Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Erin
“Alright,” my mother says, clapping her hands like she’s trying to get a classroom of unruly children to attention, even though it’s literally just me and my father, dressed once again in formal, torturous clothing. “We need to go.”
“Yes, I know,” I tell her.
I wish that Bridget could come, but even if she were feeling better, I don’t think my mom would allow it.
She’d come up with some excuse. She’s in her room, for now anyway, and the night nurse is here—a woman who’s grumpy and irritable and doesn’t crack a smile from the minute she arrives to the minute she leaves.
Lovely.
I wish I could stay. I wish I could take care of Bridget, though the truth is getting harder to ignore—she’s getting worse.
The bruises that used to fade in days now linger for weeks.
The nosebleeds are more frequent. And last night, when I helped her to the bathroom, there was blood in places there shouldn’t be.
She tried to hide it from me, but I saw.
The scent of antiseptic makes my stomach turn, and my heart somersaults in my chest anytime there’s blood, but I want to take care of her. And in some strange way, by being here, by going through with all of this, I am.
I wish that the second envelope Bronwyn slipped me last night could buy something that would make my sister happy. Something that would make her better.
And I wish I knew why my future husband doesn’t want me to know he’s sending me his winnings.
Why did he go again? I want to know the next time. I want to see him again.
“Remember,” my mother says, prepping me for the McCarthy engagement party. “Everyone is your enemy, but treat them all as your friends.” She begins her lecture. “Smile. Put your hand out. Shake their hand. Make sure that you—”
“Mam!” I tell her, my voice stern. “I know what my role is. Smile. Hold on to Cavin McCarthy’s arm, pretend I like him, and act like I don’t hate being there. I get it.”
Is it really pretend, though, now?
The McCarthy estate is lit up like a castle, every window blazing. Cars line the circular driveway—expensive ones that purr like kittens and glint under a full moon.
My stomach twists.
Inside, Keenan's holding court with a few other men in the massive entryway, with Caitlin beside him in an elegant silvery gown that drapes to the floor.
“Ah, the Kavanaghs,” Keenan says, voice booming like he's greeting old. “Come in, come in.”
Caitlin's smile is warm and genuine, and it puts me a little at ease.
Keenan gestures to the man on his right, a bit younger than he is, with silver threading through sandy-blond hair, his suit immaculate. There's something calculating but likable in his eyes, sharper than Keenan's blunt force.
“My brother Nolan,” Keenan says. “And this old man here is Cormac.”
I remember to laugh, but too late, and I finish awkwardly. But thankfully, they don’t seem to notice.
Cormac's got a scar cutting through his eyebrow and hands that look like they've broken more bones than a butcher's cleaver. He smiles, though, and it feels genuine.
Note to self: Stay on their good side.
“So this is the Kavanagh girl,” Nolan says, his voice smooth as expensive whiskey. “I’ve heard so much about you, Erin. Welcome.”
My mother's grip tightens on her clutch. I want to tell her to relax—I’m sure they’re not talking about which fork I used at dinner.
I meet Cormac's stare and don't look away.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, congratulating myself on remembering.
It’s hard to keep tabs on everyone, but thankfully, I have a veritable spreadsheet in my mind, with people lined up like little wooden pegs on a board.
Cormac –-Da to Declan and Colm
Nolan—Da to Ashland, Lorcan, and Donovan
Those are the ones I’ve met, anyway.
“Oh my gosh! Erin, is that you?”
I turn and look toward the voice to find a stunningly beautiful woman in stilettos, wearing all black and clutching a silver sequined handbag. She waves her hand.
“Erin, you don’t remember me? Naomi? You sat next to me in biology?” She says it as if that’s supposed to trigger a memory.
I remember lots of things, but I forget people quickly. Sadly, it’s because I find most people forgettable.
“Sorry, I don’t,” I say.
“Look at you!” she says, eyeing me up and down. “You’ve had quite the glow-up, huh? Come here.” She gestures for me to lean forward.
My stomach clenches into a tight ball.
“But you have a little…” She reaches out and brushes her thumb across my face.
Everything in me recoils. I don’t like people I know touching me, never mind strangers.
“You just had a little smear of makeup on you. But you look beautiful. And lucky you,” she says, winking at me. “Cavin McCarthy? Wonder what kind of strings you had to pull for that, huh?”
Then she laughs and leaves.
And I’m reeling. I knew some of my cousins would be here, the ones I know and the ones I don’t.
I knew my uncles and aunts and all the power players in my father’s family, like Darragh and his mates, would be here too.
So why did it not occur to me that the people from St. Albert’s were going to be here?
My tormentors. The people I hated. Of course they are.
It was a finishing school for families just like us.
And then I hear a warm voice behind me. “You do look gorgeous, love.”
I turn to see Cavin and breathe out a sigh of relief. I reach for his arm to steady me and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say with a little bow.
Cameras flash. A photographer, a tall, lanky lad of about twenty, stands blinking. There's something familiar about his profile when he turns, like I've seen him somewhere before. But half of Ballyhock probably looks familiar at this point.
“Put that away,” Cavin snarls.
“Your mother told me—”
“And I told you to put it away,” he says. “Do not take pictures of my fiancée without permission.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” The nervous photographer nods quickly.
Before he can say anything else, one of the cousins I remember from our first dinner approaches. He claps Cavin on the shoulder, firm enough that it's not entirely friendly and smiles. Ah, yes. I remember that smile. Ashland and Lorcan’s older brother, Donovan.
“Ah, ease up there, cuz,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Lad's just doing his job, yeah? Your ma hired him special for tonight.”
“Fuck off, Donovan.” Cavin's jaw tics, but he doesn't shake off Donovan's hand.
Donovan only chuckles.
The photographer shifts his weight, looking between them nervously. Then he glances at me, manages a shaky smile. “May I take your picture, miss?” he asks. Polite. Deferential. “Just yourself, like. For the family album?”
I look at Cavin, who's still glaring at the man like he's considering breaking his camera. Or his face. Maybe both.
He nods to me, terse. “It's up to you, Erin.”
I can't remember the last time someone said that something was actually up to me.
“Um, sure,” I say. “Okay.”
“You too, sir?” the photographer asks cautiously.
“Fine,” Cavin growls.
Donovan steps back, still watching, something unreadable in his expression.
“There ye go. Everyone's happy, yeah?” He shoots Cavin a reproachful look, as if Cavin's being unreasonable. “No need to terrorize the help on your engagement night.” He winks at me. He’s as charming as his brother Ashland’s terrifying.
I giggle and shake my head. Cavin looks at me for an explanation, as if I could possibly explain that I’m wondering why a professional photographer asking to do his literal job has him this wound up.
“You alright?” I ask quietly.
“Grand,” he mutters.
He comes up next to me, taller than I am, even with my heels on. Broad. And he smells so good as he casually wraps his arm around my shoulder, takes my hand in his, and we pose… like a couple in love. And it feels almost natural.
“Smile, Erin,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile. I wonder if it looks fake.
“Why did I say yes? And how many times do we have to do this?” I whisper to him.
“Oh, about a thousand,” he says, and then he chuckles.
And I remember the way his voice felt in my ear. I remember the way it felt being pressed up against the wall. I remember… all of it.
“Come, let’s get you a drink,” he says, then winks at me. My stomach flips again. But this time, this time it feels nice.
“I know, I know. Soda water or whatever for you.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?” He asks me two questions at the same time. Why do people do that?
“I can’t remember if I’ve eaten… I was all nervous, but I don’t feel hungry.”
“We need to get something in you,” he says protectively. “Come on, let’s go this way.”
And somehow, miraculously, he escorts me through the throng of people into a little quiet area, right outside on the balcony, without an interruption.
I let out a breath again.
“Bet you’d give anything for some yoga pants and a jumper right now,” he says. “And I’m sorry, this isn’t a vegetable samosa, but my mother did order some good food.”
I smile. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” I ask him because I feel like if we’re going to be married and we’re going to be sharing space, I need to start knowing things about him.
“I’ll eat literally anything,” he says. “But the past few years, I’ve been busy traveling.
You know, lots of restaurants and takeout and the like.
And prison food will make you yearn for something good.
I miss homemade food.” He pauses when I stare.
“But we can get a chef or something, I don’t need—”
“I know how to cook,” I tell him, nodding. “I like to cook. It’s soothing. Calming. And maybe stems from a little paranoia because when you cook for yourself, you know what’s going into your food.”
“Yes.” For him, he might wonder if someone’s poisoning it or whatever. For me, it’s an entirely different reason. “I respect that,” he says quietly.
Of course he does.