Ronan made sense. He was my marble sentinel, as steady as his voice. His sigh of defeat was music to my drunken ears. “Okay. I won’t hang up if you promise not to speak of Oompa Loompas. Those little orange shits give me the creeps.” I brought my knees up to my chest, curling into a dizzy ball. “I promise.” And then I started to cry and babble and sob a little more. Ronan never hung up. I fell asleep with my phone at my ear and my name being called from a faraway place that sounded a lot like Ireland.
