona’s eyes burned unexpectedly. She blinked fast, angry with herself. Tom’s gaze flicked to her face, and something protective moved behind his eyes—subtle, but there. Fiona hated that she wanted it. She set her mug down carefully. “No dinner.” Máiréad sighed like Fiona was a difficult file. “Fine. Another night.” Fiona almost smiled. Another night—as if she’d agreed to a contract. She stood, signalling the end. “Your five minutes are up.” Eileen gasped. “You’re timing us.” “Yes,” Fiona said. “It’s my coping mechanism. Like your apocalypse pages.” Eileen sniffed. “Mine is faith.” Niamh stood too, stretching. “Mine is sarcasm.” Mary gathered her things, moving unhurriedly, like she’d always planned to leave on Fiona’s terms. “Well,” she said gently, “that went better than expected.” Máiréad lifted the notebook, satisfied. “Progress.” Tom picked up his folded chair, glanced at Fiona. “Do you want me to take them away now.” Fiona blinked. “Is that an option.” His mouth twitched. “I can try. But they’re strong.” Niamh laughed. Máiréad sniffed, offended. “We heard that.” Tom nodded gravely. “I meant emotionally.” Fiona’s laugh escaped again, softer, and she felt the wall crack a little more. Damn him. They filed back into the hallway. Fiona kept her body between them and the stairs instinctively. At the door, Máiréad paused, gaze narrowing. “You’ll be at the hall Saturday. Nine for set-up.” Fiona’s head snapped up. “No.” Mary sighed. “Ask.” Máiréad’s jaw clenched hard. “Will you be at the hall Saturday.” Fiona stared at her. “I said one hour on the door. That’s it.” Máiréad opened her mouth—then closed it, like she’d caught herself breaking a rule she’d agreed to. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “One hour.” Eileen leaned in, whispering as if sharing state secrets. “Bring a torch. Just in case.” Niamh rolled her eyes. “Bring wine. Just in case.” Tom looked at Fiona, dry. “Bring biscuits. They’re the true currency here.” Fiona snorted. “You’re not wrong.” He smiled—small, quick, gone almost immediately, like he didn’t want to frighten her with it. They stepped out into the damp afternoon. Fiona watched them go, shoulders loosening as the space reclaimed itself. She closed the door, locked it, and leaned back against it, eyes shut. Her house was quiet again. But her chest wasn’t. She walked back into the kitchen, stared at the mugs on the table—evidence of other people’s presence, of warmth, of invasion, of something like care. She picked up Tom’s mug last, rinsed it under hot water, and found herself staring at the biscuit packet he’d left behind on the counter like a deliberate offering. Kimberleys. A note, scribbled on the back of the receipt Mary had used earlier. Fiona—I owe you one replacement mug. I didn’t drink the tea. I merely held it. Also: migraines work, but only if you look miserable.—Tom Fiona stared at it, heat creeping up her neck again. He’d left it on purpose. A small kindness. A private one. Not for the aunties. Not for performance. For her. Her phone buzzed. She didn’t want to look. She looked anyway. Tomás Scully (private): No need to reply. Tomás Scully: But if you ever want a door you can close without a war, my clinic has one. Tomás Scully: And it locks. Fiona’s throat tightened. A door you can close. She looked around her kitchen—her kettle, her keys, her quiet—and felt something she didn’t like. Hope. Outside, the rain eased again, and the streetlight flickered on early, casting warm light across the wet pavement like an invitation. Fiona stared at her phone, heart thudding, and whispered, “Don’t.” But her thumb hovered anyway. Because the truth was: she wanted to say yes. And she didn’t know if she could trust herself with it.