The vibes she brings to the party? Well, our Clíodhna is the sister who throws back champagne, sizes up the board members, and threatens to headbutt someone for flirting too long with either of her sisters, and especially, our older brother.
She used to be the “bad girl,” but since the baby, she’s wrapped herself in responsibility like a shield. Sometimes I miss the girl who’d pick a fight just for the craic. She struggles with the family patterns herself, but when she saw I was on the edge, she swept in and saved me. It’s kind of what she does.
By contrast, our chaos goblin, Aoife, has gone with drama: a dress with a short front hem, long train, tulle overlay, and feather accents. It’s emerald green, which sets off against her wild, red hair and pale skin. Our sister is nothing if not vivid in her self-expression. She’s impossible to ignore.
Her hair is slicked back into a high pony, and she’s wearing platform heels, making her five feet five look more like six feet. She’s wearing statement earrings, a bold ring on her middle finger—because of course she does—winged liner, highlighter you could see from outer space, and asmirk she was born with. She’s giving punk edge with posh finish.
She’s the one who’ll be making a social media post from the car, air-kissing the old money types, and pretending not to notice every eye following her into the ballroom. And when the press asks who she’s wearing? She usually says something like, “Confidence, mostly.”
Underneath it all, the three of us are all different versions of the same woman trying to prove she’s enough.
There’s a wolf whistle from behind Mum. “Would you look at the arse on that?”
Mum’s cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. “Michael Morrigan, you’re shameful.”
Dad cups her bum and gives her cheeks a squeeze making the three of us groan. “Can’t help it, it’s a quare arse.”
“Fuck, Dad. Get a room, would you? I don’t want to hurl before we even get our dinner,” Aoife says what we’re all thinking, but part of me loves seeing how much he adores our mother. He may be an absolute prick on the field, but he idolizes his wife, and with every passing year, his obsession with her seems to only grow, never fade.
That’s the kind of love I aspire to have: embarrassing our grown children because my husband can’t keep his hands off me.
The doorbell pierces through the groans. “Your arsehole boyfriend’s here,” Taranis yells from downstairs, and it’s Dad’s turn to groan. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
Clíodhna finds my hand and gives me a squeeze. “If he hurts you,” she murmurs under her breath, “I’ll bury him in the back garden.” She says it with a smirk, but I can tell she means it.
“Please play nice tonight, Dad. If you can’t do it for me, do it for the team. There will be cameras everywhere.” I give him an imploring look with an edge of warning in my tonethat I don’t normally use for him, kiss Mum on the cheek, and make my way downstairs.
I pause halfway down to smooth out the front of my dress.
“Stop touching your fucking dress,” Clíodhna hisses.
When I look up, they’re all leaning over the banister watching me walk down the stairs to meet Robert like it’s some kind of sixth year formal. Dad’s the only one not flashing a wide grin, and you know what? I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I had this good flurried feeling in my tummy.
On my wedding day, less than a month ago, I was sick to my stomach. I had the most beautiful dress on, all my family and friends in a gorgeous location, and I should have been elated. Taking another step, the wings in my gut flap again as shiny, black dress shoes appear in my line of sight.
A month ago, I didn’t know who I was or how I’d survive without the two most important people in my life. But the truth is, since I stormed out of that ceremony room in Ballygally Castle in early June, I’ve barely thought about either of them. Turns out, they weren’t that important in my life after all.
What does that say about me? Did I not care about them both the way I thought I did? Did part of my subconscious spot the red flags and start building a protective wall around me? Am I just that fickle that I can table-flip my life upside down and not give it a second thought?
Black, formal trousers appear, with a sharp line ironed down the front of each leg, and my belly does that weird leap again.
It occurs to me that despite my brother’s and father’s disdain for my date, I’m excited to spend time with Robert. And I’m truly not sure how I feel about that. We’ve had a few date nights, done a few Q&As to get to know the basics abouteach other, but what do I really know about him? Hell, what did I really know about George?
Robert has size ten feet. I have no idea what size my asshole ex wore.
Robert likes bright and vibrant socks, like Booth from the TV showBones. George wore the same black socks every single day of his adult life. Probably his childhood too.
A black suit jacket appears, Robert’s broad shoulders filling out a nice white dress shirt, a black dicky bow… his strong jaw, he’s shaved but left a smattering of dark hair covering the lower half of his face, and I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s rugged, and works for him.
We haven’t made eye contact, but I feel his gaze being dragged up over my dress, and his mouth drops open in a comical, soundless O.
He doesn’t look at me like he’d rather be anywhere else on a Friday night.
He doesn’t look at me like it’s a chore to dress up and take me out.
He doesn’t look at me like we’re a fake couple.
He looks at me like I’m not a woman who is lost, confused about who she is, or ticking things off a stupid list before her thirtieth birthday to try to find some kind of direction or reclaim her self-respect after being humiliated by two people she loved.
