“Bella.” He dropped his head in his hands and groaned, “Bella Wilkinson.”
“When?”
“After you broke up with me at Halloween.”
“How long after?” I asked, surprising myself with how level my tone was.
“Aoife.”
“How long, Paul?”
“Does it matter?”
“I gave you my truth.”
“That same night.”
“At the disco?”
He nodded once.
“Wow,” I breathed, shoulders sagging.
Well, that was just perfect.
Joey was fucking Danielle, Paul was fucking this Bella, meanwhile, I was fucking myself over.
Perfect.
“I’m sorry, Aoife,” he hurried to say. “It was a huge mistake. It meant nothing, and I honest to God felt like the worst piece of shit on the planet afterwards.”
“Was she blonde?”
“Huh?”
“Blonde,” I croaked out. “Was she blonde?”
“No,” he replied, tone gruff. “She had black hair.”
“At least that.”
“I’m so sorry, Aoif.”
“Yeah.” I dropped my head on his shoulder and sighed. “Me, too, Paul.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded.
“Why haven’t you?”
“Why haven’t I what?”
“You and him.” He cleared his throat. “We were off. You had the perfect opportunity to get him out of your system.”
“Get him out of my system?”
“You know what I mean.”
I turned to look at him but didn’t have an answer. “It’s not going to happen,” I offered instead, physically recoiling at the memory of hearing those godawful words coming out of Joey’s mouth. All mixed with the memory of seeing him with her that night. “I need to get over him.”
“Well, I don’t want things to be over between us,” he said, reaching over to take my hand in his. “I care a lot about you, Aoif.”
“I care about you, too,” I replied, feeling numb.
“This is just a bad patch,” he continued, lacing our fingers together. “We can come through it. We always do.”
“How?” I whispered. “How can we make this work?” And more importantly, why should we?
“I suppose by telling each other the truth,” he offered quietly. “Today was a good start.”
“I don’t know if I’m invested in this,” I admitted weakly. “My head is all over the place, Paul.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he replied, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
No, it won’t.
VALENTINE’S DAY
FEBRUARY 14TH 2002
AOIFE
With my hands full, and my phone ringing in my skirt pocket, I used my elbow to open the front door and then swiftly deposited my school bag, PE bag, and stack of post I’d collected on the floor, before reaching into my pocket for my phone.
“Yes, Casey, I’m home,” I mused, balancing my trusty Nokia 3310 between my shoulder and ear, as I stepped over the pile of crap I’d dropped in the hallway, kicked off my heels, and moved for the kitchen. “And no, before you ask, I haven’t opened my Valentine’s cards yet.”
“Well hurry up, bitch,” she groaned down the line. “And at least tell me who the huge teddy bear, holding the cute heart, is from?”
“You already know who it’s from.”
“Okay, are you opening them yet?”
“No, I’m going to make a sandwich.”
“Sandwich? What happened to your mam’s Thursday stew?”
“Dad took her away to that big fancy hotel in Kilkenny for the night, remember?”
“To screw?”
“No, to test the mattress,” I shot back sarcastically. “Obviously to screw.”
“Where’s that hot little nerd for the night?”
“He’s gone to Nana’s to tune the channels into her new television, and please don’t call my brother hot. I think I might puke.”
“He is a little ridey, Aoif, with that blond quiff and black-rimmed glasses—“
“No, he’s not.” I gagged. “He’s an irritant.”
“A sexy irritant,” she teased before adding, “Okay, let’s open your cards. I’ve opened all of mine and I’m bored.”
“Who’d you get this year?”
“The usual,” she sighed down the line. “Mack, Charlie, Dricko, and Alec from our year. Sticky-Dicky from sixth year, a couple of anonymous ones, and some kid called Tim from first year.”
“Aw, you got a baby first year. That’s so sweet,” I cooed mockingly. “And as for Richard Murphy—“
“Sticky-Dicky,” she interrupted me to correct.
“Calling him that only lets people know that you’ve touched his dick, Case.”
“His sticky dick.”
“Sticky from what; your lip-gloss?”
“Bitch.”
“Ha,” I cackled.
“By the way, he invited me to his debs in July, too.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Am I going to go to Sticky-Dicky’s debs with him? Obviously.”
I laughed. “You can borrow a dress from me.”
“Thanks bestie because I don’t have anything formal. Now open them.”
“Alright, alright.” Walking back out into the hallway, I grabbed my schoolbag and returned to the kitchen table to unzip it and then turn it upside down.
“How many did you get?”
“A few.”
“How many?”
Scanning the selection of cards on the table, I mentally tallied them all up and said, “I think there’s fourteen?”
“Fourteen!”
“No, sorry, I counted one twice. There’s thirteen.”
“Okay, I hate you.”
“Oh please,” I laughed. “You know this holiday is total bullshit.”
“Okay, so we know one of them is from Paul,” Casey said, morphing into a detective on the other side of the line. “Who are the rest from? Start opening.”
Ripping through more than a dozen envelopes, I stacked them neatly in front of me and put the phone back to my ear. “You ready?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Finny O’ Shea, Dermot Keane, and Luke Twomey from sixth year.”
“Hey, Luke is Sticky-Dicky’s friend.”
“Danny Collins and Trev Mulcahy from fifth year.”
“Trev Mulcahy?” she swooned down the line. “Lord Jesus, he’s a pretty one.”
“Okay… there’s one from fourth year.”
“Who?”
“Liam O Neill.”
“Oh, I’ve scored with him,” she informed me. “He has a tongue like a washing machine stuck on a fast spin cycle.”
“Nice mental image, Case.”
“Be glad you only have to imagine it.”
“Okay, no baby first years for me – no second years, either, which means the other cards are from lads in our year.”
“Ooh,” she squealed. “I’m intrigued.”