Page 50 of Wicked Ruin

“Our fathers discussed us living in Ireland,” I say. “That was part of the arrangement.”

Her brows lift slightly. “Well, I assumed we'd have some flexibility—a base here, of course, and a place in New York as well. Dual residency. It makes sense, doesn't it?”

It makes sense. I take a slow breath. It makes perfect sense, and I hate it.

“Have you spent much time in America?”

“Aye.”

She looks around the room again, perfectly composed, maintaining the careful distance she holds, even while standing directly beside me.

I think about Sunday mornings at Caitlin's table. Bronwyn stealing everyone's tea. The particular noise of a house full of people who have loved each other for decades and intend to keep doing it.

I think about Bridget perched on the kitchen counter with her legs swinging, stealing food off every plate within reach, laughing and tipping a dollop of whipped cream straight into her mouth from the can. Something tells me Valentina would have a heart attack.

“We'll figure it out,” I tell her noncommittally. She nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to the room.

Then the front door opens. I hear her before I see her.

Bridget’s laugh, bright, unguarded, and complete, like she's forgotten there's anyone else in the world, rings through the hallway. Then Bridget is in the doorway, and the room does what rooms always do when she walks into them—makes wherever she's standing the center. She has that quality that has nothing to do with trying. It's just… Bridget—the warmth of her, the vivid presence of her, the way she's unapologetically, entirely herself.

She whispers something to Erin and squeezes her sister's arm, then she's hugging Aunt Caitlin, who returns it like she means it.

I don't move. I watch her find her people the way she always does. I watch everyone greet her with warmth because they love her. And I think about Valentina's word, privacy.

Goddamn it. We'll negotiate the terms of cohabitation like joint custody of a life neither of us particularly wanted.

“I need to find the ladies' room,” Valentina says. I nod and gesture to the hallway. She walks with her head high, her bag tucked under her arm, eyes not meeting anyone's on her way out. I exhale.

Cavin appears at my elbow. “Brother,” he says, like a peace offering.

“Hey.”

His eyes drift across the room to Erin and her sister. “She was sick today.” He sips his drink. “I don't want to alarm Erin, but I'm worried it might be a relapse.”

The noise of the room continues around us, and across it, Bridget is smiling at something Bronwyn said. Even at this distance, I can see that it doesn't quite reach her eyes the way it usually does, and I don't know how I missed that until this exact moment. I feel something ground-level and steady shift under me because I was not prepared for this.

Bridget. Sick again?

“How bad?” My voice comes out level. I've had a lot of fucking practice at this.

“Bad enough that I noticed,” Cavin says, then finally looks at me. “Erin’s worried. Thought you'd want to know.”

He moves away before I can answer. Fuck it. I'm standing in the middle of my own engagement party as I watch Bridget tip her head back to laugh at something, her whole face open and lit. I think about the deal I made, and I think about what the word relapse actually means, and I think about everything I've elected to carry alone.

I cross the room before I've decided to.

Bridget sees me coming and goes still.

“You look awful.”

“Uh, thanks,” she says. “Lovely party.”

“Cavin told me.”

A beat. The smile doesn't move, but something behind her eyes does. “Cavin should mind his own business.”

“You are his business, Bridget.” I keep my voice low, the room loud enough around us to swallow it. “Have you called Rosenberg?”