Page 50 of Twist of Fate
“It’s an autoimmune disease. I keep it mostly controlled by meds. But I still have flare-ups every now and then, particularly when I’m stressed.”
“Are you stressed now?” I ask, the worry clear in my voice.
“No,” she answers, warmth spreading across her face. “No, just a little too much walking. Stress can manifest both physically and emotionally.”
She’s right; the number of times I’d worked my body to the point of exhaustion should have clued me into that fact. There were times when I could barely walk after particularly grueling matches growing up.
“I’ve gotten used to it. It’s been five years, after all. But I still struggle with certain things.”
“Like your mam telling you what to do?”
She laughs. “You caught that, did you?”
I nod, and she continues.
“I know she means well. I just don’t like being coddled. I’m usually better about taking care of myself, not pushing my limits, but life has been a little rough lately, and I’ve let things slip.” I don’t think it’s possible for her to ever appear weak, but I doubt that telling her that would make a difference in her self-image. “On the other hand, I hate when people make assumptions. Like with the shopkeeper,” she explains.
“Does that happen often?” I ask.
“Not as much anymore, but in college, yes.” Her expression darkens, and I sense there’s more to the story she isn’t saying. “It’s hard being young and having an illness that isn’t always visible. People think you’re faking it or being overly dramatic. Especially when—” She swallows her words and offers a tight smile. “Well, let’s just say it can be a bit of a downer.”
All I want to do at that moment is pull her to a stop right here in the middle of the street and demand that she tell me who hurt her so I can track him down—because at this point, I know it’s a man—and slam his head against a wall.
She looks so haunted, her eyes filled with memories of a painful past, and I want to erase it all.
But I can’t.
Because all we have is a few days.
In a few days, this will all be over.
* * *
Aisling
“You look nice,” my mom comments as we step off the elevator and head toward the hotel restaurant.
“You literally saw me put this on.” I give her a look that says I’m onto her bullshit, and she just raises her arms, playing dumb.
“What? Can’t a mom compliment her only daughter?”
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell her.
“I’m not doing anything. I merely said you look nice. Did you dress up for someone special?”
“And there it is.” I should have known better. When I was rummaging through my suitcase after returning from the pharmacy (chemist?) with Finn, I found the one and only dress I had packed. It was slightly wrinkled but otherwise in good shape. I nearly left it at home, but the heavy corduroy-like fabric and long sleeves won me over. That and the fact that when I pair it with tights and my Doc Martens, it makes me look wicked hot.
“What?” She extends her arms again, as if she has no clue what she’s doing. “I’m just asking. You seemed like you were in a good mood when you came back from your walk. I was just curious if the dress might be for him?”
I look away because the honest truth is that Finn Larkin might have crossed my mind once or twice when I was admiring myself in the mirror a few minutes ago.
As we enter the dining room, the hostess guides us to the back, where everything is set up. Five long tables have been arranged along the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the water. About half the group has already arrived, and I quickly scan the room to see if a particular tour guide is among them. Unfortunately, he isn’t, so my mom and I choose a random table, where she immediately strikes up a conversation with the couple across from us while I pour myself a glass of wine.
I try not to stare at the entrance each time someone walks in, but it’s difficult. My eyes immediately go there whenever there’s a flutter of movement, and I find myself growing impatient every time a new person arrives and takes one of the few precious seats left at our table.
Finally, when the waiters are just about to bring out the salad course, Finn walks in, looking fucking edible in black jeans and a black button-up. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Celtic knots, a few numbers—jersey numbers, maybe? Since when did rolled-up sleeves become one of my instant turn-ons?
Our eyes meet, and he gives me one of those tiny smirks.
