“And . . .”
“And it’s none of your business,” I snapped, surprising even myself with how snippy I was. I’d never spoken to him like that before. Never. How on earth had the loss of Sean Cassidy turned me into such a sour old shrew?
Rick gave me a look that was all, fine, have it your way, and I sighed, feeling guilty yet again.
“I’m sorry. I’m being horrible.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, believe me, I understand. But think about seeing someone, a therapist or a counselor who can talk things through with you. It’ll do you the world of good, I promise.”
I sighed and fiddled with a sugar packet. “Actually, I tried that once. It didn’t end so well.”
“No?”
Shaking my head, I answered, “Nah. Mam found out about it and kicked up a fuss, thinking people would discover I was a klepto and it’d tarnish Ronan’s reputation. She forbade me from going to any more sessions after that.”
Broderick frowned like he thought my mother was a mental case, which she wasn’t. She was just overly concerned about what the neighbors would think, concerned in the extreme.
“I don’t know what to say, Luce. That’s fucked up, and I’m certain Ronan wouldn’t give a damn about his rep if he knew his sister was getting the help she needed.”
“Yeah well, that’s my mother for you, always worrying about Ronan. He’s the one who keeps her in designer handbags and weekly blow-dries after all,” I said, my intended humor falling flat.
A small trace of his frown remained as he reached over to squeeze my hand. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m right here, okay?”
I gave him a wide smile. “You’re my best friend, have I told you that lately?”
He grinned and winked. “No need. I’m entirely aware of my brilliance.”
Chapter Sixteen
@BroderickAdams $350 for a Guns N’ Roses ticket? I think not, Saul Hudson, I think not.
@LucyFitz to @BroderickAdams Whaaa? Does it come with a striptease from a 1988 Axl Rose?
@BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz LMAO.
Lucy
It was exactly three weeks to the day after my last cookie thievery that Broderick and I arrived at JFK for our flight to Dublin. Being such a good friend of Annie’s, he was coming to the wedding, too, and I was looking forward to forcing him into joining us girls for the hen night.
Sean and I had continued to swap text messages. With each exchange I grew increasingly confused and . . . involved. Two weeks ago I’d taken a picture of my cup and sent it to him because the person had spelled my name Loosey instead of Lucy.
Lucy: I demand you change my contact information to Loosey on your phone. It is now my name.
Sean: If you want me to, I’ll fly over to NYC and beat the shit out of the guy who wrote that on your cup.
Lucy: You don’t think it’s funny?
Sean: No one calls my girl loose.
The next day he sent me a picture of his coffee cup; the barista had written a phone number on the side. I felt a pang of jealousy until he texted.
Sean: At least you get a word. They’ve assigned me a number. Just call me Jean Valjean.
Sean: And yours is “loosely” based on your name.
Sean: See what I did there? ;-)
Lucy: I can’t even with you. How do you know who Jean Valjean is?
Sean: Everyone knows 24601. ;-)
Lucy: Random thought. If everyone winked as much in real life as they do on social media and in text messages, the world would be a much creepier place.
Sean: I’d send you a “I’d love to lick your pussy” emoticon, but my iPhone doesn’t have one.
Lucy: Those Apple engineers have seriously been sleeping on the job
Lucy: ;-)
Sean: Ah yes, embrace the creepy winking. ;-)
Those everyday—because now we were messaging every day, all day—conversations were confusing because they were friendly, but they were often much more than friendly. Yet neither of us made any attempt to call the other. And the lack of resolution had me feeling like a mixed-up basket case.
Hence my current airport crime spree.
“You got something up your sleeve?” Broderick asked several seconds after I’d slipped a tube of lipstick up there.
How the hell had he seen?
“What?” I asked, frazzled.
Rick smirked. “You’ve got this mischievous expression going on. Tell me what you’re up to.”
I exhaled heavily in relief and lifted a shoulder. “Just looking forward to introducing you to all my girlfriends in Dublin. They’re going to absolutely adore your accent.”
He didn’t react how I expected him to, instead he frowned and perused a bottle of men’s cologne. “Oh, right.”
I chuckled. “Don’t get too excited or anything.”
“I’m excited,” he said in the least excited voice ever.
“Oh my God! Broderick Thelonious Adams, you’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”