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“Are you laughing?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no, there’s nothing funny about any of this,” I say with a really terrible attempt at sobriety.
“You’re laughing,” he chides, shaking his head at me, threatening punishment with those eyes of his.
“I’m not laughing, Tate,” I clarify. “I’m… utterly fucking thrilled.”
His chuckle’s all manly and deep, and I swear he makes me wet all over again.
“Good, then,” he says, squeezing my hand. “That makes bloody two of us then.”
I don’t even bother to staunch that grin, just as his phone rings, the sound a blaring trumpet in the quiet.
“I have to take that,” he says with a sigh. “That’s Leith’s ringtone.”
Reaching in his pocket, he takes out his phone.
“Aye?”
He’s stock still, not moving a muscle as he listens.
“Are you sure?”
More silence while he listens.
“I’ll go.”
Another pause while he listens some more.
“Aye. Of course. And I will. And before I go, I need to talk to Mac.”
He hangs up the phone. “We’ll pay a visit to your publisher sooner than we planned. They’re outside of Dublin, aren’t they?”
He’s already pushing himself off the sofa, tugging on clothes. I’d feel sorry about our quiet moment being interrupted, if not for my concern about my friends.
I nod. “Aye, why?”
“Maybe we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone. I’ve got to pay a visit to our friends the McCarthys. Our Clan’s in danger, and you’re going to help.”
Packing’s an easy affair, since I’ve got the clothes already folded and he’s clearly a light packer. Duffel bag with clothes, our toothbrushes, and the little bag of toiletries. When he isn’t looking, I shove the bag of condoms in the bag just in case and think Nan would be bloody proud.
“And while we’re heading there, we’ll have to do something about the situation with Islan and the Welsh,” he mutters, some of the familiar anger-laced concern returning.
“Islan will never speak to me again, Tate, I know she won’t.” I can’t help but feel I’ve betrayed my closest friend. I feel like a bloody arsehole.
“She’ll get over it,” he mutters, closing and locking each window, one by one.
Tate’s on the phone with Mac as I close the last window in the bathroom and quickly check my phone. I’ve a text from Islan.
Islan: Are you okay?
Me: Aye.
Islan: I hear you’re going to Ireland??
Me: We are, yes. We have some errands to do.
Islan: I wish I could go. I’ve never been.
I feel guilty chatting with her when I haven’t told her that her brothers are going to have questions. That I’ve betrayed her. I don’t know what they’ll do, but a tower with a lock and key doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility.
She doesn’t exactly have a relationship with the guy from Wales, but I know she follows him on Instagram, and I know she’s exchanged messages with him. I remind myself he doesn’t know she’s a Cowen.
Why is a dangerous guy like him even on social media? Hmm?
I sigh again.
I hear Tate talking to Mac. “You’ll have to question her, get everything out of her you can. I need to know what the bloody hell’s going on, Mac.”
I’m an arse for a friend. I don’t even deserve a friend like her.
Information moves quicker than I expect, and before we’ve even left, the worst is confirmed in a brutal string of texts from Islan, her anger and hurt apparent even through the screen.
Islan: What did you tell Tate??
I don’t respond.
Islan: Fran, what did you SAY?
Islan: Did you tell him everything? I’ll never share anything with you again. I knew I couldn’t trust you, I knew it!!
I swipe a tear from my cheek.
Islan: Now I’ve got my brothers asking questions, and you know what that means.
I want to tell her I didn’t tell them anything. But how could I? That would be a lie. And over here, on this newly turned leaf, I will not lie.
Never. Again.
Islan: You’re a bloody fucking liar. I thought I could trust you. Liar!! All you care about is yourself!
She finishes off with a litany of profanity and several middle-finger emojis. I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, my head aching with the effort of not crying. I can’t cry, not now, not when the entire Clan is depending on us to make everything right.
“I fucked everything up,” I say to Tate, as he locks the final window and turns to me. He takes my phone out of my hands and wordlessly reads the texts. He sighs.
“You haven’t. This time, you did the right thing, Fran. She’s angry, but she’ll bloody get over it, I promise. And furthermore, lassie, you didn’t fuck everything up. You caused a few wrinkles, which you’re going to help calm. But this runs much deeper than anything you’re responsible for.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Thanks for that, Tate,” I whisper.
