“Look,”I mutter. “I’vegotto get out of this stupid dress.” I tug at the hem like it’s strangling me. “I hate it. You know how I feel about this.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling a little. “Wear whatever you want.”
So I try to pull myself together as I strip it off and grab clothes from her dresser. I slide on a pair of her yoga pants and want to cry with relief.
They don’t fit her anymore, but we used to wear the same size. We used to share everything.
I grab a jumper from her closet and peel off my bra with a loud, belabored sigh. The relief is instant.
There was a time when Bridget was so immunocompromised that we had to wear those stupid masks everywhere. I remember how they fogged up my glasses, how the elastic bit into my ears. I could barely breathe in them. And I remember the feeling when I could finally pull it off and exhale.
Taking off my bra feelsexactlylike that.
I tie my hair up, loose and messy, just as she gasps.
“Oh my goodness, Erin,” she says, her eyes on my feet. “Look at your feet. Let me see.”
She props herself up on the giant body pillows Dad bought her, and I glance down.
My toes are red and squeezed after my shoes dug into my skin for hours.
“Tell me about it. Why do people dress like this? I don’t get it.”
“Right?” she says, groaning.
“Why can’t we just have dinner in yoga pants? Why is that a crime? Or leggings, if we’re fancy. Take it from someone who basically livesin pajamas—these yoga pants might as well be a goddamn cocktail dress.”
“I know. Seriously.”
We both laugh, tired and sad, but it’s real. And for a second, the cold house feels warmer.
I giggle, and so does she. That sound warms something inside me I thought had gone numb.
“So tell me everything,” she says. “Were they nice? Did you guys come to an agreement?”
“Oh, we came to an agreement alright,” I say. My smile fades. She’s the reason I’m doing it. I can’t let her know how this is killing me inside.
I exhale slow, like I can push the weight of it out with my breath. “Well… Mom and Dad didn’t tell me the real reason for the trip.”
“What?” Her eyes go wide—sharp with curiosity and concern. She’s lost even more weight. How much weight can a person lose?
Her skin’s too pale, with a sickly cast that clings to her like a shadow. But her hair is still that rich auburn, tumbling in waves down her back, curling over her forehead and along her cheek. It’s lustrous and gorgeous, and I used to call her Ariel when she was little.
I sit on her bed and curl my legs underneath me. “So we get there, right?” I blow out another breath, and my voice catches on the edges. “And it’s… stunning. Bridget, I can’t wait for you to see it. There’s this garden, all wild and elegant at the same time. Cliffs that drop off into the sea. And the house… Da says it’s worth fifty million euros. It’sunbelievable. Like a museum crossed with a palace.”
“Oh…” Bridget breathes. “That sounds amazing.”
“It was,” I tell her. “And I made this little comment about it, just a throwaway, and the mum, Caitlin—she’s like, ‘Why don’t you go on a tour?’ Andguesswho she picks to show me around? Guess!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Bridget’s hands drop to her lap. “No.”
“Cavin.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nope.” I throw my hands up. “Yay me. And then—it’s cold. Just a breeze, but sharp enough to make me shiver, and he puts his jacket over my shoulders.”
