But it’s too late. She’s flipping through my contacts, and she finds where I blocked Cavin. With a flourish, she undoes it.
“Erin, I know you don’t want to marry him, but you can’t block him. What if he tells you something important that you need to know?”
“Like what?”
“Like details about your engagement party, or like the fact that you have a newguard.” She shakes her head. “You’re going to have to give something up, Erin.”
Only Bridget could lecture me about this without getting an earful.Give something up? I want to laugh. I'm giving everything up.
“Fine.” I snatch my phone back. “Unblock him. Whatever.”
My father's lips twitch, almost amused.
“I hate him,” I announce to the room. “I want that on record.”
“I know,” Bridget says. “That has nothing to do with it, practically speaking. What if there’s a theme for an event that you’re going to? What if he’s picking you up? What if he wants to buy you something?” she says coyly.
“I don’t want him to buy me anything.” I cross my arms over my chest to emphasize the point.
“He has to. He’s going to be your future husband.”
My mother mutters under her breath, throws her hands up in the air, and storms into the other room.
My father watches us with interest. “They’re up front,” he says. “Look like decent blokes.”
I peer out the window, and when they turn to face me, I immediately hide.
“Oh my god, therearethree of them. Jesus, how are we going to go anywhere without people knowing who we are?”
“Those days are gone, love,” he says quietly.
“Haven’t you seen, Erin?” Bridget says. She can’t completely hide the grimace that shadows her features.
“Seen what?”
My blood runs cold when she takes my phone back because she looks like she’s about to cry.
“My god, you don’t even have socials on your phone, do you?”
“I hate social media.”
“Fine then, look at mine.” She pulls out her phone. “It’s the St. Albert’s account. Nobody really knows who runs it,” she says, and points to a post—a sparkly post, with glitter and lights and flashingbulbs.
St. Albert’s is pleased to announce the betrothal of Erin Kavanagh and Cavin McCarthy.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
There are twenty thousand views and 666 comments. “Mam would say that’s bad luck. 666,” Bridget says with a giggle. “But it’s not, see? It’s actually a good sign.”
“Howis that agoodsign?” I ask her, throwing my hands up in the air. “It’s the sign of the devil or whatever.”
My father actually chuckles. I haven’t heard him laugh in a couple of months.
“Oh stop. It’s anangelnumber. Some say it’s a wake-up call to rebalance your life. A message to refocus on relationships and inner growth. And since when are you religious?” she asks.
“Since when areyouinto New Age?”
Something flickers in her eyes that makes my stomach clench. “Since I started counting down instead of up. When you know the clock’s running out, you look for signs everywhere, even the daft ones.”
