Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“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.