Page 93 of Ho Ho Oh No

When the newcomers see us, they sling out excited greetings too fast for me to decipher who says what.

“Sue!”

“Leo and Sue!”

“Susie Q!”

“There she is!”

“Auntie Sue and Uncle Leo!”

In response to the sudden volume spike, Sue cups her ears abruptly. I tuck her under my arm and scowl, silently telling them to pipe down. Not only for my wife’s benefit, but for the sake of the entire hospital.

Damn, they’re especially fucking loud tonight.

And why the hell are they here? And so many of them.

I scan the room, attempting to count heads, but they’re mingling with the Redleg crew, so I give up when I get to twenty.

My brows tug in tightly as I catch sight of Sue’s eldest brother, Nick O’Malley, barreling through the crowd toward us. His wife, Millie, is riding piggyback on him. Because that’s how grown adults act in a hospital.

Once he’s close enough for me to hear him over the din, Nick teases, “Happy Christmas, ya giant motherfecker. Sláinte.”

Millie greets us with her own brand of holiday cheer—sarcasm. “We didn’t think we’d see you fuckers until tomorrow. When will our bad luck end?” She attempts an accent, adding, “’Tis the curse of the Irish.” Then she cackles at her sub-par joke while sliding down to the floor.

My angel and I will be having Christmas dinner with her large Irish family tomorrow. I cannot wait.

Yes, that was intended to sound sarcastic.

Kidding. The O’Malleys are a fun group but rambunctious. Much like Millie’s family. The one practically crawling the walls of the waiting room.

Sue’s head kicks back from Millie’s jab. “You weren’t looking forward to seeing us tomorrow? That’s rude.”

“Kidding, Susie Poozy. Don’t take it.” She puts her hands on her hips and flutters her lips. “Take it. Personal. Ly. Don’t take it personally is what I meant.”

On second look, Millie’s eyes are glassy, and her cheeks are extra rosy. There’s a slight sway to her movements. I glance at her husband, and he’s equally wobbly.

I lower myself down to their height. “Are you two drunk?”

Millie snickers. “Not only are we drunk, but yes. In fact, we’re schnockered.”

Nick rolls his eyes, tipping his head down toward his wife. “She’s steaming drunk, but I’m right as rain, mate. Unlike my pint-sized bride, I can hold me liquor.”

The overabundance of his Irish accent and slang is akin to Maury Povich’s lie detector. The results are in, and he’s utterly full of gobshite.

Saving me from having to call him out, Millie does it for me. “Pssssshhh.” She flubs her tiny fingers over his lips. “Lying Leprechaun. Cut it out, or I won’t show you my pot of gold.”

Sue can’t hold back her laugh but tries to hide it in her hand. She’s always loved the way Millie teases Nick.

When no one offers an explanation for the redheaded invasion, I cut to the chase. “So why are you here?”

“Why areyouhere?” Millie parrots, her chest puffed out.

“I asked you first,” I retort.

Sue presses her palm on my chest. “My curiosity cannot take this shite. If I don’t cut in now, this could go on all night.”

I make goo-goo eyes at her because I love it when I get a glimpse of her assertive side. It’s hot as hell.“Fair point, Mrs. Mason.”