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The following morning, when I finally woke a little after ten, it was to an empty bed and a childless house. The note on my bedside locker, in Molloy’s familiar scrawl, told me all that I needed to know.
Hey, stud,
If you’re wondering why I’m writing this down instead of texting you, it’s because I’m out of credit. Oh, and if you’re wondering why the house smells like bleach and your money is all budgeted for the week in cute envelopes, it’s because I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m. Hope you don’t mind.
Anyway, Sean woke up and came into your room around 6:00 a.m., but you looked so exhausted, and it’s the first time I’ve seen you actually get a good night’s sleep, that I decided to take him and the boys out and let you have a lie-in.
We’ve been to the shops to grab a few supplies. It’s all unpacked and in the cupboards.
We’re going to the GAA pitch now. Tadhg wants to show me his “mad skills” and Ollie wants to hit the playground afterward.
I’ll bring them back around 1:00 p.m. before my shift at work.
Don’t forget to give Shan her birthday presents. And give her a big squishy sweet sixteenth birthday hug from me.
I know you’re really busy, but could you swing by my house after the kids are in bed tonight? There’s something I really need to talk to you about.
I love you,
Aoife. x
P.S: Don’t stop trying, Joe.
The house was spotless, the fridge was packed, the cupboards were full, and I felt sick to my stomach over it. Good intentions or not, it wasn’t my girlfriend’s job to look after my family and put food on the table. It was mine, and I didn’t need her taking on my shit for me. Especially since I was having such a hard time trying to make sense of why she would even want to.
Any other girl would have run for the hills the minute they felt the full weight of my excess baggage.
Not Molloy, though.
No, instead, she waded into the middle of my bullshit with bags of shopping and budgeting solutions. And then she slapped coats and hats on three quarters of said baggage and took them to the fucking playground. She’d left both her car and twenty quid from her purse behind for me to take Shannon out for a birthday breakfast. I didn’t understand her actions, and I understood her reasons for said actions even less.
Shannon, on the other hand, wasn’t one bit surprised by my girlfriend’s weird-as-fuck behavior. On the contrary, she reveled in my discomfort, finding it absolutely fucking hilarious that I had somehow come under the thumb of a girl with bigger balls than I had. Taking delight in my discomfort, my sister goaded and tormented me with notions of wedding rings and forever, making it perfectly clear that she was a solid fan of my girlfriend.
Her smug grin wasn’t long evaporating when a phone call from Gibsie had us driving back to Lover Boy’s house to return the phone he’d left in the back seat last night.
Yeah, Shannon’s tune had taken a drastic change by the time I parked up outside the manor, and it was my turn to revel in her discomfort. She refused point-blank to get out of the car, so I gave up on trying to convince her otherwise and left her to it.
Strolling into a mansion of a foyer, I followed the sound of voices down an impressive hallway and finally found both lads in the kitchen, looking a little lost for wear and a lot hungover.
“You should have a tour guide at the front door,” I said, walking into Kav’s kitchen, phone in hand. “This house is like a museum.”
“That it is,” Gibsie agreed, giving me a friendly wave from his perch in front of a fancy-ass range stove. “Welcome to the manor.”
The manor was right. He could sell tickets to an open viewing of this place, and folks where I came from would arrive in throngs.
“Thanks for this.” Kav stood up and walked over to where I was standing in the doorway. “Appreciate you driving all the way over with it,” he said, polite as ever as he pocketed his phone.
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was promised food.”
Taking his measure in the clear light of day, I begrudgingly admitted my own was a lot less appealing.
Clocking in just under six foot one, I had plenty of height to play with, but this fucker was simply enormous. Clearly, whatever his mother had fed him growing up looked a lot different than the menu I’d been eating from.
“And King Clit was very persuasive,” I drawled, amused by the name Gibsie was stored under on his phone. “How’s my food coming along, chef?”
“Faster than a whore at a brothel, good sir,” Gibsie called over his shoulder, not missing a beat. “Egg?”
“Lad.” I shook my head, taking in the state of him—and the grease-splattered tiles around him—as he attempted to fry a few rashers on a griddle pan. “Are you old enough to use the cooker without your mammy?”
