Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
brIDGET
Three weeks after the best night of my entire life, and I’ve barely spoken to Declan.
I don’t know if anything could have prepared me for this. For the way the McCarthy family celebrated his engagement. For how devastatingly beautiful his fiancée is. She is refined and elegant in all the ways I am not.
So I do what any sensible woman would do. I stalk the bitch’s socials, which is incredibly easy to do because, apparently, her part-time job is posting her idyllic life and garnering followers.
And with every post I see, I hate her, brick by brick.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t have any right to Declan—that’s what everyone would say, and they’d be right. Except I can’t quite make myself believe it.
God, their babies will be infant models.
Why should the choices our parents made years before us dictate anything? It’s unfair, and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.
I know in my heart that I will never love anyone the way I love him.
“Hey,” Erin says, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
Even though I've moved into my own apartment, I still swing by here to work sometimes.
Erin is adorably pregnant, and Cavin worshipping her bump is arguably cuter than the bump itself.
He follows her in, bare-chested as usual, which means, lucky me, I get a front-row seat to my brother-in-law falling all over his wife on a daily basis. Eye roll.
I should be happy for them.
I am happy for them.
Mostly.
“Bridge, will you be home at the weekend?” Cavin asks. He pulls away from Erin and scratches the back of his neck, wandering toward the cabinet.
His voice is too casual, and I’m immediately suspicious.
“Of course,” I say. “Why?”
“Dinner at the McCarthy house.” He still isn’t looking at me. “For Declan’s engagement party.”
Well, cut my heart out with a dull blade, why don’t you.
“Of course,” I tell him. “I’ll be there.”
He turns around, and the look he gives me is curious enough that I have to wonder whether he knows more than he’s letting on. Erin definitely doesn’t. Thankfully, she’s oblivious to anything that’s happened between Declan and me. I don’t need an older-sister lecture on top of a broken heart.
“I want to talk to you about the American accounting,” I tell him, deliberately changing the subject.
His eyes meet mine, and I hold his gaze. I’m not getting away with this. Maybe he’ll say something. Maybe he was the one who told Seamus that night—I don’t know.
And in that moment, I wonder if the poets are right: Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Is it really though? Because I can barely function.
My phone vibrates.
Declan. Because of course.
Declan
Heard you’re coming tonight?
I look at the text for a long moment, aching. Does he want me there?
Of course he wants me there. Since I promised we’d remain friends. That’s what we are. Friends.
We are.
Then I respond.
Wouldn’t miss it for the world
I add an uncomfortable amount of happy face emojis that aren’t fooling anyone.
Declan
I’ve been thinking about you
He’s been thinking about me? Oh yeah? Every time he sees a cloud shaped like something and wants to tell me about it? I see dinosaurs. He sees titties in a push-up bra. All this time, and he has never once evolved.
Or maybe he thinks of me every time he adds triple whipped cream to his ice cream at Lickety Split because he likes the whipped cream even more than the ice cream, and I was the one who convinced him that social etiquette doesn’t apply to ice cream.
Or is it every time he showers and puts his hand on the hot tile, he remembers the way I screamed when I came?
Or no? Just me.
“Bridget?” Cavin’s frowning. He’s likely been talking to me, and I didn’t even realize. My cheeks heat as I put my phone face down.
“Sorry, got distracted.”
What’s even socially appropriate at this point? Declan’s engagement has been announced. He’s still my friend. He still texts me sporadically, but I take my time responding. I don’t send him the things I used to because I don’t know what’s smart, and I get the distinct impression he doesn’t either.
“What's wrong with the ledgers?” Cavin says, turning back toward the sink to rinse the dishes.
“They don't add up.” I follow him, leaning against the counter.
“Valentina's family said the dowry was structured in three portions—the first came through clean, no issues. But the second transfer routed through four different accounts before it landed, and two of them are registered in Boston.” I pause.
“For a family based out of New York, that's a strange way to move clean money.”
Cavin doesn't say anything, just keeps rinsing.
“On paper, it looks fine,” I continue. “But something's not sitting right with me.”
“Is that because you don’t want it to?” he says, giving me a sideways glance.
Erin looks up from her laptop. She’s absolutely brilliant at most things, except when it comes to subtle social cues. “Why wouldn’t you want them to add up?” she asks, shaking her head. “Anything that looks off, we should look into. That’s just sense.”
Cavin’s jaw tightens. I love the bastard, but I want to fucking fight him right now. I sit heavily back at the table and try to rearrange my face so I don’t give myself away.
Fuck off, Cavin McCarthy. So fucking sue me for falling in love with a man who makes me feel human and alive.
Of course, I’m smart enough not to say that out loud. “I’m just saying, it’s something we need to look into.”
“Yes. Fine. But Seamus went into great detail on this one. After what happened with your parents, he’s not going to make a bad trade again.”
“Leave my parents out of this,” I snap before I can stop myself.
Erin blinks in surprise, and Cavin shuts the dishwasher with more force than necessary.
“What your parents did has nothing to do with you or your sister,” he says, softer now, which is somehow worse.
“Is that right? Then why am I such an outcast, Cavin? If it has nothing to do with me—”
“Bridget.” Erin interrupts gently. “Leave it.”
Tears prick my eyes. I’m not usually so touchy. What’s wrong with me?
“No. I’m not going to be punished anymore for decisions our parents made.” I look at him directly. “I know they betrayed the McCarthys. That has nothing to do with me.”
“I know you don’t like it, Bridget, but it has everything to do with you,” Cavin says.
His voice hasn’t risen, but there’s a weight to it that presses down.
“You may not have made that decision, but you were wrapped up in every single thing that came after it—everything involving you, your sister, your parents. And it’s only because Seamus decided to be merciful that you’re standing in this kitchen. ”
My jaw drops, and I’m on my feet.
“Are you threatening me, Cavin?”
“Please, sit down,” Erin says, shaking her head.
“For feck’s sake, Bridget,” Cavin says. He slams the cabinet and turns around to face me, his eyes like flint. “I’m not threatening you. I’m just saying, maybe decide to make some better decisions. Maybe not take certain things for granted.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t fucking take things for granted,” I throw right back. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”
A wave of nausea hits me so hard I gasp. I reach for the table with both hands, panting, perspiration breaking out across my forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Erin is on her feet immediately. Her face has gone pale. Cavin looks from her to me.
Nausea bends me in half.
“I’m going to be sick,” I say, and I run for the small bathroom just off the kitchen.
I kneel in front of the toilet and heave. When it’s over, the panting settles, and a growing dread moves through me.
Oh god.
It’s back.
It’s back… I know it is. I’m flaring up again, and I can’t stop the downward spiral, no matter how badly I want to.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle this.
“Call Dr. Rosenberg,” Erin says from the other side of the door, her voice tight. “Now.”
“I’m fine,” I call back. “Don’t overreact. It was probably something I ate.” I’m not going back to the doctor. Not now. Not yet.
“Would you stop it?” She pushes the door open. Her lips are thin. Behind her in the doorway, Cavin stands, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Do you need help?”
And just like that, the argument deflates out of me. Cavin McCarthy is the best brother a girl could ask for. He's also a bit of an arsehole, but right now I'll take it.
“I’m a little unsteady,” I admit.
Then he’s got me—my arm around his shoulders, his around my waist.
“I’ll carry you if you need me to.” Wouldn’t be the first time. I feel like a twat for yelling at him.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m alright.”
But I know how it starts. The problem is, I don’t know how it ends.
I swipe at my eyes and let him walk me to the guest room.
“We have to tell somebody,” Erin says from behind us.
“Stop.” I clear my throat. “Dr. Rosenberg says I’m in remission, and the chances of it returning are slim. He’s giving me the best treatment. I’m just a little off, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Erin says, and I can hear in her voice that it isn’t. “Do you want some peppermint tea?”
I nod reluctantly because I know it will help. I hate that I know the routine. I hate how well-worn this is. The sheer familiarity of it all makes me want to cry.
I wish my first instinct wasn't to reach out to Declan. To tell him I don't feel well. Let him send me something stupid—a bad joke, a cringy meme, something that shouldn't work but does anyway. He'd know exactly what to say, and he'd say it wrong on purpose, and I'd laugh despite myself.
But I don't text him.
Erin goes to put the kettle on, and Cavin follows. I wish I couldn’t hear their voices through the door.
“—shouldn’t have let her move out—”
“—trying to get out of the engagement party—”
“—why would she—”
My phone vibrates.
Declan
You ok?
I don’t respond.
Their voices fade, and I lie on the pillow, my head throbbing.
I go through the mental checklist: At the first sign of a flare, Dr. Rosenberg said. As soon as you’re feeling off.
Thanks to the McCarthys, I have his mobile number, so I can text him.
I don’t, though, not yet. I don’t want to.
Instead, I do the responsible thing to distract myself: stalk Valentina again.
Jesus, I wish she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. And just to really twist the knife, I imagine what she and Declan must look like together.
Because that’s not masochistic at all.
My phone buzzes with a text that’s, thankfully, not from Declan this time.
Bronwyn
Hey babe, how are you doing?
Bronwyn’s the youngest of the McCarthys on Cavin’s side, one of the few people I can call friend.
So I text back.
Not feeling great. Think I have some kind of stomach thing
Bronwyn
Are you sure it’s not the Declan’s-engagement flu?
For a fraction of a second, I fear she knows. But we’ve always joked about the available men in the McCarthy family because I don’t date, and Bronwyn wants me to be part of the fold.
Bronwyn
There’s still Colm or Lorcan or Daire… but you need an older man. Too bad Ashland’s taken and Torin’s not home.
Ashland, yikes. The most severe of the lot. The man genuinely terrifies me, though god knows he loves his soon-to-be wife. And Torin's serving a life sentence.
Interesting options, the McCarthys have.
Back to the drawing board, I guess
Bronwyn
Also I know I’m asking about you but I need to tell someone. Da’s heart thing is worse than Mam’s letting on and I can’t say it to anyone here without starting a whole thing. So. There it is. Now tell me how YOU are
I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?
Bronwyn
Nah, I just needed to talk. It’s gonna be ok. feel better!
And that’s how I know she’s changing the subject. Just in time too.
I set my phone down and press my palm flat against my stomach. The nausea rolls in again, slow and deliberate.
I barely make it to the bathroom.
When it's over, I press the back of my hand to my mouth and lean against the cold floor when a splotch of red hits the tile. The fuck?
My heart races. My nose is bleeding. I tilt my head back, pinch the bridge, and wait, counting the seconds the way I've done a hundred times before.
This is not a stomach bug.
I know how this starts.
I stay on the bathroom floor longer than I need to. Then I get up, rinse my face, and look at myself in the mirror for a long moment. How long has it been since the last blood draw, exactly? Is the nausea from stress or…?
I’ve been here before, and I know where this goes. I cannot do this again.
I can’t.
I remind myself of Dr. Rosenberg’s words—the chances of it returning were slim.
Slim. Great word, slim. Very reassuring. Very scientific.
I dry my hands and take a deep breath. I find my moisturizer and put it on in the methodical way Erin taught me, the way that means: You are fine, you are handling it, and there is nothing to worry about.
And just for the hell of it, I light one of the little sage candles Bronwyn gave me for clarity or something. A few hours later, the nausea's gone, and the headache has softened to something manageable. I feel almost fine, actually. Almost.
Which is just well enough to go watch Declan McCarthy celebrate his engagement.