Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
DECLAN
The meeting starts at nine and goes until the early afternoon. When my aunt starts asking if we want to plan dinner, it’s too fucking long. Seamus sends one of the younger lads on a chipper run to get us through.
I should be paying more attention—I know I should, but all I can think about is Bridget. I've been trying to get her to go to the doctor, but she says she's an adult and no one can force her. We’ll see about that.
“Next week,” Seamus says, interrupting my thoughts. “We should probably have you go to New York. Seems best for you to have a good relationship with the Espositos moving forward.”
I nod slowly, exhaling. “I'm aware.”
“Haven’t been in touch with them to make arrangements, but I’m guessing you can handle it.”
“Aye.”
Seamus studies the table. It's rare he won't meet my eyes, and I notice it the way I notice everything—quietly and without letting it show.
“How are things going,” he says, “with all of that?”
“Fine,” I say. The word comes out a half second too fast, and we both hear it. Seamus is like a brother to me, and he knows that my head is on the fucking chopping block. He reaches for the sideboard and pours himself a drink.
“Ashland?” Ashland takes a shot.
“Cavin?” Of course Cavin takes a drink. Daire and Colm tip the bottoms of their beers together.
“Declan?”
“I’ll take a Coke.”
I take one from the top and drink it straight. Sickly sweet stuff, but it reminds me of her.
I glance at my phone when it buzzes, but it's not the person I want to hear from. It’s Valentina, showing me a dress she wants to buy for the rehearsal dinner. Like I care.
“At least she’s pretty,” Colm says.
I look up at him in surprise, because I can't believe he's talking about Bridget right in the open like that.
He’s looking over my shoulder. “I just mean she looks classically beautiful. Like an Italian princess or something.”
Fuck. He's talking about Valentina. I could’ve given myself away.
“Aye,” I say with a sigh. He can fucking have her.
“Could be worse,” Colm offers helpfully.
“Could be.”
“Meeting adjourned,” Seamus says. “Back here in two days.”
“Look who’s the priest now.” Ashland's eyes are twinkling at me as the room empties. He didn't go on a date for six damn years—now that he has a woman to take out, he's giving me grief because I'm the one who's engaged.
“You're not married yet,” Cavin says suggestively, because that's exactly what I said to him when he was engaged to Erin. I recognize that was an arsehole thing to say at the time.
“Come on,” he says. “Have some fun. Let loose a little.”
“Are you kidding me?” I shake my head at him. “I have dinner reservations.”
“D’Agostino's?” Seamus says hopefully. “I'd kill for a piece of their lasagna.”
“Or some of that bread,” Ashland says, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ delicious.”
“No,” I say, feeling like I'm pouting like a child. “There's some new French restaurant Valentina wants to try.”
“Oh god.” Cavin shakes his head. “Not the place that charges sixty quid for a green leaf and a snail?”
“Some such,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“Meet you at the chippy later,” Lorcan says, grinning at me. “Looks like this new girl's gonna get you all civilized.”
“I am civilized,” I protest.
“Civilized doesn't mean you use a fork and a knife, Declan. Our standards aren't quite that low.”
“Oh, feck off. I’ll have you know I ate sushi on my birthday, and I liked it.”
“Sushi,” Colm says, pulling a face. “Still, I'll probably meet you at the chippy after.”
“Valentina doesn't eat mammals,” I say. “So I guess we'll see what that's like.” Why am I thinking about the last time I took Bridget to get an American-style pub cheeseburger and chips?
“Well, more for you,” Ashland says.
“At least she’s pretty,” Colm says factually. I shrug. Why does everyone say that?
Cavin falls in behind me. I slow down and wait for him. “How's she doing?” I can't help myself.
“It's not good.” Cavin shakes his head. “Erin's been up at night worrying. We want to get Bridget in with a doctor, but she won't hear it.” He pauses, turning something over. “I was wondering if maybe you could talk to her. You have a way with her.”
“Me?” I say. “You think I could talk Bridget into doing something she doesn't want to do?” I don’t tell him that I have been, every fucking day.
Cavin says nothing, which is its own kind of answer.
“She's stubborn as hell, Cav.”
“I know that.” He looks at me steadily. “I'm still asking.”
Neither of us says out loud what we're both thinking. He has more clout with her than I do at this point. I'm just a friend. And now that I'm getting married, I'm not sure I'm even that. I made a promise to keep her safe, and the cost is that I don't get to be the one who shows up when she's sick.
“Just… be careful about it. Discreet. It’s not worth pissing off Valentina’s family.”
“She's not my wife yet,” I say through gritted teeth.
Cavin's mouth curves. “I know. I seem to recall someone reminding me I could still visit The Craic, on the grounds that I wasn't married yet either.”
“That was the old me,” I say. “I've turned over a new leaf.”
“Is that the leaf they’ll put alongside your snail for dinner?”
He groans, laughing when I punch him.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“You love me,” he says, then sobers. “But listen. Just… maybe try again.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I'm just—you know, there aren’t many people who are actually worried about Bridget right now. That's pretty much it: you, Erin, and me. Her parents have no idea anymore. Nobody else really knows her the way we do. Bronwyn might, but I doubt she’s told her.”
I glance at my phone. Shite—I need to be at the restaurant in fifteen minutes. Thankfully, Valentina said she had errands to run and wanted to meet me there, so I didn't have to make a big production of flowers and picking her up and all of that. We'll just meet at the restaurant for dinner.
Like friends. Like friends who have zero chemistry and nothing in common, but yeah.
“I gotta go. Snails and dark-green leaves are calling me.” I stifle a groan.
My phone vibrates with a text, but it’s from the wrong person.
Valentina
They seated me in the back. I’ve already ordered a sparkling water.
Great. Who the fuck gets there fifteen minutes early?
When I get into the car, I shoot Bridget a text.
Cavin says you haven't gone to the doctor. What are you waiting for?
No answer. I glance in the rearview mirror, straighten my hair, and adjust my collar. Blue button-down shirt, no tie, khaki trousers, and shined shoes. My suit jacket is hanging in the back. I check my phone the entire drive there.
Why hasn't she texted me back?
I hand off the car to the valet and walk to the main door, shrugging on my coat.
A chunk of masonry hits the pavement not three feet from me.
I stop. Look up. The building beside the restaurant is mid-renovation—scaffolding, tarps, the usual Dublin chaos. A worker leans over the edge and shouts something apologetic. I raise a hand to show I'm not dead and keep walking.
Seamus owns the building on the corner here. I'll have to mention it. He takes that kind of thing seriously—loose scaffolding, shoddy work. Someone could've been killed.
I file it away and forget it almost immediately because my phone is buzzing, Valentina is already inside waiting, and somewhere across the city, Bridget still hasn't texted me back.
This is all wrong, out of place, like a song played at the wrong pitch. Not exactly a travesty, but there's no harmony. I text Bridget again.
You need to go see the fucking doctor
My phone buzzes immediately. I look at the response.
Valentina
What are you talking about? What doctor?
Christ. That was a close call. I'm playing with goddamn fire.
I text her right back.
Sorry, didn't mean to send that to you. Was texting a friend. I'm here, see you in a minute.
She likes it with a thumbs-up emoji.
Why do I hate that fucking thumbs-up emoji so much?
I find our table at the back. She's frowning at her phone when I arrive, but she puts it face down and smiles when she sees me. It’s a practiced smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her caught off guard.
She looks pretty, I guess. Dressed in an expensive gown, long earrings, her hair straight and shiny, not a bit out of place. This is the kind of place with dim lighting, someone playing a violin in the distance, and no prices on the menu.
“Hi,” she says. “How are you?”
I sit across from her. “Fine. Good meeting with Seamus today. We're discussing the details of the visit to your family in New York.”
“Yes, my mother wanted to solidify those plans as well. She's made arrangements. She wants to take you to a few places, have you meet our family. How familiar are you with New York?”
“A little. I was in Boston on and off for a couple of years, made a few trips down to visit friends.”
Our server comes over. Valentina orders some type of tofu dish with roasted vegetables. I have the undeniable desire to order the largest steak on the menu, but I glance at the menu and find there's no steak. In fact, I'm not even sure there's meat, unless venison or kangaroo counts.
Christ. Maybe I will meet Lorcan at the chippy after. I finally settle on a pasta dish and muster up something approaching enthusiasm.
“Would you like a basket of bread?” our server says, smiling.
“Of course,” I say, at the same time Valentina says “No.”
Her brow rises. “You eat bread?”
“I think most civilizations eat bread.”
Bridget
I don't want to go to the doctor.
My chest thumps. I type back without thinking.
This isn't a request anymore, Bridget. For Christ's sake, you ought to know better. Fucking GO
Valentina purses her lips and looks at me. I can't shake the feeling that whenever she's with me, she's somewhere she'd rather not be.
That makes two of us.
“I hear some of your cousins fight,” she says. “Are you into that…”—she waves her hand and makes a small face—“bare-knuckle fighting? It sounds barbaric.”
“I was trained with all the lads at St. Albert's,” I say. “But I'm not as into it as my brothers and cousins.” Which is a diplomatic way of saying Ashland and Cavin can kick my arse at boxing. I can hold my own in other things.
“Do you exercise?” she asks.
What kind of conversation is this? Is she going to ask me if I floss my teeth and take my vitamins next?
“Yeah.” Does she need me to strip off my shirt and demonstrate? I'm a fucking McCarthy. We hold our own. “There's a gym in town.”
“I thought that was a warehouse,” Valentina says.
“They converted it,” I say. “Nice facility now.”
“Mm.” A small, polite sound. “I do Pilates and Bikram Yoga,” she says.
“Okay.” A long, awkward silence stretches between us.
“What about hobbies?” I ask haltingly, unable to shake this strange feeling that we’re two people who both speak English yet don’t speak the same language. “Other than… riding.”
“Cooking. Do you like cooking, Declan?”
Is it really cooking if there’s no meat?
I look at her. She's watching me with the particular patience of someone who already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I'll bother lying.
“No,” I say.
She nods, unsurprised. A beat passes. Then, “I don't know if you've caught onto this the way I have, but—we don't have to keep pretending, do we?”
No one has ever called me nice, but I can be civil. “I wasn't aware we were.”
“Weren't you.” It isn't a question. She folds her hands on the table, and something in her posture settles—not warmth, exactly, but the particular ease of a person who has stopped performing.
“In my family, marriage is a requirement. My father wants to meet you. To make sure his investment is money well spent.” A pause. “That's what this is. You know that.”
“Of course.” My voice is tight, and my lips are pressed together. I may not be as heavy-handed as some of my cousins and brothers are, but goddamn, I won’t have a condescending wife.
She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks away. Neither of us fills the silence, and neither of us seems to mind.
My phone vibrates with another text, but I can't look now. The server brings over a basket of thickly sliced bread. I grab the biggest chunk and slather it liberally with butter, just out of fucking spite.
Valentina watches me with something like concern. She has the good sense not to come between a man and his buttered bread.
When our food comes, she eats precisely half her plate and instructs the server to wrap up the rest. Then she declines dessert for both of us before I've even had a chance to look at the menu, which is fine because I don’t really want this to last any longer than it needs to.
I am not a fan, by the way, of how readily she's already trying to tell me what to do.
“I'll head off,” she says, as if the decision had already been made before she opened her mouth. “This was lovely.”
It wasn't.
“Thank you.”
She reaches into her bag and produces her credit card, setting it on the table like a small declaration of war.
What does she think I am?
“I've got this, thank you.”
“It’s my father’s—”
“I've got this.” Sterner now.
I finally get to my car, slide into the seat, and drop my head to the dash. A moment later, my phone vibrates.
Bridget
I want ice cream. would she be okay with it knowing I went to get ice cream with you?
It’s not a date
Bridget
That doesn’t answer the question
I can’t get ice cream with a friend?
Bridget
Would Seamus agree?
Do you want ice cream or not?
Bridget
Of course I want ice cream, especially if you’re the one buying.
I frown at the phone and type back. I’m not above blackmail. I am a McCarthy, after all.
I will take you for ice cream, my treat, right this minute, if you promise that you will contact the doctor.
Three dots appear on the screen, disappear, appear again, disappear again, then appear again.
Bridget
deal
Screenshot the message you sent him in the patient portal right now. He checks them every night. I want him to get this before his morning rounds.
Bridget
Fine.
Brat. I’m waiting.
A few minutes later, a screenshot comes through. The message is there but not yet marked as sent.
That doesn't say sent yet.
Bridget
Oh my god, Declan, it's sent now, okay?
She sends a second screenshot to prove it.
Watch that attitude.
Bridget
Or what?
No ice cream.
Bridget
You promised me!
Fine. Can you be ready in ten?