17. Valentina
VALENTINA
Cillian arranges the test.
I find this out from Emma, who finds it out from Leo, who apparently had a brief and uncomfortable conversation with Cillian about it that Leo described as the most tense four minutes of his adult life, which is saying something given the general level of tension in my brother’s adult life.
Cillian contacted a private lab on the Upper East Side. It’s apparently a place that handles exactly this kind of situation for exactly the kind of people we are, discreet and expensive and with results that hold up in court if they need to.
He called ahead to let them know there would be four of us, and when the woman at the clinic asked if the child’s mother would be present, Leo said Cillian told him he promised all parties will be attending.
Emma delivered this information to me over the phone. From the tone of her voice, she clearly had strong feelings about it but was choosing not to share them with me.
“He assumed I’d come,” I said, still slightly shocked that Cillian actually was planning on including me. I had assumed he’d try to keep it secret and only tell me once the results came in.
“He assumed you’d want to know,” Emma pointed out. “That isn’t the same thing.”
She’s right that they’re not the same thing. I do want to know, which is why I am sitting in the back of a car on my way to a medical facility on 78th Street to watch my husband have his cheek swabbed alongside a woman from Belfast and her son.
God, my life is a fucking Maury Povich show.
The anxiety has been not only mental but physical too since yesterday.
The nausea is worse than it’s been in weeks. My hands have a low persistent tremor I’ve been hiding inside pockets and around coffee cups; there’s a tightness in my chest that comes and goes but came back fully last night.
I’ve eaten small meals. I’ve done my breathing exercises. I have been to therapy four times in the past week and I honestly cannot tell you a single thing my therapist said because I mentally was not there.
I haven’t spoken to Cillian since I kicked him out. I’ve let Emma and Leo handle all logistical things about the test.
I’ve been sleeping in the penthouse because even though Emma and Leo have a very spacious and comfortable guest room, it’s not my room.
Plus, this is my home and I will not be driven out of it.
But even so, I’ve been waking up most mornings thinking about the results and what they mean either way.
If the test comes back negative, something is very wrong with Claire Murphy’s story and I’m going to find out what it is.
If the test comes back positive—
I haven’t let myself finish that thought. Every time I get close to it, I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack, so I’ve been throwing myself in my work at the gallery.
I’ve also rearranged my closet another four times. Mamma has invited me out constantly and Emma, Leo, and Seraphina have been keeping me company.
The car comes to a gentle stop. “We’re here, Mrs. Brennan,” my driver calls.
My heart starts pounding like crazy and my mouth suddenly feels like pennies, which is a sign that I’m going to be sick.
For a second, I can’t move.
My hand hovers over the door handle, trembling.
Valentina, you can survive anything for five minutes.
Mamma’s voice slips into my mind, clear as if she’s sitting beside me instead of across town, probably worrying herself sick.
People think courage is some grand, sweeping thing, but most of the time it’s just putting one foot in front of the other when you’d rather run.
I swallow hard, pressing my lips together.
Five minutes.
I can do five minutes.
I take a deep breath and get out of the car.
The waiting room is exactly what you’d expect from a clinic that charges what this one does and caters to people who need their business kept quiet.
It’s decorated in neutral colors, good, comfortable chairs, a water dispenser in the corner, and soft music that exists only to fill silence.
I find it kind of amusing that this clinic tries so hard to make its environment soothing when the people who sit in here are anything but soothed.
At least they tried?
Cillian is already there and it makes my heart jump when I see him.
He’s standing near the window with his hands in his pockets and he looks—Jesus, he looks terrible, but also still incredibly handsome, which is so unfair.
His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hand through it.
There are shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights.
The dark purple smudges really bring out the blue of his eyes even though the bags are as deep as my Hermes purse I’m currently clutching.
He hasn’t shaved for a few days and the reddish hair is closer to a beard now, darker along his jaw.
I really hate how much I like it.
It is genuinely, profoundly unfair that someone can look this good while also looking like shit.
He turns when I come in and his eyes find me immediately, roaming my body as if checking to see if I’m okay.
A look of longing crosses his face before he has a chance to school his features.
I bite my lip and busy myself by finding a chair and sitting down.
Placing my purse on my lap, I angle my body away, hoping he can read my body language enough to not approach me.
He’s either blind or obtuse because I hear him approach. His cologne invades my nostrils and I immediately turn my head away, not able to look at him.
He sits down heavily in a chair nearby and I feel his gaze on me. I stare resolutely at the door.
“Valentina,” he says quietly.
“No,” I bite out, still staring at the door. My fingers are clutched so tightly on my purse strap I can feel the blood leaving my knuckles.
The clock on the wall makes a small sound. To Cillian’s credit, he doesn’t push the issue.
Claire and Finn arrive eight minutes later.
I know the exact number because I’ve moved from staring at the door to staring at the digital clock.
They come through the door with Claire looking slightly wind ruffled. Finn’s coat is half-unzipped, his backpack on one shoulder.
He looks around the waiting room with those watchful eyes, and when he spots Cillian he freezes.
“There he is,” Claire says to Finn, softly.
A ripple of irritation courses through me. What an unnecessary comment.
The boy isn’t blind. He can see him. We can all see him.
Cillian stands. “Hey, Finn.”
Finn gives him a small, shy wave. “Hi.”
They sit with Claire on one side of Finn, the empty chair on his other side. I am across the room on my own and I look at the door again. Get through the next hour. Just the next hour.
“This is such a nice facility,” Claire says, to the room, with the brightness of someone determined to make small talk happen despite all available evidence suggesting she shouldn’t. She’s looking around at the décor with wonder. “Very clean. Very—calming.”
I don’t bother responding because this is the last place I would ever consider calming. I am in a DNA testing clinic, and the fact that they’ve done a nice job with the soft furnishings is not something I have the bandwidth to appreciate right now.
“Have you been here before?” Claire asks me.
I can’t help myself. I shoot her a glare.
Why the fuck would I ever be at a clinic for DNA tests?
Is she an idiot? Does she think I make a habit of this?
Does she imagine this is somewhere I pop in on a regular basis?
Does she think I have some type of loyalty card with this place and can get her a goddamn discount?
How fucking insulting. It makes my blood boil.
“No,” I say sweetly. “I can’t imagine many reasons I’d have been.” I pause, deciding to be a bit bitchy. “You seem very comfortable here. I suppose that’s what happens when paternity’s more of a process than a certainty.”
Claire blinks. Color rises fast, climbing her throat, and staining her cheeks. The understanding lands a second later—and with it, the anger. Her spine straightens.
Cillian makes a sound that might be a laugh that he smothers with a cough.
“Actually,” Claire says, a little too quickly, brushing her palms over her jeans, “Cillian is the only person I’ve tested.”
Of course he is.
“Mm,” I hum noncommittally, looking at my nails.
There’s a pause, like she’s waiting for me to challenge her, to apologize—something. I give her nothing.
Claire’s smile tightens, brittle now, the edges starting to crack. “So yes,” she adds, a touch sharper, “it should be very straightforward.”
I imagine it must be exhausting, keeping track of which version of the truth you’ve decided on.
I don’t bother to respond to her. Instead, I look at the door again.
Finn leans over to Claire and says in a stage whisper, “You’re really sure he’s my dad, Mum?”
The nails of my right hand press into my left palm.
“Yes, baby,” Claire says, softly, like it’s a private moment between mother and son, instead of something she’s saying in my direction while I’m sitting feet away.
Finn peeks at Cillian with those serious eyes. Cillian looks back at him with an expression I cannot read.
I look again at the door.
“How far along are you now?” Claire asks, pleasantly, leaning forward slightly in her chair. Goddamn, does this woman not realize that I want no part of this conversation? “About three months?”
I raise my eyebrow at her, making sure she can see my disdain. “About that.”
“Such a delicate time.” She nods, the manner of someone sharing hard-won wisdom.
“I was so anxious in my first trimester. Every little thing, you know. Hoping everything would just—turn out okay.” There’s a small pause, her eyes warm and full of concern.
“It can be such a worrying time. All you can do is hope for the best.”
I hold her gaze, letting it linger.
“Thank you,” I say, with deliberate warmth. “It’s comforting to hear from someone who’s… navigated all the unknowns already.”
Claire blinks. Her warmth falters. There’s a tightness around her mouth now, the faintest quiver in her posture. Cillian coughs or laughs; it’s hard to tell.
I look back at the door.