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)
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.
Chapter Eleven
DECLAN
I'm staring at my phone like a lovesick teenager. Which is unhinged, given that it's the night of my engagement party and my fiancée will be here in five minutes.
Valentina is punctual. I'll give her that.
No one would accuse the woman of being warm. That would be taking things considerably too far. She's beautiful, yeah, in the way expensive things tend to be: correct, deliberate, assembled. Not my type, but then I've never been particularly fussy. I like women.
But I’ve only ever cared about one.
I push the thought away because I’m good at walking past that door without opening it again. I’ve had years of practice.
It doesn't help to think about Bridget right now, but I check my phone anyway.
At precisely 5:55, Valentina arrives. Little black dress, her hair up, objectively beautiful. I've been thinking about that a lot lately—how something can be objectively true and mean absolutely nothing.
I meet her at the door and kiss her cheek. She smells expensive. It’s strangely off-putting.
“Valentina.”
“Declan.” Her smile is perfect and practiced. She takes in the hallway with the particular stillness of someone cataloging rather than admiring—the old tile running to the hearth, the worn edges of everything, the noise spilling from the back rooms. The McCarthy house is legendary in Ballyhock and not because it's modern. It's large and well-lived-in, and it smells like something is always baking. I find it the most comfortable place on earth.
I suspect Valentina doesn’t.
She sneezes, delicately, into a tissue. Once, twice. “Excuse me. I must be allergic to something in the garden.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Do you… need something for it?”
“I just need to come inside.” She steps past me.
Right. I shut the door before someone hears. The McCarthy family garden is famous in Ballyhock.
Behind me, Bronwyn, Kyla, Aunt Caitlin, and Zoya watch in the particular collective silence of Irish women who have already formed an opinion and are trying to be very polite about it.
Aunt Caitlin breaks first, stepping forward with her arms already open. “I'm so sorry, the flowers are only coming in now with the spring. Please, if there's anything—”
Valentina extends her hand. “It’s fine, thank you.”
Caitlin takes it and recovers without a flicker. I don't think I've ever seen my Aunt Caitlin falter in my life.
“How was your flight?”
“Fine. There was an engine issue—they moved me to another carrier. No first class.” A faint grimace. “It's been some time since I've had to manage that. But I'm looking forward to the evening.” She glances around. “Your home is lovely.”
She says it the way you'd sign a form.
Bronwyn materializes with two cups of tea, hands one to me, takes a sip of her own, then wordlessly swaps them. “Yours has too much sugar,” she tells me. “It's revolting. Here.”
I take hers without comment. This is simply how it works.
Valentina watches the exchange with something that isn't quite disgust—closer to the expression of a woman observing a custom from a country she has no particular interest in visiting. She doesn't smile.
Bronwyn says something that makes Kyla inhale her tea, and I follow it up with something worse. Aunt Caitlin is laughing before I've finished the sentence.
Valentina tilts her head slightly, as if processing the concept of humor from a significant distance.