has kept Joe and Declan off their cleaning. With another glance into the kitchen, at the empty beer bottles and the disgusting smoked butts floating inside them, I’d guess that Quinn is at fault for the additional mess.
“He’s a slob,” Autumn had told me just two weeks after Declan and Quinn had returned from Ireland. Between her boyfriend and her father, Autumn had heard her fair share of complaining. “He smokes in the house when Dad or Declan’s not there and leaves all his empties and old butts around the house.
“Joe needs a maid,” I offered, understanding that Joe and Declan hadn’t had to pick up much after themselves since Autumn’s OCD prevented her from letting her father and boyfriend live in squalor. But with Quinn joining the fray, even Autumn’s clean freak ways had been squashed.
“No,” she’s told me, frowning hard, “they need to teach Quinn how to clean up after himself.”
“Teach him? You act as if he’s a third grader.”
“He may as well be. Declan said he doesn’t even know how to work the washer or load the dishwasher. Until he came here, he’d never even seen a washer.”
By the state of the place, I guess that Declan and Joe hadn’t given Quinn the first lesson and my suggested maid service had yet to be obtained.
But it was the spare room, the one near the front porch where I knew Quinn slept, that had me covering my nose.
“Oh my God, this dude is nasty,” Mollie says, pulling her t-shirt over her nose.
“Tell me about it.”
The room was both foul and putrid with dirty socks and boxers crowded around the door. Leftover food, stained clothing, or other, um, mysterious items were strewn on every surface, both floor and mattress. Mollie kicks off a load of laundry from the bed, using her foot.
“I hope he doesn’t bring girls back here.”
“No decent girl would do him in that bed.”
“Yeah,” Mollie says, sidestepping around a stack of dirty dishes, “O’Malley doesn’t strike me as the type that much cares for decent girls.”
The mess was overwhelming, but, over the stench of dirty plates, and sweaty socks, was the hint of Quinn’s cologne.
It takes several minutes of snooping but I finally find a small box among the empty suitcases at the top of Quinn’s full closet. It is a solid cardboard box with old packing tape loosened around the edges and threads of loosened adhesive hanging from the opened center.
“Anything good?” Mollie asks, then we both freeze as we hear the noise of a car door slamming outside the window. “I’ll go investigate,” she says.
Once I kick aside some empty boxes that litter the floor and use my foot to shove off a stack of black t-shirts from Quinn’s bed, I sit with the box in my lap, pulling open the folded tabs. Inside are photographs—most of Quinn with half-dressed girls, blondes, redheads, their arms draped around Quinn, their lips on his neck, his face. Those I set aside, not remotely curious about the partying Quinn had done back in Ireland or the girls he kept company with.
Behind the pictures are stacks of envelopes, some bills, some used airline tickets and then, in a leather satchel tied with a black, satin ribbon, is an official looking document that reminds me of the legal docs my dad sometimes brings home with him. It is very formal-looking, on expensive letterhead with a logo I know comes from an exclusive barrister group in Ireland. The dates and address on the thick paper tell me this has to do with Quinn’s estate and I scan the document, my gaze catching here and there at Declan’s name. It contains legal jargon that is familiar, but it wouldn’t give me any information as to why Quinn was hanging out with my little cousin.
Digging deeper, shuffling through other papers and documents, I find a small leather bound photo album. It is red with gold edging, and has the O’Malley crest stamped on the front cover.
The cover creaks when I open it and the thick pages tend to stick
“He’s a slob,” Autumn had told me just two weeks after Declan and Quinn had returned from Ireland. Between her boyfriend and her father, Autumn had heard her fair share of complaining. “He smokes in the house when Dad or Declan’s not there and leaves all his empties and old butts around the house.
“Joe needs a maid,” I offered, understanding that Joe and Declan hadn’t had to pick up much after themselves since Autumn’s OCD prevented her from letting her father and boyfriend live in squalor. But with Quinn joining the fray, even Autumn’s clean freak ways had been squashed.
“No,” she’s told me, frowning hard, “they need to teach Quinn how to clean up after himself.”
“Teach him? You act as if he’s a third grader.”
“He may as well be. Declan said he doesn’t even know how to work the washer or load the dishwasher. Until he came here, he’d never even seen a washer.”
By the state of the place, I guess that Declan and Joe hadn’t given Quinn the first lesson and my suggested maid service had yet to be obtained.
But it was the spare room, the one near the front porch where I knew Quinn slept, that had me covering my nose.
“Oh my God, this dude is nasty,” Mollie says, pulling her t-shirt over her nose.
“Tell me about it.”
The room was both foul and putrid with dirty socks and boxers crowded around the door. Leftover food, stained clothing, or other, um, mysterious items were strewn on every surface, both floor and mattress. Mollie kicks off a load of laundry from the bed, using her foot.
“I hope he doesn’t bring girls back here.”
“No decent girl would do him in that bed.”
“Yeah,” Mollie says, sidestepping around a stack of dirty dishes, “O’Malley doesn’t strike me as the type that much cares for decent girls.”
The mess was overwhelming, but, over the stench of dirty plates, and sweaty socks, was the hint of Quinn’s cologne.
It takes several minutes of snooping but I finally find a small box among the empty suitcases at the top of Quinn’s full closet. It is a solid cardboard box with old packing tape loosened around the edges and threads of loosened adhesive hanging from the opened center.
“Anything good?” Mollie asks, then we both freeze as we hear the noise of a car door slamming outside the window. “I’ll go investigate,” she says.
Once I kick aside some empty boxes that litter the floor and use my foot to shove off a stack of black t-shirts from Quinn’s bed, I sit with the box in my lap, pulling open the folded tabs. Inside are photographs—most of Quinn with half-dressed girls, blondes, redheads, their arms draped around Quinn, their lips on his neck, his face. Those I set aside, not remotely curious about the partying Quinn had done back in Ireland or the girls he kept company with.
Behind the pictures are stacks of envelopes, some bills, some used airline tickets and then, in a leather satchel tied with a black, satin ribbon, is an official looking document that reminds me of the legal docs my dad sometimes brings home with him. It is very formal-looking, on expensive letterhead with a logo I know comes from an exclusive barrister group in Ireland. The dates and address on the thick paper tell me this has to do with Quinn’s estate and I scan the document, my gaze catching here and there at Declan’s name. It contains legal jargon that is familiar, but it wouldn’t give me any information as to why Quinn was hanging out with my little cousin.
Digging deeper, shuffling through other papers and documents, I find a small leather bound photo album. It is red with gold edging, and has the O’Malley crest stamped on the front cover.
The cover creaks when I open it and the thick pages tend to stick
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