Chapter 31
Rhiannon
“Remember me?” Bláthnaid, my best friend since primary school asks from the darkness, making my heart stop in my chest. “Best friend? Ride-or-die? Person you said you’d marry if we both turned thirty-five and didn’t have any other acceptable candidates?”
With one hand, I flick the kitchen light on, and with the other, I cover my heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She flashes me a grin. “If I left my car outside or turned the light on, you’d not have come in.”
She’s not wrong. I would have kept going past my house and gone somewhere else.
“You’re avoiding me.” She points a lime in my direction before setting it back onto the kitchen table next to the blender.
Seems I’m in for a messy night. I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “You don’t have any Pilates classes tomorrow morning. We need a catch up. I leave the country for a few weeks, come back, and you’re shacked up with your mortal enemy.”
I nod as she pulls a bottle of tequila out of a bag. “You have questions.”
“Ha. Understatement of the century. But I do have one burning question that won’t quit.”
I drop my gym bag and kick it to the side, indicating for her to continue. It’s been a busy day, I had practice this morning, some one-to-one rehab Pilates classes this afternoon, and a group class this evening. My muscles are beyond warm, they’re knackered. Just like the rest of me.
“What the actual fuck, Rhiannon?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, too sore and tired from exercising all damn day to do anything other than fall into the bath and then my bed. “You first. Who was the guy you banged on your trip?”
Her face lights up as she jabs her finger in my direction. “Don’t mistake this for distraction.” Her grin widens. “His name is Niall, he’s a hockey player, and his dick is the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen. Your turn.”
“Go on.”
“Nope.” She pops the P and shakes her head. “Again, I say: What the actual fuck, Rhiannon. I know I was busy with family stuff, and we agreed on some radio silence but this… this at least deserved a text… at most a nine-nine-nine emergency call.”
I heave out a weighted sigh. “Can we do this upstairs?”
Her eyes flex wide before her brows dance. “I mean, you’re a few years early for our vows, but if you wanna rub one out.” She shrugs. “I’ll never say no to a beautiful woman.”
I hold up my hand. “I took a head-on tackle this morning, and my ribs are tender. I’m gearing up for a big weekend, and I don’t have much emotional bandwidth.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “I know, fundraiser, birthday party, Sunday dinner… I’m not new here, Rhi.”
There’s a knock on the door before someone lets themselves in. Oh God. She’s brought reinforcements. “Just me,” Matthew’s voice booms down the hall. If my sisters show up, I’m grabbing the bottle and locking myself in the bathroom until the intervention storm passes.
“At least one of you keeps me up to date.” She arches a brow, and part of me does feel guilty, but I’m too tired, too hungry, too fucking achy to care.
I think I didn’t tell her because she can smell bullshit from a mile off.
She’d have known I was developing feelings, and if she disapproved, she’d have told me.
The last thing I needed was more dissention.
The rational part of my brain screams that she might also have been Team Rhiannon, but that’s neither here nor there now, is it?
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it while I steep in a boiling tub of bubbly water.” It won’t be the first time my gay bestie and my bi bestie will have seen me naked.
Bláthnaid raises her hand. “I’m on margaritas.” She points at the bag in Matthew’s hand. “Matty is on snacks.” She shoos me away. “Go run a bath, and we’ll be up in a minute. But don’t for one minute think you’re getting away with not answering our questions, Miss Thing.”
“Mmmhmm. You can run, but you can’t hide,” adds Matthew.
By the time they get upstairs, I’m neck deep in hot, bubbly water, with tears streaming down my face.
“Oh no,” Blá whispers. “It’s worse than I thought.” She hands me a massive, plastic tumbler filled with margarita.
Matthew comes in with my bath tray with the most beautiful charcuterie spread laid out on a wooden board on top of it. “Fuck. Tears already? What the hell did you say?” He scolds Blá who holds her hands up. “Not guilty. I found her like this.”
Matthew closes the lid on the toilet and sits on it, while Bláthnaid sits on the floor next to my laundry hamper.
“Let’s start simple.” Blá’s the one to draw first blood. “The boxes downstairs, those are your ex’s, right? You’re not upping sticks and moving house?” The way her forehead is furrowed makes me laugh. She hopped a plane on the night of my disastrous wedding to go to Canada to see her family.
Neither of us have done very well at keeping in touch, but she’s been suspiciously quiet. Radio silence with Blá usually isn’t good, and if I were less self-involved I’d have realized that and reached out to her.
But at the same time, Matthew has been right here in Larne, and I’ve barely spoken to him since my wedding day either.
If I could have hidden from my sisters sometimes, I’d have withdrawn there, too. Not to mention: Croatia, rugby, fake boyfriend. I’ve had a lot going on in the last few weeks.
“Those are George’s. He doesn’t have the balls to come pick them up. And I’m not making it easier on him.” Translation: I don’t want to message him, hear his voice, or see him, because there’s a real chance I’ll punch him in the face.
“You could always add it to the pile around the road for the twelfth.” Bláthnaid takes a drink.
Matthew shakes his head. “They only take pallets. No fly-tipping, Rhi.” He’s got his stern, politician voice on right now while sipping on a margarita with not one but two paper umbrellas in it because he’s just that extra.
“We could have our own fire. A wee call to 9-9-9 could bring some hot firemen into our lives.”
That makes me smile. “I have enough men in my life right now, thanks. Too many, one could argue.”
“Yeaaaaaaah.” Matthew draws the word out. “One minute you’re banging him in the Anchor bathroom, and the next you’re East Antrim’s hottest couple.”
Bláthnaid gasps.
“You didn’t tell her?” Matthew throws a peanut at me, but I don’t catch it with my mouth.
“She did not. She hasn’t told me anything. Neither of you have. A girl goes away for a few weeks, and sleepy Larne comes alive with the best gossip the town’s ever seen, and I hear none of it. You’re terrible friends.”
My tears bubble back to the surface. “After my wedding, I wanted to reclaim my sense of self.” I sniff. “But that’s hard to do when I feel like I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. I lost one of my best friends.”
Both Matthew and Bláthnaid clear their throats and share a glance.
“Two, really, if you count George.”
Another something passes between them. “What?”
“Isla and George were never your besties, boo.” Blá’s voice is soft, like she’s addressing a child. It’s right, and for once, the mention of my ex and my ex-who-I-thought-was-a-friend doesn’t make my stomach hurt or my chest cave in a bit.
That’s good, right? Growth?
“I’ve decided I’m not going to slash his tires, or anything to invoke revenge.” I pop some meat in my mouth and chew thoughtfully. “I was going to, but I just…” I wave a hand.
“Can’t be fucked?” Matthew supplies, making me nod. “And now I’m knee-deep in this… thing with Robert.” They don’t know it’s fake, nor are they allowed to. I need to sell it to them as much as to anyone else in the world.
“It… did happen a little fast,” Matthew hedges. “You seem to really like him.” He clears his throat again. “Gotten attached a little quickly even?”
I swallow, because while it started off as fake, while I keep up the pretense with Robert that it’s still fake, the fluttering in my chest every time I think of him doesn’t feel fake. I ignore the way Matthew’s voice rose at the end of that sentence.
“I set myself a list of things to do in the thirty days before my birthday, to try to help myself move forward, to figure out who I am without those fuckers in my life. My birthday is days away, and I’m nowhere near finished ticking things off.”
My friends stay quiet as I take a massive glug of my margarita.
“Am I forever destined to be the woman who lets life happen to her, instead of choosing my own direction?” I’ve said too much.
My friends don’t know the relationship with Robert was somewhat thrust upon me, and from the way they share a confused and cautious glance, they’re definitely lost in my narrative.
“I just feel a little like I’m being swept up in the media circus, like I wasn’t given time to feel out this relationship before it was thrust into the public eye, you know?”
Slow nods, more silence.
“All I’ve ever wanted to do was be the best rugby player I could be.”
“And not disappoint Daddy Dearest.” Matthew tilts his tumbler at me. “Standing up for yourself at the wedding was a massive win, Rhiannon. Stepping out from under that crippling Morrigan family expectation? That’s huge.”
“Exactly,” confirms Bláthnaid. “Even as a kid, you were always so eager to stay within the lines, so you didn’t get in trouble with Daddy Morrigan.”
I wince. “Please don’t call him that.” The bubbles hiss around me like static, and I realize this is the first time all day I’ve stopped pretending I’m fine. My ribs hurt from rugby; my chest hurts from everything else. Still, I smile because that’s what I do—smile, sip, survive.
She grins. “You never snuck out, no underage drinking, no bunking off school. Nothing that would get your da cross.”
She has a point. It seems my father issues span back a little further than my professional rugby career.
Maybe I stopped breaking rules because every time I did, he stopped looking at me like I mattered.
And maybe I’ve spent every year since trying to earn that look back—from him, from coaches, from any man I’ve ever loved.
“And so what if you didn’t tick off everything on your to-do list in thirty days? Was that even a reasonable expectation when you made the damn list? Or did you subconsciously set yourself up to fail as usual?”
My jaw drops open, and I throw a cube of cheese at her, which she catches with ease and pops into her mouth. “No, Blá. There’s no space for logic in this bathroom, thank you very much.”
She grins at me. “So it’ll take a little longer for you to tick things off a list you made and set an arbitrary timeline to complete.
Oh, nooooo. Whatever will we doooo?” She snorts.
“Catch a grip, Rhi. You’ve freed yourself from a cheating bastard, bagged a hottie who looks at you like you invented potato bread, and you’re about to have your best rugby season yet.
You’ve been waiting for someone to give you permission to live your life, babe.
Maybe it’s…” She takes my hand. “And let me hold your hand while I say this.”
I roll my eyes.
“Maybe it’s time you just do it.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever the fuck you feel like.”
When she puts it like that, I’m not really sure why I’m crying.
Except things between Robert and I aren’t real.
The lie’s been growing roots under my skin, threading through every word I say about him.
Sometimes I forget where the pretending stops and the wanting starts, and that’s the part that terrifies me.
Matthew’s head bobs in solid agreement. “Agree. But.” He gives me his best politician’s assessing stare. “You said you weren’t going to rebound into someone else. Are you sure this isn’t just some rebellion against your dad to piss him off?”
“It’s not. He’s a good guy. I really like him.” The words come easily off my tongue because I’m not actually lying.
“He really does look at you like you hung the fucking moon, Rhi.” Matthew takes a big glug of his drink. He pins me with a look that suggests he might know we’re faking it but suspects my feelings are a little more real than not. “What are you wearing to the ball?”
I shrug. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
That’s a lie. It’s all I’ve fucking thought about, but the more I think about it, the less I know what to wear.
Matthew lights up like I told him his favorite queens are performing in the Anchor before clapping his hands. “Why didn’t you say so? This is going to be so much fun.”
Blá rolls her eyes. “You know some days you’re the walking epitome of gay best friend, right?”
He pretends to flick his non-existent long hair over his shoulder. “And what?” Not only does he not care, but he leans all the way into it most days.
“I have another question.”
Of course Blá has another question. I’m pretty sure Bláthnaid’s middle name is “question.”
She offers me a wicked grin, and I groan, knowing exactly where she’s about to take this inquisition.
“What’s Rob like in the sack?”
For a heartbeat, I picture him—his hands, his voice—and the ache that hits isn’t just lust. It’s something sharper. The kind of longing that always comes right before everything falls apart.