We were at the back of a fancy women’s boutique on Clarendon Street, in an area meant for trying on clothes. Several curtained stalls lined the back wall and a couch was placed to one side. It was the only place to sit, so it was where I waited, scrolling through the website Lucy took pictures for on my phone. I wasn’t even sure why, because clearly there weren’t going to be any photos of her, or me for that matter, but somehow the practice calmed me, made me feel like I was with her even though I wasn’t. Go psychoanalyze that.
Lucy had sent me several texts since our wordless encounter the night before. I hadn’t answered any of them. Their lack of sentiment irritated me.
Lucy: Did you leave?
Lucy: Thanks for being so nice to Ronan.
Lucy: Finally home, exhausted. Going to sleep.
And that was all she’d sent.
See? Irritating.
Good sense told me nothing had changed. Lucy had offered me nothing. Her behavior had been consistent from our first encounter to our last, and all the text messages in between. I had nothing with which to reproach her.
Still . . . No mention of missing me, wanting to see me. Was a simple I can’t live without you too much to ask?
And yet, though we hadn’t spoken nor had she given voice to the want so evident in her eyes, seeing Lucy last night had cemented something. We weren’t over. Far from it. Our inability to go a day without making contact meant the thing between us wasn’t going away.
Those were my ruminations while Eilish tried on dresses behind her curtain. Every so often, if she liked a frock, she’d emerge and show it to me while she assessed her reflection.
“Then it’s too tight,” I argued. I liked that dress the least so far.
She smirked. “It’s not too tight. It’s just fine.”
I frowned at her smirk and her pacifying tone.
“Wouldn’t you prefer something less revealing?” I asked.
My cousin’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide just before she tossed her head back and laughed with gusto, turning around to face me and placing her hands on her hips.
I usually liked shopping, both with my cousin and in general. Most men don’t like to shop. I was not most men. In fact, the only thing I didn’t hate about the farce of a relationship with Brona O’Shea was taking her shopping and dressing her in smart clothes.
Some would call me superficial. I considered myself merely keen on aesthetics.
Of course, I never actually enjoyed shopping with Brona or buying her things. She’d been grateful, but I’d discovered it wasn’t gratitude I wanted.
In fact, I wasn’t sure what I wanted or why buying things for Eilish gave me such a deep sense of satisfaction.
Since I’d left New York, I’d taken Eilish out no less than seven times and bought her all manner of clothes and accessories. I liked spending money on her, and she didn’t argue, just accepted the lavishing like a good girl.
But there were so many things wrong with the current dress, I was having trouble ordering its defects in their entirety.
First of all, it was black, with a bit of lace along the V of the neck. And though it reached past her knees, it was entirely too tight for a girl her age. She’d paired it with spiked heels—which couldn’t have been good for her feet. I worried for her ankles.
Overall, it looked . . . sexy. Wrong. I hated it.
I grimaced at her good cheer and brightened gaze, which only made her laugh harder.
“Ah, Sean,” she wiped at her eyes, “your expression right now is adorable.”
“You can’t wear that.” I sniffed, checking my cufflinks. “You’re too young.”
“I’m nineteen.”
I scowled, with both irritation and confusion.
Was that true? When had Eilish turned nineteen? Wasn’t she fifteen? Sixteen at the oldest . . .. I counted backward. She’d been sent to a boarding school in the States when she turned ten. Had it already been nine years since I’d consoled her the night before her departure?
My gaze flickered over her body once more and annoyance reignited as I realized she did, in fact, look like a woman. When I met her eyes again, her wide smile was still in place.
“You’re not allowed to be nineteen.”
Her answering chuckle was melodic and tinged with an unmistakable air of affection. “Nevertheless, I am nineteen. I’m in my second year of university at Brown, or had you forgotten?”
“No.” Come to think of it, I did recall something about her going to school in Massachusetts. “I haven’t forgotten . . . precisely.”
“Don’t feel badly about it.” She waved away my regretful expression and something like practiced apathy affixed to her features. “I don’t think my father or my siblings know where I go to school, or my major for that matter. Your disinterest doesn’t bother me.”
Par for the course: pretending little things like life goals and ambitions were unimportant. I didn’t like how easily Eilish was able to pretend. Though, with her family, pretending was far safer than the alternative.
Suddenly, it felt very important that she know I was, and always had been, interested in her wellbeing.
“Get off it, E. I know where you go to school. And I seem to remember your major is something boring—like journalism or some such to do with the letter J.”
Her lips twitched as she met my eyes in the mirror. “Computational Biology.”
“Yes. Exactly.” I nodded, trying valiantly to keep my smile hidden. “That’s what I said.”