It was truly a miracle that losing my leg was the only major injury I sustained from such an awful crash.
“And I know you still see your therapist.”
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had an appointment, but I get what she’s saying. “But…”
“But since you met Rhiannon, there’s been a glimpse of the old Robert. And I wouldn’t be upset if you spent a bit more time with him. That’s all I’m saying.”
It’s not all she’s saying, and we both know it, but it’s all she’s going to say considering she was going to drop it.
“I read your last article.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I know I’m not into sports, and I don’t get it as much as I did when you lived away, but you have such a way with words. The way you command the English language.” She levels me with a warm stare that looks right into my soul. “I’m very proud of you, son. And I can’t wait to read your next piece.” She pats my chest like I’m ready.
But what she said about my mental health reminds me that even after all this time, I’m still rebuilding trust with her, like there’s still a piece of her that might believe I could do it again. Hearing she’s proud of me, though, that’s a balm to a wound I never realized was there. But the guilt of knowing she’s going to read what I’ve written about Rhiannon… that… shit. That’s like quicksand drawing my body deeper into darkness.
Has being with Rhiannon changed me somehow? Is this dilemma, this tug-of-war in my chest over writing a story about her a sign of something more than me temporarily growing a conscience?
CHAPTER 33
Rhiannon
Those fucking hornets are back in my stomach, and they’re all on energy drinks.
“Stop touching your fucking dress.” Clíodhna slaps my hand away from my thigh. “You’re going to make it all wrinkly.”
I have regrets. Most notably, I regret agreeing to let Robert pick me up from my parents’ house where my whole family is getting ready together. We can’t all fit in the one vehicle, and it makes sense from a PR standpoint for me to arrive with my so-very-fake boyfriend, but I should have gone to his house.
There’s a gasp from the doorway behind me, and I know without turning to face the sound that Mum has entered the chat. And in three… two?—
“Oh myGod,would you look at the three of you.” Mum claps her hands together. “I know I say this every year, but you all look so beautiful.” Her voice is shaky, like she’s tearful.
“Mum, you’re going to ruin your makeup if you start gurning,” Clíodhna scolds our mother.
“Yup,” adds Aoife. “No tears, even if they’re good tears. No streaky foundation for you!”
“I can’t help it.”
I turn to face her, and as expected, her eyes are filled with unshed tears.
“I see you day in and day out covered from head to toe in mud and bruises, or in your leggings or PJs. But this…” She gestures at the three of us. “Stunning.” She cups Aoife’s cheek with her palm. “And of course you all take after me with your good looks.”
We all laugh and roll our eyes at the age-old joke in the house that we get our rugby from our da and our good looks from our mum.
She looks like a movie star stepped straight out of the fifties. She’s wearing a tea-length dress with a vintage cut. When the light catches the champagne-colored fabric, it shows embroidered detailing. She’s got low block, suede heels and an heirloom bracelet from Granny McMahon, and her hair’s in a classic chignon at the nape of her neck. Timeless, classic, and the epitome of elegance and grace. That’s Mum, alright.
She steps up to me, reaches a hand to my hair, and starts fussing. “You know, your father always thought certainty was the same thing as being right. But he’s been wrong before.”
I cant my head, my brows jumping up.
“You’ve always had good instincts, love. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Not even him.”
My eyes well with tears as a lump blocks anything from coming out of my mouth. She cradles my face with her gentle hand and gives me a firm nod. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Rhiannon Morrigan. You just need to decide what that might be.”
I can’t risk talking. I’ll cry until I’m empty, and I’ll ruin my makeup and my bloody dress. Robert is due any minute.
As though she senses my imminent meltdown, Clee steps up to Mum’s elbow. “Can you help with this, please?” She hands her a necklace, and Mum turns to help her. Clíodhna’sgot that look again—half armor, half exhaustion. She’s been the glue since she had the baby, and sometimes I think she’s forgotten how to be anything else.
She’s wearing a bronze, duchess satin gown with a structured corset top and a full A-line skirt, nipping in at her waist. Her long, dirty blonde hair is styled in braids pinned to the crown of her head. She has Dad’s facial structure—a rounder face and softer cheekbones than the rest of us—but her bold red lip makes it look like she could throw down or win a crown. Her lipstick’s perfect, but her eyes are tired in a way makeup can’t hide.
She’s completed the look with chunky heels, and I fight a giggle. With those hooker calves, she definitely struggles with balancing on a thin stiletto, but sometimes I love to see her try.
