Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
brIDGET
Time goes so much slower when you're paying attention to it. When you're praying that every second doesn't devolve into another symptom.
When you're cataloging every hour you didn't hear from someone, dividing it into morning and afternoon, and the particular awfulness of three a.m.
I mean, I’m not proud of it. I'm trying. I'm… doing other things.
Like lying on the sofa at eleven a.m. on a Tuesday morning because the idea of standing up for any sustained period has lost its appeal.
Like stalking Valentina’s socials again, mad at myself for being angry that she hasn’t posted a thing about Declan, the party, or the engagement, and I know full well if she did, that would piss me off even more.
But how can she post her perfect life in vivid detail and leave out the most important part? She hasn’t posted a damn thing. Hell, maybe Seamus made her promise not to.
My phone rings, and I look at the name. Erin.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Just calling to check in on you.”
“I’m alright. Could use some good news. Tell me you have good news, sis. Did you look into Esposito’s money? Is it tied to the Boston traitors?”
“Why would that be good news? We want it to be clean.”
I don’t elaborate.
“Well, is it?”
“It’s clean. The second payment was laundered, but through McCarthy enterprises.”
“Oh.” Disappointment stabs through me. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.
“Right. Was just checking in on you. Talk soon?”
“Love you.”
I consider refreshing my feed, but instead go back to eating bland crackers while staring at the ceiling, googling what Bronwyn told me her da has. Because if I google mine, I know exactly what I’ll find, and it might be nice if the focus was on someone else for a minute.
I know this nausea. I've had this nausea.
It's the kind my body likes to produce when things aren't going the way they're supposed to, and I'm not going to think about that now.
I'm going to eat another cracker and think about something else—not the glossy wedding invitation Erin has pinned to her refrigerator with a magnet, or the way Declan insists on texting me, as if nothing’s changed even though everything has.
I mean, he just met her, and I know he'll try because that's who he is—a McCarthy who’s ruthless and scary when he needs to be, but still holds doors open and means it, raised by a woman who wouldn't have it any other way.
But will she ever know him? Actually know him?
The way I do?
Will she know that he graduated late from school because no one figured out until third class that he needed help with his reading? That he never once talked about it as something that happened to him but as something he sorted?
Will she know about the cakes? The truly appalling, deeply committed relationship he has with cheap, packaged shite, which he eats without shame in the front seat of a very expensive car and stuffs the cellophane wrapping by fistfuls in his pockets like a child? And that it’s… adorable?
Will she know he kayaks, that it's the one thing he does entirely alone, and that I think is the only time he stops performing? He says he can think and breathe when he’s alone, surrounded by water and lapping waves.
Will she know that when he laughs, it starts in his chest before it reaches his face, and that there's about a half second when you can see it arriving, and it's the best half second in any room he's ever been in? And that it’s literally impossible to hear Declan McCarthy laugh and not join in?
Probably not. She'll get the suit and the charm and the McCarthy name. The rest of it takes years. It took me years.
I've had the years. That's the problem.
Will she know how he kisses? Like the kiss is the destination, not the preamble. Like he's been thinking about exactly this, and he's in absolutely no rush to be anywhere else.
Will she know that he knows how to braid hair?
That he learned because his sister kept asking and he kept saying no.
Then one afternoon, he just learned because that's how he does everything he decides to do.
Will she know he'll sit behind you on the sofa with his big hands in your hair, completely focused, like it's the most important job in the room?
Will she know that if you're on your period and cramping, trying to pretend you're fine, he'll cook you a steak seared in butter, exactly right, with the good crusty bread, and set it in front of you without a word, without making it a thing, without asking for any credit for it?
And will she ever know that his… that his hands are impossibly warm, and when you have cramps, he'll press them to your lower back or belly without being asked, without hesitation, with the particular steadiness of someone who has decided you're not going to be in pain if he has anything to say about it?
She might find out, and I'll be the one who already knows, and there is absolutely nothing I can do with that information except lie here on this sofa, eating crackers.
Oh, Declan.
And then I’m pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes because I will not cry, not again. I can’t have Declan, and I’ve always known that.
My phone vibrates on the cushion next to me. I don't look at it immediately. I'm very mature… I'm very reserved… I'm very… reaching for the phone as soon as it buzzes again to see if it's him.
Declan
How are you getting on?
Sigh.
Grand. You?
Declan
That’s it? Grand? We hardly spoke at the party
It was a big night. Lots going on. She's beautiful, by the way. Your fiancée. I mean that she really is.
The dots appear, then stop, then appear again.
Declan
Have you eaten today?
Yes obviously I've eaten. I'm not 11.
Declan
What did you eat?
Normal breakfast things.
Declan
Bridget.
I had toast, okay?
Declan
How much toast?
An appropriate amount of toast, Declan. Two slices with butter and everything.
But he knows I only eat toast when I'm feeling sick. I'm usually an egg or yogurt kind of girl.
Declan
Erin says you went home early on Sunday.
I was tired.
Declan
More tired than usual?
I work, Declan. Adults get tired from working.
Declan
Have you called your doctor?
I set my phone face down on the cushion, then pick it back up because I feel a little bit like fighting with him.
I don't need to call the doctor and you can’t tell me what to do anymore
Declan
That's not what I asked.
I'm fine.
Declan
Tell me what's going on. I don't like this. If you're flaring up again, the doctor can help, and if you fuck around, Bridget, and I find out—
You’ll what? Stare sternly at me? I’m not yours, Declan. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation
I look at the ceiling for a while, and the nausea does its insistent thing. I press two fingers to the inside of my wrists, the way I used to do early in the day, checking my own pulse, as if that would tell me anything. My hands have that weirdly unsteady quality I remember, like before.
I've been bruising easily. I noticed that right away on one of my forearms, from where I caught it on the center of the kitchen counter three days ago, and I don't like the reminder.
I've lived in this body through the worst of it, and I know what it feels like when things are off. And this—maybe it's nothing. Maybe I just have a little bout of nausea that lasted weeks.
Maybe it's a bad week, and I need more iron, or I didn't get enough sleep, or… something. Maybe it's the stress of knowing that Declan's engaged to somebody I don't know.
Maybe it's nothing.
Finally, with a sigh, I look at his response.
Declan
Just because I’m engaged doesn’t mean everyone else in the world is dead to me
Fine, I know, but you’re getting bossy and it’s not your place.
Declan
How long?
I've just been a bit off; it's probably nothing. I'm keeping an eye on it, okay?
Declan
HOW. LONG.
On and off, okay? I don’t know how long
Declan
You call the doctor tomorrow or I’m driving over. Please.
He doesn't say please very often, not because he's rude, but because he just phrases things in a way that doesn't require it—statements instead of requests. The McCarthys are all like that.
One week later…
Declan
How’d the call with the doctor go?
About that…
Declan
brIDGET
Listen, it’s easy for you to say call the doctor, okay? It’s another thing when calling the doctor means dredging up things you don’t want to deal with yet. And anyway, I’m feeling better
Declan
How better?
Better enough. How’s the wedding plans
Declan
Don’t change the subject
It seems more appropriate to ask you about your wedding. You’re an engaged man after all
Declan
They’re fine. The girls are doing all the things because they like it and I don’t care. Valentina has opinions about a lot. She’s got good taste.
Sigh. Of course she does.