Chapter 11 #2
She looks around the room again, perfectly composed, maintaining the careful distance she holds, even while standing directly beside me.
I think about Sunday mornings at Caitlin's table. Bronwyn stealing everyone's tea. The particular noise of a house full of people who have loved each other for decades and intend to keep doing it.
I think about Bridget perched on the kitchen counter with her legs swinging, stealing food off every plate within reach, laughing and tipping a dollop of whipped cream straight into her mouth from the can. Something tells me Valentina would have a heart attack.
“We'll figure it out,” I tell her noncommittally. She nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to the room.
Then the front door opens. I hear her before I see her.
Bridget’s laugh, bright, unguarded, and complete, like she's forgotten there's anyone else in the world, rings through the hallway.
Then Bridget is in the doorway, and the room does what rooms always do when she walks into them—makes wherever she's standing the center.
She has that quality that has nothing to do with trying.
It's just… Bridget—the warmth of her, the vivid presence of her, the way she's unapologetically, entirely herself.
She whispers something to Erin and squeezes her sister's arm, then she's hugging Aunt Caitlin, who returns it like she means it.
I don't move. I watch her find her people the way she always does. I watch everyone greet her with warmth because they love her. And I think about Valentina's word, privacy.
Goddamn it. We'll negotiate the terms of cohabitation like joint custody of a life neither of us particularly wanted.
“I need to find the ladies' room,” Valentina says. I nod and gesture to the hallway. She walks with her head high, her bag tucked under her arm, eyes not meeting anyone's on her way out. I exhale.
Cavin appears at my elbow. “Brother,” he says, like a peace offering.
“Hey.”
His eyes drift across the room to Erin and her sister. “She was sick today.” He sips his drink. “I don't want to alarm Erin, but I'm worried it might be a relapse.”
The noise of the room continues around us, and across it, Bridget is smiling at something Bronwyn said.
Even at this distance, I can see that it doesn't quite reach her eyes the way it usually does, and I don't know how I missed that until this exact moment.
I feel something ground-level and steady shift under me because I was not prepared for this.
Bridget. Sick again?
“How bad?” My voice comes out level. I've had a lot of fucking practice at this.
“Bad enough that I noticed,” Cavin says, then finally looks at me. “Erin’s worried. Thought you'd want to know.”
He moves away before I can answer. Fuck it.
I'm standing in the middle of my own engagement party as I watch Bridget tip her head back to laugh at something, her whole face open and lit.
I think about the deal I made, and I think about what the word relapse actually means, and I think about everything I've elected to carry alone.
I cross the room before I've decided to.
Bridget sees me coming and goes still.
“You look awful.”
“Uh, thanks,” she says. “Lovely party.”
“Cavin told me.”
A beat. The smile doesn't move, but something behind her eyes does. “Cavin should mind his own business.”
“You are his business, Bridget.” I keep my voice low, the room loud enough around us to swallow it. “Have you called Rosenberg?”
“Relax, Declan. I'm not twelve.”
My jaw clenches. “Did you call him?”
She looks away.
“That’s a no, then. Right,” I say. “So tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow, I'll be fine.” She takes a sip of her Coke and looks back at me with the particular expression she uses when she's decided the conversation is over. “I feel better when I sip my Coke. Go back to your party.”
“It's not—” I stop. It is my party. That's precisely the problem. “Just call him.”
She holds my gaze for a second longer than she needs to, then nods. One small, tired nod. “Alright,” she says. “I will.”
Without another word, she moves away toward Erin. I think about chasing her down, about bringing her into the back room and making her call Rosenberg on my watch, but I don’t.
Valentina touches my arm. I manage not to flinch. “Shall we circulate?” she says. “I appear to have quite a few more people to be introduced to.”
“Of course,” I say, and I turn my back to Bridget.
Bronwyn has decided to like Valentina through sheer force of will, which is exactly the kind of thing Bronwyn does.
She’s on her third glass of wine, which is when she gets warm and slightly reckless.
She's launched into the story of Cavin and Erin's wedding with the relish of someone who's told it many times and loves it more each time.
“Nobody even knew,” she's saying, gesturing with her glass.
“One day, they're engaged—the next, it's done. Very romantic. Very spontaneous.” She turns to Valentina. “Did you ever hear this? In the McCarthy house, we don't always stand on ceremony. Cavin was like, we have everything we need—the priest, the license, the witnesses. We even have flowers.” She grins. “Erin doesn’t really want a big, formal affair, so let’s elope.”
“Oh. Well,” Valentina says.
“Well, it wasn't an elopement exactly,” I say, taking a sip of my water. “They married in front of everyone.”
“Still,” Bronwyn says warmly, “it wasn't how it was meant to go. Her mam wasn't too pleased.” She shrugs this off as a minor detail.
“Ah,” Valentina says. “Didn't realize this family did Vegas weddings. Did the priest dress up as Elvis?”
Bronwyn laughs genuinely. Valentina looks almost surprised by it.
At that exact second, Bridget looks over, and her eyes meet mine. She smiles the way she does when she's decided not to say something she absolutely could, and takes a sip of her Coke as she heads our way.
Valentina notices her for the first time. “I don't think we've met,” she says, her tone professionally warm.
I hate this. I hate every second of this, and I don't want Bridget anywhere fucking near Valentina.
“Bridget Kavanagh,” Bridget says, extending her hand with a bright smile that I'm fairly certain costs her something. “Erin’s sister. Declan's friend.”
“Erin,” Valentina repeats. “Cavin's wife.”
“The same.”
The Kavanagh name travels in certain circles, and in ours, it carries a specific weight: exile, betrayal, the mercy of a family that chose not to finish the job. “A Kavanagh,” Valentina says with a small, measured smile. “Right. Cavin's extended family, then.”
I note the slight lift of Bridget's chin, just barely, just enough, and the flush that crosses her cheeks.
“Bridget's family and ours go back a long way,” I say. My voice comes out easy, conversational, like I'm clarifying something minor. “She's as much a part of this family as anyone in this room.” I let that settle for exactly one beat. “More, if I'm being honest.”
Valentina tilts her head slightly. “Of course,” she says, the smile not moving. “I only meant I hadn't placed her.”
“Now you have,” I say pleasantly.
Bridget hasn't looked at me. She's very good at looking just past something. Her chin has come back down, and the color in her face is fading. She gives Valentina a smile that is warm and complete, and it fucking kills me.
“It's a big family,” Bridget says. “Don't worry, I'm terrible with names myself. You'll get there.” She touches Valentina's arm lightly, a small social grace. “Lovely to meet you. Enjoy your evening.”
Then she excuses herself, and she's gone, slipping back through the crowd toward Erin with the kind of ease that makes it look like she chose to leave rather than needed to. I watch her go. I don't move, and I don't say anything else.
“She seems nice,” Valentina says, turning back to me.
“She is,” I say. Full stop. “Tell me about New York.”
“New York?” Valentina says, pleased by the subject. “Of course. We had an apartment in the city, but my parents kept an estate up north. I spent most of my younger years at boarding school.” She's warmer on this subject, or something closer to warm, anyway. “My father had certain expectations.”
Right. I glance across the room and find Bridget at the far end, near Ashland's wife. Her shoulders have dropped slightly, some of the tension gone out of her. She says something that makes the woman beside her laugh. She's still a little flushed.
“Do you ride?” she asks me.
“Ride? Colm has a bike, and I sometimes go with him, but I—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Dressage,” she says. “Horses? I’ve been riding since I was six. I haven't had as much time recently.”
Right. I nod. “We could arrange something. There's a yard outside of town, a good one. Bronwyn’s got horses.”
I try to school my face so she can’t see I’m feckin’ bored to death.
She looks across the room with a small, composed smile. “Perhaps I’ll talk to Bronwyn,” she says.
On the far side of the room, Bridget says something, and Bronwyn doubles over laughing, one hand clutching Bridget's arm, the other pressed to her own chest. I can't hear what it was.
I don't need to. Bronwyn laughs like she means it, always has, the kind of laugh that makes whatever room she’s in feel warmer.
She latched onto Bridget early and decided they were mates, which is the most Bronwyn thing ever.
“She is very…” Valentina begins, following my eye-line.
“Right.” I cut her off cleanly because if she finishes that sentence, I won't be responsible for what I do with my face.
And I need to make this work.
I promised.
I have to.