Chapter 33
Rhiannon
Those fucking hornets are back in my stomach, and they’re all on energy drinks.
“Stop touching your fucking dress.” Clíodhna slaps my hand away from my thigh. “You’re going to make it all wrinkly.”
I have regrets. Most notably, I regret agreeing to let Robert pick me up from my parents’ house where my whole family is getting ready together.
We can’t all fit in the one vehicle, and it makes sense from a PR standpoint for me to arrive with my so-very-fake boyfriend, but I should have gone to his house.
There’s a gasp from the doorway behind me, and I know without turning to face the sound that Mum has entered the chat. And in three… two—
“Oh my God, would you look at the three of you.” Mum claps her hands together. “I know I say this every year, but you all look so beautiful.” Her voice is shaky, like she’s tearful.
“Mum, you’re going to ruin your makeup if you start gurning,” Clíodhna scolds our mother.
“Yup,” adds Aoife. “No tears, even if they’re good tears. No streaky foundation for you!”
“I can’t help it.”
I turn to face her, and as expected, her eyes are filled with unshed tears.
“I see you day in and day out covered from head to toe in mud and bruises, or in your leggings or PJs. But this…” She gestures at the three of us. “Stunning.” She cups Aoife’s cheek with her palm. “And of course you all take after me with your good looks.”
We all laugh and roll our eyes at the age-old joke in the house that we get our rugby from our da and our good looks from our mum.
She looks like a movie star stepped straight out of the fifties.
She’s wearing a tea-length dress with a vintage cut.
When the light catches the champagne-colored fabric, it shows embroidered detailing.
She’s got low block, suede heels and an heirloom bracelet from Granny McMahon, and her hair’s in a classic chignon at the nape of her neck.
Timeless, classic, and the epitome of elegance and grace. That’s Mum, alright.
She steps up to me, reaches a hand to my hair, and starts fussing. “You know, your father always thought certainty was the same thing as being right. But he’s been wrong before.”
I cant my head, my brows jumping up.
“You’ve always had good instincts, love. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Not even him.”
My eyes well with tears as a lump blocks anything from coming out of my mouth. She cradles my face with her gentle hand and gives me a firm nod. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Rhiannon Morrigan. You just need to decide what that might be.”
I can’t risk talking. I’ll cry until I’m empty, and I’ll ruin my makeup and my bloody dress. Robert is due any minute.
As though she senses my imminent meltdown, Clee steps up to Mum’s elbow.
“Can you help with this, please?” She hands her a necklace, and Mum turns to help her.
Clíodhna’s got that look again—half armor, half exhaustion.
She’s been the glue since she had the baby, and sometimes I think she’s forgotten how to be anything else.
She’s wearing a bronze, duchess satin gown with a structured corset top and a full A-line skirt, nipping in at her waist. Her long, dirty blonde hair is styled in braids pinned to the crown of her head.
She has Dad’s facial structure—a rounder face and softer cheekbones than the rest of us—but her bold red lip makes it look like she could throw down or win a crown.
Her lipstick’s perfect, but her eyes are tired in a way makeup can’t hide.
She’s completed the look with chunky heels, and I fight a giggle. With those hooker calves, she definitely struggles with balancing on a thin stiletto, but sometimes I love to see her try.
The vibes she brings to the party? Well, our Clíodhna is the sister who throws back champagne, sizes up the board members, and threatens to headbutt someone for flirting too long with either of her sisters, and especially, our older brother.
She used to be the “bad girl,” but since the baby, she’s wrapped herself in responsibility like a shield.
Sometimes I miss the girl who’d pick a fight just for the craic.
She struggles with the family patterns herself, but when she saw I was on the edge, she swept in and saved me. It’s kind of what she does.
By contrast, our chaos goblin, Aoife, has gone with drama: a dress with a short front hem, long train, tulle overlay, and feather accents.
It’s emerald green, which sets off against her wild, red hair and pale skin.
Our sister is nothing if not vivid in her self-expression. She’s impossible to ignore.
Her hair is slicked back into a high pony, and she’s wearing platform heels, making her five feet five look more like six feet.
She’s wearing statement earrings, a bold ring on her middle finger—because of course she does—winged liner, highlighter you could see from outer space, and a smirk she was born with.
She’s giving punk edge with posh finish.
She’s the one who’ll be making a social media post from the car, air-kissing the old money types, and pretending not to notice every eye following her into the ballroom. And when the press asks who she’s wearing? She usually says something like, “Confidence, mostly.”
Underneath it all, the three of us are all different versions of the same woman trying to prove she’s enough.
There’s a wolf whistle from behind Mum. “Would you look at the arse on that?”
Mum’s cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. “Michael Morrigan, you’re shameful.”
Dad cups her bum and gives her cheeks a squeeze making the three of us groan. “Can’t help it, it’s a quare arse.”
“Fuck, Dad. Get a room, would you? I don’t want to hurl before we even get our dinner,” Aoife says what we’re all thinking, but part of me loves seeing how much he adores our mother.
He may be an absolute prick on the field, but he idolizes his wife, and with every passing year, his obsession with her seems to only grow, never fade.
That’s the kind of love I aspire to have: embarrassing our grown children because my husband can’t keep his hands off me.
The doorbell pierces through the groans. “Your arsehole boyfriend’s here,” Taranis yells from downstairs, and it’s Dad’s turn to groan. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
Clíodhna finds my hand and gives me a squeeze. “If he hurts you,” she murmurs under her breath, “I’ll bury him in the back garden.” She says it with a smirk, but I can tell she means it.
“Please play nice tonight, Dad. If you can’t do it for me, do it for the team. There will be cameras everywhere.” I give him an imploring look with an edge of warning in my tone that I don’t normally use for him, kiss Mum on the cheek, and make my way downstairs.
I pause halfway down to smooth out the front of my dress.
“Stop touching your fucking dress,” Clíodhna hisses.
When I look up, they’re all leaning over the banister watching me walk down the stairs to meet Robert like it’s some kind of sixth year formal. Dad’s the only one not flashing a wide grin, and you know what? I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I had this good flurried feeling in my tummy.
On my wedding day, less than a month ago, I was sick to my stomach. I had the most beautiful dress on, all my family and friends in a gorgeous location, and I should have been elated. Taking another step, the wings in my gut flap again as shiny, black dress shoes appear in my line of sight.
A month ago, I didn’t know who I was or how I’d survive without the two most important people in my life.
But the truth is, since I stormed out of that ceremony room in Ballygally Castle in early June, I’ve barely thought about either of them.
Turns out, they weren’t that important in my life after all.
What does that say about me? Did I not care about them both the way I thought I did? Did part of my subconscious spot the red flags and start building a protective wall around me? Am I just that fickle that I can table-flip my life upside down and not give it a second thought?
Black, formal trousers appear, with a sharp line ironed down the front of each leg, and my belly does that weird leap again.
It occurs to me that despite my brother’s and father’s disdain for my date, I’m excited to spend time with Robert.
And I’m truly not sure how I feel about that.
We’ve had a few date nights, done a few Q&As to get to know the basics about each other, but what do I really know about him?
Hell, what did I really know about George?
Robert has size ten feet. I have no idea what size my asshole ex wore.
Robert likes bright and vibrant socks, like Booth from the TV show Bones. George wore the same black socks every single day of his adult life. Probably his childhood too.
A black suit jacket appears, Robert’s broad shoulders filling out a nice white dress shirt, a black dicky bow… his strong jaw, he’s shaved but left a smattering of dark hair covering the lower half of his face, and I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s rugged, and works for him.
We haven’t made eye contact, but I feel his gaze being dragged up over my dress, and his mouth drops open in a comical, soundless O.
He doesn’t look at me like he’d rather be anywhere else on a Friday night.
He doesn’t look at me like it’s a chore to dress up and take me out.
He doesn’t look at me like we’re a fake couple.
He looks at me like I’m not a woman who is lost, confused about who she is, or ticking things off a stupid list before her thirtieth birthday to try to find some kind of direction or reclaim her self-respect after being humiliated by two people she loved.
He looks at me like it’s Christmas morning, and I’m the prettiest gift under the tree.
He looks at me like maybe the lines between fake and real are fraying at the edges.
I’m not going to let my rational brain shout that down. I’m not going to berate myself for feeling floaty and giddy as a woosh of air leaves his body on a “holy fuck.”
Tonight, I’m going on a date with my fake boyfriend, and if a rule or two should get bent or broken in the process… that might be okay too.