Page 97 of Wicked Ruin

“Bridget,” she says, reaching for my hand to give it a little squeeze. “What’s going on?” Her voice breaks a little, and that’s what does me in.

I bite my lip and look away. By my calculations, I am exactly three months pregnant. My clothes don’t fit anymore, and according to the app I downloaded and hid from everybody, my baby is apparently the size of a lemon. I’ve been hiding a lemon.

“I—Oh, Erin.”

And before I can talk myself out of it, I’m sobbing on the kitchen table—deep, wracking sobs. How much longer can we hide? How much longer do we have to do this alone?

Erin pushes herself to her feet and waddles over to me, bending down to hug me. “Shh,” she says, running her hand down the back of my head like she did when I was sick. “Whatever it is, it’ll turn out alright.”

“It won’t,” I bawl, shaking my head. “Because it can’t.”

Erin straightens and comes around to stand in front of me. Crouching down, she places two hands on my shoulders. “You look at me, Bridget Kavanagh,” she says fiercely. I sniffle hard and look at her.

“You have been through too much to be hopeless now. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what you’re hiding. But I’ve seen you battle a terminal illness. I’ve seen you bleeding uncontrollably, facing the odds that would scare anyone, and beating them. I’ve seen you watch your parents face exile, your sister marry into another family, and all with a smile on your face. I’ve held you when you bled, wiped your tears when you were spent, and watched as you were the one who told me that it would be alright.”

She leans in, holding my shoulders tight. “Whatever it is that’s happening, we can handle this. Together. Because that’s what sisters do.” And now she’s crying too.

I have to tell her. I can’t not tell her.

“I—” I open my mouth, and before I know it, it’s all coming out in a torrent of words, in a hushed whisper so no one hears. “I’m pregnant, Erin.”

I watch the way realization dawns, as her eyes go wide and bright and her lips part into a surprised smile. “Pregnant?” she whispers. Then she grins, and she’s crying in earnest now as she hugs me tight.

“Is that all? Oh my god, I’m so relieved. I was so afraid you were relapsing, and you didn’t want to tell anyone the truth.” She pulls back. “Bridget Kavanagh, don’t you ever do that to me again,” she says, then stills at my sober expression.

“Um… Who’s the father, Bridge?” she whispers.

“You know who it is,” I whisper back. “Declan. It could only be Declan.”

“Oh my.” She closes her eyes as if processing it all, but it doesn’t quite compute, her voice the tiniest whisper. If anyone heard⁠—

“Cavin said that… he was worried about Declan.”

“Aye,” I say with a nod.

“Oh my,” Erin repeats, as the full weight of my revelation dawns on her. “Well, we can⁠—”

“Help! Somebody help me!”

Erin and I stare at each other for a moment before we realize it’s Caitlin. My heart’s already beating frantically as we both leap to our feet. She rounds the kitchen, her gardening gloves still on, the trowel clutched in her hands, her eyes wide with terror. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s run all the way.

“It’s Keenan! He’s in the garden, and he can’t—can’t breathe. He can’t get up⁠—”

I’m already on my way, Erin right behind me. Of all days for everyone to be gone.

We find him on the flagstone path between the rose beds, half slumped against the garden bench, a hand flat to his chest. His lips have a strange bluish cast that makes my stomach lurch. Every breath he takes sounds wet and labored.

“Keenan.” Erin drops to her knees beside him, her voice steady in the way it gets when disaster strikes. “Stay with us. You’re alright.”

Erin’s already dialing the medics on her mobile.

Caitlin stands behind me, sniffling.

“I think… I think this could be the edema I was reading about. With Bronwyn. She was worried—never mind.”

I turn to face Keenan and fall to my knees in front of him. “Keenan, I need you to listen to me. You’re going to be alright, but it’s important you don’t fight this.” He’s trying to gulp air, which will only make it worse. “Slow it down. Small breaths. In through the nose.” I demonstrate. “Like this, okay? Don’t try to fill your lungs. Just small ones. Let me do the counting.”

He looks at me, his eyes wide with fear, this man who’s birthed the most terrifying men I know, a plea for help in them. “Good,” I say. “That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.”