Page 22 of Wicked Ruin

Safety in numbers and listen to your gut

Bridget

You approve then?

Fuck no, I don’t approve, but I have no right to tell her what to do. I can’t have her, and she knows it. My knuckles whiten when I grip the phone and type out the response with difficulty.

You don’t need my approval. You fought hard to be able to live your life. Do what you want

Bridget

Is that what you’re doing in America?

Jesus fucking Christ, if it’s not a death by a thousand cuts. Yeah, lass, that’s what I’m fucking doing in America, if you can call working undercover and risking my fucking life on the daily for the sake of my family, living my life.

What I’m doing in America is working. Getting by.

I don’t hear from her for a few months, and when I finally do, it’s just a picture of her dressed to kill, telling me she’s going out on a date. She won’t tell me who it is. Smart girl.

Not texting her, not talking to her, feels like death, like mourning. I miss her. I’m aching and furious, and I take it all out at the gym. It only helps for a little while before it all creeps back.

When Seamus tells me it’s time to come home, I know it’s for the best.

I know that Bridget Kavanagh isn’t for the likes of me.

She’s better off without me.

Part Two

Chapter Four

Present day…

BRIDGET

It's early morning in the kitchen, and light still lingers at the edges. I'm always awake before Erin, so I put the kettle on. I'm a light sleeper and have been since I was in the hospital. It's like my body never really learned to rest. I don't like to examine what that means because I feel like I'm in a constant state of waiting.

Waiting to see if my remission is only temporary. Waiting to see if my sister's going to move, have a baby, or do something that will change her life as we know it because of her loyalty to her husband’s family.

Waiting to see if Declan will come back home.

It’s really time I moved out of Cavin and Erin’s house. Both she and Cavin believe I need to be safe, that I need to be protected, but the truth is, I’m an adult and have been for quite some time. I was an adult before they even married, but now I finally feel like one.

The kitchen is comfortable, welcoming, and lived-in. The kettle is on the stove, and my myriad of coffee cups sit on mug stands, taking up way more cabinet space than a houseguest should. Cavin likes to remind me of that, but he only teases me. He's like a brother to me, and I'm grateful.

Erin's one mug is in the same place as it always is, of course, because she is a creature of habit and doesn't like change.

“Did you turn the heat down again?” Erin says as she walks into the kitchen, shivering. “It's freezing in here.”

“It was damn near boiling. It's not my fault your husband likes you walking around scantily clad.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she teasingly swats at me. I’m not wrong, and she doesn't really mind.

I don't either. She reaches over, turns up the thermostat, and sticks out her tongue.

“I'm paying the bills. You don't need to be the frugal one.”

I’m not really, but I am sitting at the table with my laptop open to a spreadsheet in front of me. I've been working with Erin since our parents were exiled.

I’m good at the work. Very good at it. And if I’m honest, I use it the way some people use drinking—because people lie and betray you, but numbers always tell the truth.