Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Aye,” she murmurs, leaning into me. “I really do.”
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?”