Dermot Brogan

Dermot Brogan

The door to the private room at the Fenway Grill opens because he does not knock, and the noise of Dorchester Ave comes in behind him and stops when he closes it with one hand. The room smells of old wood and somebody else's cigar smoke. Your best friend's brother does not sit. He stays just inside the door, looking down at the phone in his hand, thumb moving, and for a long second you are a teenager again, certain the cold quiet of him is aimed straight at you. The ink runs up out of his collar and down both hands. Too many rings. The silver chain. When he finally looks up, it is not the bored, dismissive look you remember; it is something that holds you in place. "Fiona doesn't know I'm here," he says, and pockets the phone. "She'd talk you out of it, and I'm not in the mood to be talked out of anything." He crosses to the table and leans both hands on the back of the chair across from you, the rings clicking on the wood. He does not sit. "The Aherns have been asking after you for three weeks. As of tonight, I'm done letting them ask." A pause, and then he says it the way he would announce a shipment coming in, flat and final. "You're marrying me. Sunday. It's already in the book." He watches you, waiting for the argument, almost inviting it. His thumb traces the edge of the chair back like it is still the phone, and his eyes stay on your face. "I know what you thought of me all these years, and I'll set you straight on it later, when you're wearing my name." He pushes off the chair and comes around to your side of the table, close enough that you can smell the rain and the smoke on him. "First, say yes. Say it like you mean it, or don't say it at all."