I swallow hard. “Well, what do the comments say?” I ask in a small voice. And I don’t like that it’s a small voice. I want to be proud and confident and—mygod, I’m marryingCavin McCarthy. I want to cry or break things or both. Maybe crywhilebreaking things.
“They’re like, um…” Bridget frowns. She narrows her eyes at the screen. “You don’t need to read these,” she says. “Just ignore them, okay?”
“Ignore what?” I tell her. I snatch her phone away and scroll through the comments.
Siobhan_M_94: Lol imagine being so desperate you marry a McCarthy. We all know what she had to do to land him
FionaKav: Little miss perfect finally snagged the bad boy? She probably made him sign a contract. Five quid says she's already correcting his grammar in bed
Celtic_Rose: That frigid bitch made my brother's life hell at St. Albert's. Got him suspended twice for BREATHING wrong. She probably has a spreadsheet for their wedding night. Hope Cavin knows what he's getting into.
I don't know these people. How do they even know who I am? Why do strangers hate me while treating Cavin like a god?
Then I scroll to the photos, and my breath catches. Oh.Oh.
There's Cavin in the ring, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat, tattoos dark against his skin. His jaw is set, fists raised, and he looks—my cheeks burn—gorgeous. Yes. He's handsome as all hell. But then there’s only one small grainy picture of me, and it’s… mylicensephoto. I have glasses and braces and acne.
My cheeks instantly heat.
They’re mocking me in the comments. I read, and I read until Bridget finally snatches the phone.
“Stop looking at that,” she says.
“Theyhateme. Why do they hate me?”
“It doesn't matter.” Bridget's voice rises. “Social media is bullshit. They're keyboard warriors who—” She sways, gripping the counter. Her knuckles go white.
“Bridge.” I'm already moving, my arm around her waist. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I’m fine, but I don’t want to talk about this. And I don’t care what they say about you. You’re beautiful, and you’re marrying him. And it’s going to be a good decision. You know I feel things sometimes, and I just know… I know two things,” she says.
I stare at her, my heart racing.
“Number one, I’m going to beat this, and I’m going to get better, and I’m going to be stronger than ever. And number two.” She draws in a breath. “Marrying Cavin McCarthy is going to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
I blink and wish that I had 10 percent of her assurance ofeitherof those things.
My father buries himself in his cup of coffee.
I look at my sister, and hope rises. She has good days and bad days. She’s wan and thinner than ever, but no one would ever know by looking at her how ill she really is.
“Okay,” I say to her, always pragmatic. “Let’s go shopping.”
The first saleswoman tries to tell me what to wear, all bossy hands and sharp opinions, but Bridget cuts her off with a clipped, “No, thank you.”
Then another one, someone who recognizes Bridget, comes rushing over. “Oh my god, Bridget, how are you?”
“Colleen!”
Turns out she’s a girl Bridget knew from school. They were closeonce, good friends. She takes one look at me, then at Bridget, and something shifts in her expression.
“You're here for her?” she asks, like she can't quite believe it.
Bridget nods. “Erin's getting married. To a McCarthy.”
Why did she have to add on that bit?
The girl's eyes go wide. Then she smiles—not the fake customer service kind, but something real. Warm. “Right then,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “Let's make sure you look absolutelydeadly.”
