Fin passed the ring over and it sat warm and surprisingly solid in her palm. As a child, Sweeney had found the two hands clasped around a crowned heart endlessly fascinating. Maybe it was because Fin’s granny had communicated via sign language—measles had robbed her of hearing at the age of two—that Sweeney had noticed it so much, the rapid-fire hand gestures turning it into a golden blur. Or maybe it was that it was so very different to her mother’s and Ronnie’s solitaire diamonds and the rings she’d seen in magazines and jewellery shop windows.
Whatever the reason, placing the ring on her finger felt portentous and Sweeney was acutely conscious of its weight—its actual weightandthe weight of Murphy family history. Fin’s grandparents had been married for over fifty years. It symbolised something that hadn’t been entered into lightly. Or frivolously.
Or on a lie.
Her throat thickened and she swallowed as one thumb absently caressed the thinning band at the back of her finger. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured, glancing across at Rhonda.
Ronnie nodded and Sweeney swore she saw a glimmer of moisture in her eyes before she rose, busying herself with collecting their empty mugs. ‘I’ll get started on the pancake batter,’ she announced briskly before disappearing.
They watched her go before turning their attention to the ring again. ‘I suppose it’s too early to drink?’ Sweeney murmured.
Fin shrugged. ‘Pubs are open in Ireland.’
‘Excellent. Mimosas it is.’
Four
If Fin had expected his family to act cool about the engagement when they arrived at the lake on Tuesday, especially given most of them had been at the sixtieth party, he’d been quickly disabused of the notion. They were mobbed like a couple of Hollywood A-listers—clearly keeping a low profile the past two days had only left everyone panting for more.
The local newspaper hadn’t helped. Yesterday a picture of them and that kiss was front-page news under a headline proclaimingBallyshannon Childhood Sweethearts Set to Say I Do—Finally!Between that and the grapevine running hot with gossip about an apparent clandestine, long-term affair, it seemed the Murphy clan could not get enough of them.
His cousin hadn’t helped, either. Donny had given them a cute, cringey couple name—Feeney—which had been resoundingly adopted by all at the lake gathering and, well, there was nothing else for it…
Donny had to die.
But for now, despite their strategy to arrive late and get separately lost in a sea of celebrating Murphys, Fin and Sweeney were stuck with each other.
Not that he minded being in Sweeney’s company, especially not in that green and white sundress she was wearing, with its snug top and flared skirt, and her hair piled up in a messy configuration on top of her head. It just wasn’t what they’d planned. And it meant they were having to make up vague answers on the fly to a bunch of very specific questions they hadn’t considered.
What was their song?He’d blurted out ‘Teenage Dirtbag’. She’d blinked at his not very romantic choice but hadn’t contradicted him.
Where were they going to live afterwards?He’d said Dublin at the same she’d said New York and they’d laughed nervously, dismissing it as a conversation in progress.
Were they going to choose good Irish names for their babies?For the love of all that was holy…
Fin had no idea how compulsive liars did it. Two hours in and he was sweating up a storm which had nothing to do with the heat of the day.
‘Teenage Dirtbag?’
Finally alone—although probably not for long—thanks to an impromptu kids-versus-adults football game, Fin glanced at Sweeney, who had sidled up to him. Her cheeks were flushed—from the heat or the lying, he wasn’t sure.
‘I panicked.’ He took a chug of the cold beer his Aunt Catherine had brought him, before she’d thankfully abandoned him in favour of refereeing the game. ‘And anyway, it is. Or it was. Or it would be… if we had a couple song. Which we don’t. Because we’re not.’
Christ…He took another hit of beer.
‘We must have listened to that song a thousand times,’ she mused.
‘At least.’ It had been the soundtrack to many of their angsty teenage chats. ‘I swear I still get turned on by a woman in tube socks.’
Sweeney laughed, her hand clutching at his arm, which Fin found delightfully familiar in the midst of this strange situation. No matter how bonkers everything was right now, they were in this together.
‘It’s not exactly Bruno Mars, though, is it?’ she said when her laughter stopped.
‘Can’t do a bridal waltz to it,’ he agreed.
She sighed, leaning her head against his arm as she absently watched the game. The top of her hair brushed the shoulder seam of his t-shirt and he felt a moment of calm amidst the wacky.
‘We suck at this,’ she proclaimed.
