"I can't talk to you,” he spat, tensing when I grabbed ahold of his forearm. “That’s the whole point. I can't fucking talk about it, okay? I've got too many people depending on me. I can't talk." He blew out a ragged breath. "I don’t want to hurt you with my bullshit, but I know that I’m going to.”
I shook my head. “Joe…”
“You should want me to leave, Molloy,” he argued. “You shouldn’t be blocking the door, baby, you should be holding it goddamn open.”
“I’m not going to do that,” I warned, voice thick with emotion. “It’s not ever going to happen, so get that bullshit notion out of your head.”
“I’m a mess; in case ya haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I shot back, curling my fingers around his wrist, as I pulled him back to me. “Do you see me running?”
“No, and thank fuck for that, because, contrary to how I act sometimes, I don’t want you to run,” he admitted gruffly, chest heaving. “I want time with you, Molloy. I do. I want to be all kinds of right for you. But I have walls and limits and boundaries, and the only way I can be with you, get close to you, is if you stay the fuck behind them!”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he got there before me.
“There are going to be times when I look like this, and I’m not going to be able to give you an explanation. I can’t give you the words, Molloy, because those words will cost other people too much.” Blowing out a ragged breath, he shrugged helplessly, arms by his sides. “So, you need to decide if you can live with that. Because this is my life. This is me, and I can’t change.”
Reeling, I absorbed his words, heard his plea, felt his remorse, and drowned in his pain. “I’m willing to do that for you, if you’re willing to do something for me in return.”
He eyed me warily.
He acted like nothing bothered him, when in truth, he was eaten alive by the pain and insecurity of his home life.
“The drugs, Joey.” Heart racing violently, I reached up and pressed my hand to his chest. “You told me once that you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose again but seeing you completely out of it last night hurt.”
“I’m not a saint, Molloy,” he replied gruffly. “You’ve always known what I am. I’ve never tried to hide it from you. I’ve never been a—“
“I’m not asking you to be a saint, Joey,” I hurried to say. “You’re right, I absolutely do know who you are, and I’m in, okay? I am all in with you. All I’m asking for in return is that you try to stay clean.”
“Try.”
“Yes, try.” I nodded slowly. “Just try, Joe. For me. That’s all I’m asking for.”
He was silent for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. But then, he released a ragged breath and pulled me into his arms. “Okay, Molloy,” he whispered, wrapping me up in his arms. “I’ll try.”
FIND YOU IN THE DARK
APRIL 2ND 2004
JOEY
A cold sweat beaded my brow as I sat in the corner of the lounge in Biddies bar on Friday evening after school. I had my phone resting in one hand, and a vodka and Red Bull in the other.
Unlike most of the other pubs in town, Biddies wasn’t unaccustomed to serving minors. As long as you were discreet, kept your mouth shut, your drink out of sight, stayed in the back lounge, and didn’t cause trouble, you were welcome.
Which meant that my father wasn’t.
Resisting the carnal urge that I had growing inside of me, the one that demanded I get my hands on something more than just vodka to take the edge off my racing mind, I forced myself to slide my phone back into my jeans pocket and sit in my discomfort.
In the horrible fucking feeling of withdrawal.
I hadn’t smoked in weeks, hadn’t taken anything harder than a few benzos, and it was showing.
I was trying to behave myself, trying to keep the head and my shit together, but it wasn’t coming easy to me.
Growing agitated, I drummed my fingers against the table in front of me and looked around the bar, desperate to find a temporary distraction from the god-awful burning sensation in my throat.
We were supposed to be celebrating my call up to the minors. The lads were delighted for me, but my father was also delighted, which meant that I was anything but.
“Posh pricks,” Podge muttered, gesturing to a table of lads in Tommen College uniforms, sitting at the other end of the lounge. “I bet you that not one of those rugby-head fuckers have seen a hard day in their lives – or a day’s work with it.”
“I really couldn’t care less about what they have or haven’t seen, lad,” I replied, unimpressed by their fancy uniforms, or their table laden down with top-shelf quality liquor.
“That’s yer man, isn’t it? The lad from that fancy rugby academy,” Podge offered, inclining his head to where a tall, dark-haired lad about our age, was leaning against the bar, deep in conversation with the owner of Biddies. “What’s his name again?”
“Johnny Kavanagh,” I filled in, recognizing him the minute he walked through the door earlier, with his army of wealthy pals in tow.
“That’s him,” Podge agreed with a nod. “I’ve heard he’s going professional soon.”
“Lucky fucker,” Alec grumbled.
“There’s nothing lucky about it,” I replied, eyes trained on the back of the lad that resembled a brick shit house in the physicality stakes. “Look at the size of him. He didn’t get that way from luck, lads.”
“Well, give me a game of hurling any day of the week over their fancy fucking rugby,” Alec huffed. “That overgrown bastard might be able to throw a ball around with his posh pals over there, in their blazers and designer jackets, but he’d be eating your dust on a GAA pitch, Lynchy.”
“Yeah, he would, Al,” I agreed. “But at least he’d be eating.”
Alec frowned. “I don’t follow, Joe.”
“That fella over there is going to finish school, and then make an absolute fortune playing a game he loves,” I explained, turning to look at my drinking companions. “The fuck am I going to get from an amateur game? A slap on the back and a few ham sandwiches after a match?”
“Aren’t you happy you got called up to play for Cork?”
“Yeah, of course I am, but I just…” Releasing a frustrated sigh, I added, “Fuck it. It doesn’t even matter.”
“I’d kill to be in your position, Joe.” Alec looked at me like I had grown an extra head. “To have your natural ability and pace. You don’t get how unbelievably talented you are, lad. Everyone on our team would gladly change places with you in a heartbeat.”
Not if they knew how it really was for me.
Or how it felt to live in my head.
“Hurling isn’t my whole future,” I tried to explain. “It won’t pay my bills like rugby will for that Kavanagh lad. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not the be-all and end-all of my world.”
“Speaking of worlds,” Podge chuckled, digging me in the ribs, when a small group of girls sauntered in the lounge. “Looks like yours is about to get rocked.”