“Never wear these colors.”
I look down at myself. I'm literally wearing a black jumper.
“These are just not your colors, girlfriend. But that's fine. Look at the ones thatare,” she says triumphantly. “They’re gorgeous on you. Perfect, let's do it. Watch, I'm going to show you how it changes everything.”
She walks over to a rack and pulls out two identical V-neck tops.
“Look in the mirror.”
She holds a bright-white one up under my chin, and my skin looks sallow and wan, but when she holds up the second, a warm peach, my skin looks warmer, golden, and my eyes seem brighter.
“Oh, wow.”
“Mm-hmm. Go now, keep your yoga pants on,” she says, “and then try this on. Ready?”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
The top is a warm ivory with a deep vee, and when I put it on, it immediately makes me look slim and fit, and, as Bridget would say, my tittiesdolook amazing. It brings out the color in my cheeks and in my eyes.
When I come out, Bridget claps her hands in glee.
“This looksgorgeous.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, I like this. How much is it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bridget says in a singsong voice. “I’ve got Cavin’s credit card he gave Da.”
“What? Why did he give it toyou?”
She sighs. “Because you blocked him, remember?”
Oh, right.
Two hours later, I’m surprised Bridget’s still going. “I need something to eat,” she says. “I am starving.”
It actually gets me a bit emotional that she says she’s hungry, since I swear she never gets hungry anymore.
“We could go to D’Agostino’s,” Bridget says, gesturing down the street toward the only proper Italian restaurant in this part of Ireland. “I’ve been craving their carbonara something fierce.”
“Let’s go.”
D’Agostino’s overlooks the harbor, all gleaming water and bobbing boats. Bridget picks at her food, which drives my mother crazy. But I, for one, like to see the fact that she took at least five generous bites of pasta.
I’m not a huge fan of going out to eat because I feel like I never know the rules, but in a family like mine, I’ve learned to just observe and follow.
“This looks delicious,” I say. I don’t even know what I ordered because I’m so overstimulated. Crowds, people, shopping.
“You’re going to knock his socks off with those dresses,” Bridget says, taking a sip of water. “I’m jealous.” She winks. It’s friendly, but it makes my heart ache a little.
A waitress comes up to us, a buxom girl with vibrant red hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head. “Hey,” she says with a smile. “You’re the Kavanagh girls, right?”
A week ago, we could have come in here, and nobody would have recognized us. Between my sister’s frequent hospital stays and illness, and my hatred for all things social, we barely ventured into town. It was a rare occasion.
“Aye,” I say, with a forced smile.
“You’re Erin,” she says.
I nod.
