“Oh please.” I rolled my eyes. “So, you’ve walked me home a few times. Big deal.”
“A few? You might want to count again.” He gave me a hard look. “How many times has your old man had me walk you home from the garage?”
Half a dozen or more.
“How many times has that prick treated you like an afterthought?”
My cheeks reddened. “Oh, shut up.”
“All I’m saying is think about the way he treated you tonight. Especially when he shows up at school tomorrow with some bullshit apology and a flashy new bracelet, or whatever crap he locks you in with.”
“I’m not a magpie, Joey,” I snapped, seriously annoyed now. “I can’t be bought with shiny new jewelry.”
“No, you’re just a doll,” came his hurtful response. “Ricey’s personal fucking mannequin to drape in jewelry and stand by his side, looking pretty and saying nothing.”
I stopped walking.
I stopped breathing.
His words cut me to the bone.
“Move your legs, Molloy,” he growled, several feet up the road, as he turned back to glare at me. “I’m not waiting around all night for you. I have shit to do after this, ya know.”
“You asshole.”
“Me?”
“Yes you!”
“How am I the asshole?”
“Because you hurt my feelings.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did, Joey!”
“Fine,” he growled. “I’m an asshole. Now let’s go.”
I shook my head.
“Molloy.”
“I am not a mannequin!”
“Fine.” Joey shook his head. “I take it back. You’re not a mannequin.”
“That was really mean.”
He stared at me for a long time before finally blowing out a breath. “Yeah, I know.”
“Apologize.”
“For what?”
“For calling me a mannequin.”
“I just said you’re not a mannequin.”
“That wasn’t an apology.”
“Yeah, it was.”
I gaped at him. “No, it wasn’t, Joey.”
“How was that not an apology?”
“Because it didn’t contain the word sorry, asshole.”
Looking thoroughly confused – and thoroughly fed up – my classmate released a furious growl. “Let’s just walk, okay? Just move your legs, Molloy. Please.”
Relenting because he used the word ‘please’， I closed the space between us, and fell into step beside him once more. “Haven’t you ever apologized to someone?” I asked, morbidly curious now.
“I just did.”
“Oh my god.” I studied his side profile. “You haven’t.”
With a deep frown etched on his face, Joey concentrated on the road ahead of us, but didn’t respond.
We walked in silence for the rest of the way, and it wasn’t until we turned the corner of my street that I heard him mutter the words, “I’m sorry.”
“Wow.” My heart fluttered around in my chest. “Is that your first time saying that word to anyone?”
He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “Probably.”
“Well, thanks,” I replied, nudging him with my shoulder when we reached my gate. “I forgive you.”
“Hm,” he grunted in response. “I’m thrilled.”
A reluctant smile spread across my face, and I asked, “Do you want to come inside?”
“That’s not a good idea,” he replied, dutifully walking me all the way to my door. He might be bad tempered, this boy, but he was a real quick learner, and hadn’t left me at my gate since the night I pitched a fit.
“Why not?” I asked, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the hall to switch on the light.
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
“So?” I argued. “I asked if you wanted to come inside, not marry me. Does having a boyfriend suddenly mean that I can’t be friends with boys?”
“I’m not your friend, Molloy.”
Releasing a frustrated growl, I caught ahold of his hand and dragged him into my house. “Well, I’m yours, asshole.” Closing the door behind us, I reached up and pushed his hood down. “See; that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No.”
“Besides, you’ve been in my house a million times with Dad.”
His jaw ticked. “That’s different.”
“Because he’s your friend?” I taunted. “Shut up and feed me.”
“Feed you?”
“I can’t cook, remember?” Leading him by the hand into my kitchen, I walked him over to my fridge and smiled. “And you can.”
Joey gaped at me. “You think I’m going to cook for you?”
“For us,” I corrected, giving him my sweetest smile.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Give me that butter wouldn’t melt smile,” he growled, pointing a finger at me. “It won’t work on me, Molloy. I’m immune.”
Of course it was going to work. “I love steak.”
“Steak?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“You have steak.”
“I have two steaks.”
He eyed me for a long moment, clearly weighing up his options, before blowing out a frustrated breath. “Get the frying pan.”
“Yay.” Clapping my hands in delight, I did a little shimmy dance before bouncing off in the direction of the cupboard where Mam kept the pots and pans. “I like my meat well done.”
“You’ll take your meat whatever way I give it to you,” Joey grumbled, rummaging in my fridge for what he needed. “This doesn’t mean anything, Molloy,” he added. “You didn’t win this round.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “I always win, Joe.”
THIS IS NOT A DATE
OCTOBER 10TH 2000
JOEY
Don’t ask me how it had happened but sitting on my boss’s couch in front of a roaring fire, with a full stomach and an empty plate on my lap, with his daughter’s shoulder touching mine, was exactly how I found myself ending what had, otherwise, been a very shitty day.
Not only had I cooked for the girl, but she had somehow wrangled me into bringing in buckets of coal and slack, and lighting the fire for her, too.
Persuasion was certainly a skill that Molloy had honed to perfection.
Knowing that I shouldn’t be here, but not wanting to eat and run like a prick, I decided on half an hour being a reasonable amount to time to linger.
“Right.” When the thirty minutes was up, I set my plate down on the arm of the couch and slapped my thighs. “I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not,” she grumbled, hooking her arm through mine.
“Molloy.”
“No.” Shifting closer, she rested her cheek on my shoulder and returned her attention to the film playing on the television. “Now shush.”
“I can’t be here when your parents get home,” I argued, trying and failing to pry my arm free from her freakishly strong hold.