Cavin
My sisters want to know what color dress you’re wearing.
And on and on the list goes.
Cavin
What are yourplans today?
Cavin
Where are you going?
Questions that would actually be quite welcome and even make a lot of sense if we had any type of relationship or ounce of care between us. If we wereactuallytwo people in love, planning a wedding.
I’m not someone to fall for fairy-tale stories, so I never even dreamed of marrying my Prince Charming. I always assumed that I would somehow get away with being single for the rest of my life, even being born into the Irish mob.
Now?Definitelynot interested in marriage.
The day of shopping and going to the club was borrowed time. The next day, Bridget paid for it. She fell ill with a fever, and she’s been in the hospital ever since.
So while a part of me is kicking and screaming and resisting the idea of going all the way to the McCarthy house and becoming one of them, my conviction that this is the right thing to do is stronger than ever.
I guess most women who are engaged look forward to the engagement party. But me? It’s a looming date on my calendar, just like any formal event has always been and probably always will be.
I’m wearing “ruby red” because supposedly, that’s on my “color chart”
Cavin
What the fuck is a color chart?
Like something that’s supposed to guide me to the right colors?
Cavin
Ah. Rules and regulations and the like. That’s very you
For some reason, that makes me smile. It is very me—overthinking to the point of paralysis, while the world moves on without asking my permission.
The bell rings, and my mother calls for me. “Erin? Someone’s here to see you.”
No oneever comes here to see me. My heart beats faster. It can’t be… I pad downstairs in my yoga pants and oversized jumper, hair still damp from the shower. I’m not expecting anyone. The last forty-eight hours have been a blur of restless sleep and replaying that night at the club over and over. The way Cavin’s hand felt on my throat. The way his eyes looked when he?—
I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Why am I disappointed it isn’t… him?
Am Ifallingfor him?
Bronwyn McCarthy stands in our foyer like a beam of light in a dark room. She’s wearing a soft-pink coat and cream-colored trousers, her light brown hair perfectly styled in loose waves. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine, effortlessly elegant in that way I’ve never managed.
“Hiya,” she says softly, offering a gentle smile.
“Hiya,” I echo, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look.
My mother hovers nearby, clearly uncomfortable. The McCarthys don’t just drop by. This isn’t how our families operate.
“I’ll leave you girls to it,” my mother says, though her tone suggestsshe’d rather stay and spy. She disappears into the kitchen, but I know she’s listening.
