Chapter Eleven
Erin
“You want to go… shopping?”My mother's teacup pauses halfway to her lips. Her smile freezes in place, and I can read her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.
First: You hate shopping.
Second: What if someone sees Bridget?
We don’t get breaks like this anymore, rare moments when Bridget rallies and gets her strength back. So I plaster on my own fake smile and tilt my head. “Yes. Since I have all these”—I throw my hands up in the air—“events to go to, I need to be prepared.”
“Oh, I’ve already prepared?—”
“No, thank you,” I say to her. “It’s my turn. I’m going to take Bridget shopping because Bridget wants to go shopping, Mam.”
“Alright then,” my mother says, brushing her hands on her skirt. “I have an appointment at one, but I suppose Ican?—”
“No,” I tell her forcefully when Bridget’s eyes grow fearful. She doesn’t want to go shopping with my mother. Who would, with the constant criticism and barbed compliments? “Just the two of us this time. It’s just a brief sister outing. You go to your event and, you know, we’ll catch up with you later.”
My mother’s eyes are comically wide, and her mouth forms a perfect O.
“You have to let me go eventually, Mam,” I tell her. “After all, in a couple of months’ time, I’m going to be a McCarthy, aren’t I?”
I don’t like how it feels satisfactory to see her face pale as she lets go of control. She’s got a clawlike grip on my life and my sister’s, but after the way she’s treated me, especially in recent weeks, I have zero interest in placating her.
I want her to hurt like I do. But that's not why we're going. Bridget asked, and I'd walk through fire for my sister. This is about her.
“Alright, make sure you have, you know, somebody with you,” she says, her brows furrowed. “They have those guards the McCarthys sent, Padraic?”
My father looks up from his coffee. “Where are you two going?”
“We’re going downtown to do some shopping,” I tell him. “We need some clothes for the upcoming events and stuff, you know.”
“You'll take the three guards with you.” It's not a question.
The three?
“Three?” Bridget's eyes widen. “What happened to Nigel and Darragh?”
“Cavin McCarthy replaced them.” My father doesn't look up from his paper. “His men watch you now. Anywhere you go, they go.”
Bridget stares at me. “Cavin?”
“He says he texted you, but you didn’t respond. In fact, he said something about how he thinks you may have blocked him?” my father says to me.
“I did.”
“Erin!” Bridget gapes at me. “You can't block your own fiancé!”
“Watch me.” I cross my arms. “I don't want to hear from him.”
“You're marrying him,” she says, as if that explains everything. “He’s your fiancé!”
“Stop calling him that!”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she says, taking my phone from me. “Refusing to face reality won’t change it.”
“Bridget,don’t.”
