Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Erin
“You want to go… shopping?” My mother's teacup pauses halfway to her lips. Her smile freezes in place, and I can read her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.
First: You hate shopping.
Second: What if someone sees Bridget?
We don’t get breaks like this anymore, rare moments when Bridget rallies and gets her strength back. So I plaster on my own fake smile and tilt my head. “Yes. Since I have all these”—I throw my hands up in the air—“events to go to, I need to be prepared.”
“Oh, I’ve already prepared—”
“No, thank you,” I say to her. “It’s my turn. I’m going to take Bridget shopping because Bridget wants to go shopping, Mam.”
“Alright then,” my mother says, brushing her hands on her skirt. “I have an appointment at one, but I suppose I can—”
“No,” I tell her forcefully when Bridget’s eyes grow fearful.
She doesn’t want to go shopping with my mother.
Who would, with the constant criticism and barbed compliments?
“Just the two of us this time. It’s just a brief sister outing.
You go to your event and, you know, we’ll catch up with you later. ”
My mother’s eyes are comically wide, and her mouth forms a perfect O.
“You have to let me go eventually, Mam,” I tell her. “After all, in a couple of months’ time, I’m going to be a McCarthy, aren’t I?”
I don’t like how it feels satisfactory to see her face pale as she lets go of control. She’s got a clawlike grip on my life and my sister’s, but after the way she’s treated me, especially in recent weeks, I have zero interest in placating her.
I want her to hurt like I do. But that's not why we're going. Bridget asked, and I'd walk through fire for my sister. This is about her.
“Alright, make sure you have, you know, somebody with you,” she says, her brows furrowed. “They have those guards the McCarthys sent, Padraic?”
My father looks up from his coffee. “Where are you two going?”
“We’re going downtown to do some shopping,” I tell him. “We need some clothes for the upcoming events and stuff, you know.”
“You'll take the three guards with you.” It's not a question.
The three?
“Three?” Bridget's eyes widen. “What happened to Nigel and Darragh?”
“Cavin McCarthy replaced them.” My father doesn't look up from his paper. “His men watch you now. Anywhere you go, they go.”
Bridget stares at me. “Cavin?”
“He says he texted you, but you didn’t respond. In fact, he said something about how he thinks you may have blocked him?” my father says to me.
“I did.”
“Erin!” Bridget gapes at me. “You can't block your own fiancé!”
“Watch me.” I cross my arms. “I don't want to hear from him.”
“You're marrying him,” she says, as if that explains everything. “He’s your fiancé!”
“Stop calling him that!”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she says, taking my phone from me. “Refusing to face reality won’t change it.”
“Bridget, don’t.”
But it’s too late. She’s flipping through my contacts, and she finds where I blocked Cavin. With a flourish, she undoes it.
“Erin, I know you don’t want to marry him, but you can’t block him. What if he tells you something important that you need to know?”
“Like what?”
“Like details about your engagement party, or like the fact that you have a new guard.” She shakes her head. “You’re going to have to give something up, Erin.”
Only Bridget could lecture me about this without getting an earful. Give something up? I want to laugh. I'm giving everything up.
“Fine.” I snatch my phone back. “Unblock him. Whatever.”
My father's lips twitch, almost amused.
“I hate him,” I announce to the room. “I want that on record.”
“I know,” Bridget says. “That has nothing to do with it, practically speaking. What if there’s a theme for an event that you’re going to? What if he’s picking you up? What if he wants to buy you something?” she says coyly.
“I don’t want him to buy me anything.” I cross my arms over my chest to emphasize the point.
“He has to. He’s going to be your future husband.”
My mother mutters under her breath, throws her hands up in the air, and storms into the other room.
My father watches us with interest. “They’re up front,” he says. “Look like decent blokes.”
I peer out the window, and when they turn to face me, I immediately hide.
“Oh my god, there are three of them. Jesus, how are we going to go anywhere without people knowing who we are?”
“Those days are gone, love,” he says quietly.
“Haven’t you seen, Erin?” Bridget says. She can’t completely hide the grimace that shadows her features.
“Seen what?”
My blood runs cold when she takes my phone back because she looks like she’s about to cry.
“My god, you don’t even have socials on your phone, do you?”
“I hate social media.”
“Fine then, look at mine.” She pulls out her phone. “It’s the St. Albert’s account. Nobody really knows who runs it,” she says, and points to a post—a sparkly post, with glitter and lights and flashing bulbs.
St. Albert’s is pleased to announce the betrothal of Erin Kavanagh and Cavin McCarthy.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
There are twenty thousand views and 666 comments. “Mam would say that’s bad luck. 666,” Bridget says with a giggle. “But it’s not, see? It’s actually a good sign.”
“How is that a good sign?” I ask her, throwing my hands up in the air. “It’s the sign of the devil or whatever.”
My father actually chuckles. I haven’t heard him laugh in a couple of months.
“Oh stop. It’s an angel number. Some say it’s a wake-up call to rebalance your life. A message to refocus on relationships and inner growth. And since when are you religious?” she asks.
“Since when are you into New Age?”
Something flickers in her eyes that makes my stomach clench. “Since I started counting down instead of up. When you know the clock’s running out, you look for signs everywhere, even the daft ones.”
I swallow hard. “Well, what do the comments say?” I ask in a small voice. And I don’t like that it’s a small voice. I want to be proud and confident and—my god, I’m marrying Cavin McCarthy. I want to cry or break things or both. Maybe cry while breaking things.
“They’re like, um…” Bridget frowns. She narrows her eyes at the screen. “You don’t need to read these,” she says. “Just ignore them, okay?”
“Ignore what?” I tell her. I snatch her phone away and scroll through the comments.
Siobhan_M_94: Lol imagine being so desperate you marry a McCarthy. We all know what she had to do to land him
FionaKav: Little miss perfect finally snagged the bad boy? She probably made him sign a contract. Five quid says she's already correcting his grammar in bed
Celtic_Rose: That frigid bitch made my brother's life hell at St. Albert's. Got him suspended twice for brEATHING wrong. She probably has a spreadsheet for their wedding night. Hope Cavin knows what he's getting into.
I don't know these people. How do they even know who I am? Why do strangers hate me while treating Cavin like a god?
Then I scroll to the photos, and my breath catches. Oh. Oh.
There's Cavin in the ring, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat, tattoos dark against his skin. His jaw is set, fists raised, and he looks—my cheeks burn—gorgeous. Yes. He's handsome as all hell. But then there’s only one small grainy picture of me, and it’s…
my license photo. I have glasses and braces and acne.
My cheeks instantly heat.
They’re mocking me in the comments. I read, and I read until Bridget finally snatches the phone.
“Stop looking at that,” she says.
“They hate me. Why do they hate me?”
“It doesn't matter.” Bridget's voice rises. “Social media is bullshit. They're keyboard warriors who—” She sways, gripping the counter. Her knuckles go white.
“Bridge.” I'm already moving, my arm around her waist. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I’m fine, but I don’t want to talk about this. And I don’t care what they say about you. You’re beautiful, and you’re marrying him. And it’s going to be a good decision. You know I feel things sometimes, and I just know… I know two things,” she says.
I stare at her, my heart racing.
“Number one, I’m going to beat this, and I’m going to get better, and I’m going to be stronger than ever. And number two.” She draws in a breath. “Marrying Cavin McCarthy is going to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
I blink and wish that I had 10 percent of her assurance of either of those things.
My father buries himself in his cup of coffee.
I look at my sister, and hope rises. She has good days and bad days. She’s wan and thinner than ever, but no one would ever know by looking at her how ill she really is.
“Okay,” I say to her, always pragmatic. “Let’s go shopping.”
The first saleswoman tries to tell me what to wear, all bossy hands and sharp opinions, but Bridget cuts her off with a clipped, “No, thank you.”
Then another one, someone who recognizes Bridget, comes rushing over. “Oh my god, Bridget, how are you?”
“Colleen!”
Turns out she’s a girl Bridget knew from school. They were close once, good friends. She takes one look at me, then at Bridget, and something shifts in her expression.
“You're here for her?” she asks, like she can't quite believe it.
Bridget nods. “Erin's getting married. To a McCarthy.”
Why did she have to add on that bit?
The girl's eyes go wide. Then she smiles—not the fake customer service kind, but something real. Warm. “Right then,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “Let's make sure you look absolutely deadly.”
And just like that, I'm in good hands.