Chapter 9 #2
From the front seat, my father finally speaks. “You’ll do this for her because it’s the only way she lives.” He doesn’t meet my eyes in the rearview mirror.
I nod once. My throat is raw.
I know.
And that’s when it settles. The final truth. This isn’t a request. It’s a sentence. The decisions have already been made.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, then breathe in once, sharp and hard.
“I will,” I tell them. “But don’t you dare make one more plan without me. Not one.” My voice trembles.
The city flashes by in streaks of yellow light. How can everything outside look the same… when inside, nothing is.
The last leg of our journey is silent. I have nothing left to say. We pull into our drive, and I look at our house differently now. It’s big enough, but nothing like the imposing majesty of the McCarthy mansion.
Inside, I step away from my parents, pull my shoes off, and walk down the long hallway, my bare feet silent against the cold wood, putting as much space between myself and them as I can.
The rule in the Kavanagh family is simple: A daughter stays with her parents until she gets married.
Old-fashioned, people would say. I’d call it fucking archaic. But fine. Whatever.
I stay. Not for them, but for my sister.
I put up with my mom. I tolerate the passive-aggressive glances, the pressure, radio silence, and judgment because I need to be near Bridget. Need to make sure she’s okay.
And tonight’s no different.
Every part of me wants to crawl into bed, bury my face in a pillow, and scream. But instead, my feet move down the long, dark hall to Bridget's room.
This house is old—an Irish country house passed down on my father’s side. Gleaming hardwood but drafty walls. The kind of place where the cold seeps in through the baseboards. At night, the wind howls through the chimney like a ghost that never left.
The floors creak. The windows rattle.
I shiver, and… I remember Cavin.
The way he slipped his jacket over my shoulders. Not kindness, something else. Obligation, maybe? Performance?
He did it because it was expected. But still… I liked it.
I can imagine my mother now, pouring herself another glass from the sideboard in the dining room, as if she didn’t drink her way through two full bottles at the McCarthys.
I knock lightly on Bridget’s door. “Come in,” she says so softly I can barely hear her. I open the door and brace myself for the inevitable. I just can’t get used to how frail and sickly she looks these days.
“Hey,” I say, my voice pitched too high. Too bright. That fake cheer I always default to with her. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she says too quickly. She’s probably tired of the question. Sick of pretending.
“How’d it go?” she whispers.
I let out a long breath.
I open my mouth, prepare to lie, but I can’t tell a lie to the person I’m closest to in the whole damn world, and I’m shite at lying anyway.
“It was… fine,” I try, but my chin wobbles.
Tears threaten, pressing behind my eyes.
“Oh, Erin…” she says gently. “It wasn’t fine.” She reaches for my hand. “Tell me what happened.”
Her room, at least, is comforting and soothing. Soft blush tones and warm white lights. Books stacked on the nightstand, spines cracked from re-reads. A candle burning in the corner, lavender and something sweet.
She’s filled the room with tiny things that make her feel human. Posters of old Audrey Hepburn films. A corkboard of photos—us, mostly.
Worn throw blankets. A faded stuffed rabbit she never let go of.
It’s her sanctuary.
“Look,” I mutter. “I’ve got to get out of this stupid dress.” I tug at the hem like it’s strangling me. “I hate it. You know how I feel about this.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling a little. “Wear whatever you want.”
So I try to pull myself together as I strip it off and grab clothes from her dresser. I slide on a pair of her yoga pants and want to cry with relief.
They don’t fit her anymore, but we used to wear the same size. We used to share everything.
I grab a jumper from her closet and peel off my bra with a loud, belabored sigh. The relief is instant.
There was a time when Bridget was so immunocompromised that we had to wear those stupid masks everywhere. I remember how they fogged up my glasses, how the elastic bit into my ears. I could barely breathe in them. And I remember the feeling when I could finally pull it off and exhale.
Taking off my bra feels exactly like that.
I tie my hair up, loose and messy, just as she gasps.
“Oh my goodness, Erin,” she says, her eyes on my feet. “Look at your feet. Let me see.”
She props herself up on the giant body pillows Dad bought her, and I glance down.
My toes are red and squeezed after my shoes dug into my skin for hours.
“Tell me about it. Why do people dress like this? I don’t get it.”
“Right?” she says, groaning.
“Why can’t we just have dinner in yoga pants? Why is that a crime? Or leggings, if we’re fancy. Take it from someone who basically lives in pajamas—these yoga pants might as well be a goddamn cocktail dress.”
“I know. Seriously.”
We both laugh, tired and sad, but it’s real. And for a second, the cold house feels warmer.
I giggle, and so does she. That sound warms something inside me I thought had gone numb.
“So tell me everything,” she says. “Were they nice? Did you guys come to an agreement?”
“Oh, we came to an agreement alright,” I say. My smile fades. She’s the reason I’m doing it. I can’t let her know how this is killing me inside.
I exhale slow, like I can push the weight of it out with my breath. “Well… Mom and Dad didn’t tell me the real reason for the trip.”
“What?” Her eyes go wide—sharp with curiosity and concern. She’s lost even more weight. How much weight can a person lose?
Her skin’s too pale, with a sickly cast that clings to her like a shadow. But her hair is still that rich auburn, tumbling in waves down her back, curling over her forehead and along her cheek. It’s lustrous and gorgeous, and I used to call her Ariel when she was little.
I sit on her bed and curl my legs underneath me.
“So we get there, right?” I blow out another breath, and my voice catches on the edges.
“And it’s… stunning. Bridget, I can’t wait for you to see it.
There’s this garden, all wild and elegant at the same time.
Cliffs that drop off into the sea. And the house…
Da says it’s worth fifty million euros. It’s unbelievable. Like a museum crossed with a palace.”
“Oh…” Bridget breathes. “That sounds amazing.”
“It was,” I tell her. “And I made this little comment about it, just a throwaway, and the mum, Caitlin—she’s like, ‘Why don’t you go on a tour?’ And guess who she picks to show me around? Guess!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Bridget’s hands drop to her lap. “No.”
“Cavin.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nope.” I throw my hands up. “Yay me. And then—it’s cold. Just a breeze, but sharp enough to make me shiver, and he puts his jacket over my shoulders.”
“Wait, what?” Bridget lifts her hand. “He gave you his jacket?”
“Yeah, but not like that,” I say quickly. “It wasn't romantic or anything. He's just… he's a McCarthy, isn't he? All polished up, raised to play the gentleman.”
Bridget arches a brow. “Go on.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say.
She’s supposed to be on my side. She’s supposed to hate him with me.
“I'm not making it anything,” she says, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Go on, then.”
So I do.
“Cavin takes me through the estate, every inch of it done up like some ancient royal family's private playground. And then… he makes a comment about a dungeon. Wait. Actually, no. I made the comment.”
I glance down, embarrassed. “I joked about it. And then he said he likes the dungeon at The Craic better.”
Bridget’s cheeks flush pink, and it’s the first color I’ve seen on her all day. She slaps her hand over her mouth.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“That’s amazing.” She laughs, coughing mid-sentence.
And then the coughing takes over. It’s harsh and rattling, and her whole body trembles with it, and I just sit there, frozen and helpless.
I wait until it passes.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head and sipping water. But she doesn’t meet my eyes. She knows what it looks like. We both do.
“So you said dungeon, and he brought up The Craic,” she says.
“Yeah. Said he liked that one better.”
“Oh my god, no.” Bridget groans, grinning through her disbelief.
And somehow, in the middle of this twisted mess, I’m glad I went. Just for this… this sister-to-sister moment with her.
“So he showed me the garden and the library. Talked about kitchens and architecture like he was some bored realtor. But then…”
Tears prick behind my eyes. I try to swallow them down, but my voice betrays me.
Bridget’s brow furrows.
“What happened, Erin?” she whispers.
“He showed me the bedrooms,” I whisper. “He said—this one’s mine. Soon to be ours.”
Bridget’s eyes go wide. Her jaw drops. She actually looks stunned.
“He did not.”
“He did.” I lean closer, like if I get close enough, she’ll understand what I can’t say out loud.
She grabs my hand.
“But you told him that’s not happening, right? You told him—”
“I didn’t,” I say quietly.
And just like that, the tears spill over. I didn’t even feel them start. But with Bridget, I don’t need to hide.
“Mom and Dad already arranged it. My wedding.” My life. “To Cavin McCarthy.”
Bridget looks like a ghost just waltzed through the window. “You’re joking.”
“No. Remember when they talked about friendship and alliances and all that bullshit?” I laugh bitterly. “They meant marriage. They meant this. They planned it behind my back.”
“Erin…”
“I have to do it,” I say, swiping at my tears.
I won’t remind her why. Won’t remind her what I’m trading away so she can keep fighting. “Listen…” My voice is so small, I’m not even sure she hears me. “Maybe this is the way it’s supposed to go. Maybe it’s not that bad.”
Bridget stares. “Who are you right now?”
“I know. I said I’d never get married.” I swipe at my eyes, and my hand comes away black with mascara.
Fancy clothes. High heels. Makeup. All of it—just another mask.
And right now? I want to rip it all off.
My phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number
This is my number. Save it. Cavin
I tap his text, hit the options, then click Block.
There. That ought to do it.
He’s not coming into my life unannounced for another fucking second.
“You can’t marry him, Erin,” Bridget whispers, shaking her head.
I draw in a shuddering breath. “I have to.”