“Anthony.”
“Same as my dad.” I beamed. “Is he your mother’s father or your–“
“My mother’s.”
“And is he nice?”
Another slow nod. “I, ah, don’t see him much anymore, but I spent a lot of time with him growing up.”
“Why don’t you see him much anymore?”
“Shit happened in the family.” He shrugged. “And I got busy with work and school and hurling.”
This was the longest I had managed to get Joey Lynch to stay and talk to me since we met at the start of the school year, and I was willing to do just about anything to keep him in my kitchen – and keep him talking.
To say that I felt drawn to him would be a major understatement.
I felt it that very first day of first year – that epic wave of familiarity, lust, and comradery – when our eyes locked, and I felt it now.
There was something about this boy that I found impossible to ignore, and I knew he felt it, too.
Joey could deny it until the cows came home, and throw up all the walls he wanted, but he wasn’t fooling me with his blasé bullshit indifference.
The arctic reception I received from him on the second day of first year – and every day since – had nothing to do with him not liking me and everything to do with the fact that he worked with my father and didn’t want to piss him off.
As the school year unfolded, I had watched as Joey made his way through the girls at school like they were going out of fashion.
Danielle Long.
Amy O Donovan.
Samantha McGuinness.
Laura Callaghan.
Denise Scully.
Nicole O Leary.
Saoirse Dooley.
Neasa McCarthy.
Neasa Murphy.
The list went on and on – and it didn’t include me.
He never once flirted or made a pass at me after that first day, and it pissed me the hell off.
In no way was I one of those self-absorbed or conceited teenage girls, but I had enough confidence and wherewithal to know that I was a damn good catch.
Annoyed at myself for wasting almost six months of my life waiting around for Joey to get his shit together and ask me out, I’d accepted our fellow classmate’s offer.
Once again, I found myself annoyed, but this time, my anger was projected towards my shitty sense of judgment.
I had never been short of offers from the lads since starting at BCS but had agreed to go out with Paul because he was comfortable to be around and a relatively safe bet.
Joey was thinner than Paul – he was taller, too. He had muscle, that I could vouch for, having seem him shirtless many times after PE, but he was seriously lean.
Like a runner.
Or someone hungry…
But I knew with Paul I wouldn’t get my heart broken.
And while my heart certainly wasn’t broken, my pride was definitely wounded.
Knowing that his friends knew what we got up to, knowing that Joey knew, only made the humiliation that much harder to swallow.
“You look pissed,” Joey noted, watching me from across the table with those sharp green eyes.
“I am.”
“I can leave.”
“No, it’s not you,” I replied. “I’m pissed with Paul for talking about me.”
“Oh.” Setting his spoon in his empty bowl, Joey leaned back in his chair and gave me a hard look. “Well, if it’s any consolation, he won’t be talking about you again.”
“Because you set him straight, right?” I joked.
Joey didn’t laugh.
“Oh my god.” Awareness crashed down on me. “You set him straight, didn’t you?” I whispered, feeling my heartrate spike, as I thought back to their fight the other day. “That’s why you hit him, isn’t it?”
“Someone had to.”
“And that someone was you, right?”
He shrugged.
My heart leapt. “Joe…”
“Thanks for the food, Molloy.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I should be going.”
“No.” Disappointment soared to life inside of me. “You don’t have to go yet.”
“Yeah, I do.” Grabbing his bowl and spoon, he walked over to my sink and quickly rinsed them both off before setting them on the draining board.
Meticulous, he walked back to the table with a dishcloth in hand and wiped down where he had eaten. Tossing the cloth in the sink once he was finished tidying up, he moved for the front door. “Again; thanks for the food.”
“No problem,” I replied, holding the door open for him.
He pulled his hood up, concealing his face, and stepped into the night. “I’ll be seeing ya, Molloy.”
“Yeah, Joey Lynch.” I blew out a shaky breath. “You will.”
YOU ARE JUST LIKE HIM
FEBRUARY 25TH 2000
JOEY
My youngest memories began around the time of my third birthday. I couldn't say for sure if the events that occurred before that day had been particularly good because all I seemed to remember was the bad.
And right now, at ten o clock on a Friday night, after breaking up another shitstorm between my parents, all I could remember was the bad.
Aching in places I didn’t know existed, I couldn’t stop my brain from rehashing some of the more disturbing memories from my childhood…
"You can cry, Joey," Mam whispered, fingers curling around my skinny arm. Her touch was soft and warm and the feel of her made something twist inside of my stomach. "It's okay to feel, baby."
Nope.
She was wrong.
Again.
Furious with her and the whole fucking world, I swallowed my pain, pushed my feelings to the back of my mind, and concentrated on my job – a job I was fairly certain no other boy in my school was doing for their mam.
Rocking baby Ollie in my arms, I held the bottle to his lips, watching carefully for any sign of wind just like Mam showed me to do.
She couldn’t do it herself.
Nope, of course she couldn't.
Postpartum hemorrhage my hole.
More like postpartum battery.
He beat her the other night because the baby wouldn’t stop crying.
It was the closest I'd seen her come to dying in a long time.
The image was still at the forefront of my mind.
The blood.
The wailing.
The feeling of hopelessness.
"Where are the nappies?" I asked when the cranky little shit was finally finished guzzling the four-ounce bottle I'd made for him. "He smells."
"I can do it," Mam started to say as she pulled herself into a sitting position.
"Stay down," I ordered, shivering at the memory of what I'd seen come out of her body just a few short days ago. "I can look after him."
Eyeing the nappy bag in the corner of her room, I balanced my baby brother in my arms and reached for it.
"Come on, ya little fatty," I muttered, lowering him back onto her bed and gently pulling his wriggling body out of his onesie. "Let's get this over with."
He stared up at me, all big eyes and cuteness, and I frowned.
"Don’t look at me like that," I warned. Like I can keep you safe. "And don’t piss on me either."
"You'll make a great father in years to come," Mam said with a tremble in her voice.
"I'd rather die," was all I replied…