I wipe my face with the back of my hand, then breathe in once, sharp and hard.
“I will,” I tell them. “But don’t you dare make one more plan without me. Notone.” My voice trembles.
The city flashes by in streaks of yellow light. How can everything outside look the same… when inside,nothingis.
The last leg of our journey is silent. I have nothing left to say. We pull into our drive, and I look at our house differently now. It’s big enough, but nothing like the imposing majesty of the McCarthy mansion.
Inside, I step away from my parents, pull my shoes off, and walk down the long hallway, my bare feet silent against the cold wood, putting as much space between myself and them as I can.
The rule in the Kavanagh family is simple: A daughter stays with her parents until she gets married.
Old-fashioned, people would say. I’d call it fucking archaic. But fine. Whatever.
I stay. Not for them, but for my sister.
I put up with my mom. I tolerate the passive-aggressive glances, the pressure, radio silence, and judgment because I need to be near Bridget. Need to make sure she’s okay.
And tonight’s no different.
Every part of me wants to crawl into bed, bury my face in a pillow, and scream. But instead, my feet move down the long, dark hall to Bridget's room.
This house is old—an Irish country house passed down on my father’s side. Gleaming hardwood but drafty walls. The kind of place where the cold seeps in through the baseboards. At night, the wind howls through the chimney like a ghost that never left.
The floors creak. The windows rattle.
I shiver, and… I remember Cavin.
The way he slipped his jacket over my shoulders. Not kindness, something else. Obligation, maybe? Performance?
He did it because it was expected. But still… I liked it.
I can imagine my mother now, pouring herself another glass from the sideboard in the dining room, as if she didn’t drink her way through two full bottles at the McCarthys.
I knock lightly on Bridget’s door. “Come in,” she says so softly I can barely hear her. I open the door and brace myself for the inevitable. I just can’t get used to how frail and sickly she looks these days.
“Hey,” I say, my voice pitched too high. Too bright. That fake cheer I always default to with her. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she says too quickly. She’s probably tired of the question. Sick of pretending.
“How’d it go?” she whispers.
I let out a long breath.
I open my mouth, prepare to lie, but I can’t tell a lie to the person I’m closest to in the whole damn world, and I’m shite at lying anyway.
“It was… fine,” I try, but my chin wobbles.
Tears threaten, pressing behind my eyes.
“Oh, Erin…” she says gently. “It wasn’t fine.” She reaches for my hand. “Tell me what happened.”
Her room, at least, is comforting and soothing. Soft blush tones and warm white lights. Books stacked on the nightstand, spines cracked from re-reads. A candle burning in the corner, lavender and something sweet.
She’s filled the room with tiny things that make her feel human. Posters of old Audrey Hepburn films. A corkboard of photos—us, mostly.
Worn throw blankets. A faded stuffed rabbit she never let go of.
It’s her sanctuary.
