“I haven’t told him.”
“Still?” Her eyes widened. “Aoife.”
“I know, I know,” I grumbled, feeling my windpipe constrict at the thought of him not knowing almost as much as having to tell him. “Ugh.”
“When you both didn’t show up to school, I convinced myself that you’d told him,” Casey offered, brows furrowed. “I figured you wouldn’t be coming back until after the Easter Holidays.”
The bell rang loudly then, interrupting our conversation, and I watched as the classroom began to slowly fill, rolling my eyes when Danielle and Paul swaggered into class, with their arms wrapped around each other.
“Ugh,” Casey interjected, pretending to stick her finger down her throat. “What does she think will happen if she doesn’t weld herself to his side for an entire class?”
“That he’ll be stolen away, by the looks of it,” I offered, turning around in my seat to lean against her desk. “Whatever. She’s welcome to him.”
“Yeah, you certainly made an impressive upgrade,” Casey mused and then grinned, eyes shifting to behind me. “Speaking of which…”
She pointed towards the classroom door and I turned around just in time to see Joey walk into class.
The minute my eyes landed on him, my heart bucked wildly in my chest, instantly recognizing its mate.
His hair was styled in the usual way he wore it, shaved tight at the back and sides, with a mop on top.
Minus his school jumper, the grey shirt he was wearing was untucked and hanging untidily over his belt buckle, while his school tie had been haphazardly thrown on. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the impressive scrawl of black ink that he had been steadily adding to since fourth year, which now covered both of his forearms.
With his usual fuck the world expression etched on his face, he approached the teacher’s desk, handing over what I knew was a behavioral chart book – otherwise known at the dreaded red book.
It was a report card type booklet assigned to the most disruptive students with the worst attitude problems and needed to be signed off by each teacher upon arrival to class and at the end. At the end of each day, the principal himself would have every student with a red book come to the office to have any or all comments received in their books checked over by him in person. As you can imagine, Joey had received more than his fair share of red books down through the years.
Usually, a student, no matter how badly behaved, only had to carry around a red book for a week at the most at any given time. But I specifically remember Joey having one for the whole of second and third year without a break.
Looking entirely unimpressed with whatever Miss Lane was saying to him as she pointed at the red book on her desk, Joey simply handed her a pen, and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the signature.
And then he chose that exact moment in time to sweep his gaze around the room. I felt the weight of his stare the second it landed on me.
The air thinned around me, making it genuinely hard to drag breath into my lungs. Trembling beneath the intensity of it all, I forced a small smile and a small limp wave.
What other way was there to greet the boy you'd spent years loving?
The boy whose father had tried to molest you.
The boy who you ripped the heart out of the last time you saw him.
Jesus.
I watched Joey stiffen, his eyes heated and focused entirely on me.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t wave.
He just stared at me.
This was too much.
It was way too fucking much.
There were so many unspoken words, so many unanswered questions hanging in the air between us both.
I knew that he felt it, too.
His expression wasn’t hiding anything from me.
He was showing it all right now, every ounce of confusion, pain and annoyance.
Eventually, the teacher returned the red book to Joey, and I watched as he strode towards our desk, still staring at me, still unsmiling.
Dropping his bag on the ground at the side of our desk, he pulled his chair and sank down in his usual spot beside me.
The minute he sat down, the fresh and achingly familiar scent of Lynx and soap flooded my senses, causing me to shiver.
“Joey,” I croaked out, watching him warily, unsure of how to react because of how we had left things the last time we spoke.
“Molloy,” he acknowledged, shoulder brushing against mine as he adjusted his chair, pushing it back to give himself more leg room.
“Nice shirt,” I whispered, nudging my shoulder with his, as I held my breath and waited for his age-old response.
Say it.
Please say it.
Two words.
That’s all I need.
The breath he released was so deep, that it caused his shoulders to visibly rise and fall, before he shook his head in what seemed like reluctant surrender. “Nice legs.”
Thank you, Jesus.
“I was hoping you’d be here today.”
“Where else would I be?”
“You weren’t at school last week.”
“I had a lot on.”
Yeah, with his mother. “How is your mam?”
He shrugged noncommittedly and reached into the pocket of his school trousers, withdrawing my phone and setting it down on my side of the desk. “You left this.”
“Yeah, I, uh, I know.” Swallowing deeply, I quickly snatched up the phone and pocketed it. “Thanks for bringing it back.”
He offered me a clipped nod in response. “No problem.”
“I left my necklace there, too,” I whispered. “In your room. The one you got me for my birthday last year.”
“I’ll get that back to you.”
“Thanks,” I breathed, hating the ridge between us. “So, are you okay?”
Nodding stiffly, he kept his eyes trained on the door in front of us. “Are you?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged weakly. “I mean, I think so.”
“That’s good.” His jaw ticked and I watched as he swallowed deeply. “I’m glad. I was worried about you.”
“I was worried about you.” Shivering, I reached under our desk and placed my hand on his hard, muscular thigh. “God, Joe, I’ve missed you so much.”
A deep shudder rolled through him, but he made no move to respond or return any physical affection.
Instead, he leaned forward, rested his elbows on our desk, dropped his head in his hands, and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“You never came back,” I heard myself say, eyes trained on his back.
“You wanted space,” came his flat response.
“I wanted you to come back.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“You weren’t,” I sighed. “I just…never mind.”
A horrible silence settled between us then; one I was desperate to get rid of.
“Joe?”
“Hm?”
“Can we talk?”
“We are talking.” His response was automatic, almost robotic, as he slumped over our desk, head in hands.
“Properly,” I urged, cracking my knuckles nervously. “Privately.”
Shrugging lifelessly, he released a pained breath, but didn’t respond.
“Can we hang out this evening?”