Page 45 of Wicked Ruin

“Would you stop it?” She pushes the door open. Her lips are thin. Behind her in the doorway, Cavin stands, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Do you need help?”

And just like that, the argument deflates out of me. Cavin McCarthy is the best brother a girl could ask for. He's also a bit of an arsehole, but right now I'll take it.

“I’m a little unsteady,” I admit.

Then he’s got me—my arm around his shoulders, his around my waist.

“I’ll carry you if you need me to.” Wouldn’t be the first time. I feel like a twat for yelling at him.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m alright.”

But I know how it starts. The problem is, I don’t know how it ends.

I swipe at my eyes and let him walk me to the guest room.

“We have to tell somebody,” Erin says from behind us.

“Stop.” I clear my throat. “Dr. Rosenberg says I’m in remission, and the chances of it returning are slim. He’s giving me the best treatment. I’m just a little off, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Erin says, and I can hear in her voice that it isn’t. “Do you want some peppermint tea?”

I nod reluctantly because I know it will help. I hate that I know the routine. I hate how well-worn this is. The sheer familiarity of it all makes me want to cry.

I wish my first instinct wasn't to reach out to Declan. To tell him I don't feel well. Let him send me something stupid—a bad joke, a cringy meme, something that shouldn't work but does anyway. He'd know exactly what to say, and he'd say it wrong on purpose, and I'd laugh despite myself.

But I don't text him.

Erin goes to put the kettle on, and Cavin follows. I wish I couldn’t hear their voices through the door.

“—shouldn’t have let her move out⁠—”

“—trying to get out of the engagement party⁠—”

“—why would she⁠—”

My phone vibrates.

Declan

You ok?

I don’t respond.

Their voices fade, and I lie on the pillow, my head throbbing.

I go through the mental checklist: At the first sign of a flare, Dr. Rosenberg said. As soon as you’re feeling off.

Thanks to the McCarthys, I have his mobile number, so I can text him.

I don’t, though, not yet. I don’t want to.

Instead, I do the responsible thing to distract myself: stalk Valentina again.

Jesus, I wish she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. And just to really twist the knife, I imagine what she and Declan must look like together.

Because that’s not masochistic at all.