The thought from earlier reiterates itself the second we’re looking up at O’Donnell’s.

Slightly less of a dive bar than it was.

The barn-red clapboard exterior has a fresh coat of paint - barn-red, of course. The single wide, cloudy window across the front of the building that offers little more than silhouettes is a little less opaque - a little less streaked with grime. Though the same flickering neon Red Sox sign still casts its glow around the frame. The sidewalk outside is a little cleaner - devoid of the remnants of smashed bottles and the mountain of cigarette butts that used to trail like breadcrumbs back through the front door.

“Has dad actually been to this place?”

Sierra snorts. “What do you think.”

“An investor?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me.”

Walking inside is yet another step back in time.

This place is exactly the same - the memories of it all coming rushing back the second the lights and the smells and the sound of it all comes wafting over me.

To be fair, the floor is less sticky than it was, and you can’t smoke here anymore. Massachusetts laws may have changed long before I left home, but the patrons of O’Donnell’s back then were hold-outs. The last stand at the Alamo, with their God-given right to chain smoke Parliaments and Marlboro Reds in a haze of smoke on the line.

Things have obviously changed with Rowan running the place, but you can still get that linger of tobacco that’s seeped into the rafters and the walls.

The same jukebox with the same bizarre mix of country, 90’s R&B, and classic rock on blasts through the bar from the corner. The same Sox baseball posters with players that retired forty years ago still adorn the walls at not-quite-right angles. Okay, there might actually be more Red Sox crap in here since our brother took over.

There’s two giggling girls at the end of the bar, gushing with the bartender in the black t-shirt, the hair cut short on the sides and long on top, the tattoos on his arms, the charmer grin on his face.

I roll my eyes.

“Rowan!” Sierra snaps.

The bartender slash owner slash our brother looks up from the townie girls who look about nineteen, locks eyes with us, and grins hugely.

Oh, damnit, he’s going to-

“Oy oy! Ladies and gentlemen!” Rowan crows over the noisy bar. He reaches back for the old brass bell that hangs above the liquor shelves and starts to clang the hell out of it as I cringe and drop my face into my hands.

“Ivy Hammond is back in town!”

There are some drunken cheers from around the room, a few eyes from people who do actually know who I am - if even just by last name recognition in this town.

I cringe as Sierra rubs my shoulders.

“I mean, you knew he was going to do that, right?”

Rowan ducks under the service bar door and runs over, scooping me up and giving me a spinning hug.

“Hey, Slimy!”

I groan and punch him in the arm. “Ugh, don’t call me that.”

It’s not the nickname I hate, it’s who came up with it when I was twelve and he was fourteen.

Silas, of course.

“So!” Rowan hauls back over to the bar and ducks back under it. “What are we drinking!”

“Something that isn’t Mom’s God-awful sauvignon blanc, please.” Sierra mutters.

Rowan shakes his head with this dramatically contrite look on his face. “Sorry, Slimy, no fair trade free-union sun-warmed small distillery whatever here.”

I flip him off with a grin.

He laughs and holds up bottle of Jameson, and I make a face.

“Uck, meet me halfway at least.”

He laughs. “Beer, then? Or are you back to half-soy, non-gluten-”

“Beer is fine, dick.”

He chuckles as he reaches back for a cold glass from the fridge.

“What do want, Si-Si,” he nods at our younger sister. “Shirley Temple?”

“Har-har-har.” She rolls her eyes. “Vodka martini, dirty.”

Rowan raise a brow at her. “Remind me if you’re even old enough to be here again?”

Sierra turned twenty-one nine months ago, but I snort a laugh into the beer he slides in front of me at our brother’s inescapable need to get under people’s skin whenever he can.

“Like you’ve ever been concerned with legal drinking age?”

“Hey, I’m a responsible business owner now,” Rowan puts a serious face on as he straightens an imaginary tie.

“Dick.”

Rowan laughs as he grabs the mixing tins and starts to make her drink.

“Hey, responsible business owner,” I raise a stern brow at him. “Are they old enough to be here?” I nod at the two girls in strappy tank tops with bare stomachs and pierced navels that he was flirting with when we walked in.

Rowan nods seriously. “You know, that is a very good question, and I will certainly look into that.” His eyes twinkle as he grins.

“I take it this means I won’t be seeing Sarah this trip?”

“Sarah dumped him.”

Rowan waves a hand at Sierra. “Mutual decision.”

“His stuff was on the lawn,” she snickers.

Rowan glares at Sierra and I laugh. “Same old, same old, huh?”

He grins. “Yeah, well, you know how-”

Rowan’s face suddenly goes dark. “Oh, fuck, actually…shit.”

He looks at me. “Fuck, Ivy, I gotta tell you something.”

I give him a sour look, the glee of seeing my brother for the first time in forever suddenly giving way to the dark cloud named Silas from earlier.

“She knows,” Sierra says, shooting him a look herself.

Rowan’s brows arch up as he winces. “You saw him?”

“First thing off the ferry,” I mumble, taking a large sip of the beer in front of me.

“Thanks for the heads up, by the way.”

He gives me a rueful look. “You wouldn’t have come to Dad’s thing if I had.”

“Nope.”

“Sorry, Ives,” he mumbles, twisting the bar towel in his hands.

“Forget it, I’m over it,” I say quickly, shrugging nonchalantly. I look up to see both siblings looking at me dubiously and I roll my eyes.

“Guys, it was eight years ago.”

And I’m still hanging onto it, as much as I’ll deny it if you ask me again.

“You guys were close, Iv-”

“Rowan,” I shrug again, taking another big gulp of cold beer. “It’s not a big deal. He was my high school boyfriend. And I’m very happy with Blaine now.”

Rowan holds my gaze another moment before he nods slowly. “Okay, okay, fine. No harm no foul then?”

I sigh, grinning at him. “No harm no foul.”

“Whiskey to celebrate?” He beams at me as he holds up the bottle again and I make a face.

“I’m in,” Sierra pipes up.

“Adults only, kid.”

She flips our brother off as he and I crack up.

“You guys go ahead, I’m going to call Blaine.”

“Yeah where is that guy anyways?” Rowan looks up from the two shots he’s pouring for Sierra and himself.

“Long story,” I wave my hand, frowning at the shitty signal on my phone.

“The back office actually has the best service,” Rowan says, raising his shot and clinking it against Sierra’s. “Quieter too.”

I leave my siblings to their whiskey as I push my way through the crowded bar towards the back hallway - past the “Yankees Piss Off” sign on the men’s room towards Rowan’s office. It’s quiet after I shut the door, and I’m dialing Blaine as I sit in my brother’s desk chair.

Straight to voicemail.

I frown and send a quick “Miss you!” text with a stupid little kissy-face emoji, and then sit back to stare at the phone. I perk up for a second at the little blinking dots that alert me that he’s typing something back, but after a minute, they disappear.

I scowl, my shoulders slumping as I get up from Rowan’s desk.

The door slams open.

“Alright asshole I fixed that keg line for-”

Silas pauses, halfway through the door to the office, and about a foot away from me, wiping the grease off his hands as his eyes lock onto me.

“-You.”