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Liar.
Liar.
Fucking liar.
“You never said.”
“Forgot.”
“Oh.” She didn’t look convinced.
“I’ll see ya later,” I muttered, brushing her chin affectionately with my knuckles and then sharply turning on my heel and walking away.
Needing to get away from the person who ignited my conscience like no one else.
Needing a fucking breather from this life.
Waiting until I was out of sight, I slid my phone out of my pocket and checked the unanswered text.
Holland: I’m outside. Let’s go.
Sighing despondently, I tapped out a reply and slid my phone back into my pocket.
Lynchy: On my way.
50
God Loves a Trier, But Aoife Loves Joey
AOIFE
“Okay, it’s been three weeks,” Casey declared on Tuesday morning during French, when our teacher, Mr. Brady, left the room. Snapping her book shut, she twisted in her seat to face me. “Tell me that today’s the day.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, knees bopping restlessly under the table as I kept my eyes glued to my boyfriend’s back. “Today’s the day.”
He was sitting two rows ahead of me with Neasa Murphy, slumped in his chair, looking mildly amused at whatever she was saying to him.
“Would you stop glaring at her like she pissed in your cornflakes?” Casey whisper-hissed, dragging my attention back to her as she peeled my fingers off the pencil I was squeezing. “He has to sit with her. It’s assigned seating, babe.”
“He was with her before.”
“So? That was a million years ago.”
“I hate her.”
“No, you don’t,” she scoffed. “That’s your hormones talking.”
“No, I really do.” I turned to look at my best friend. “I hate everyone he’s been with.”
“Then you hate a lot of females in this classroom,” Casey laughed.
“Funny.”
“So you’re really going to tell him?”
Ignoring the anxiety clawing at my throat, I nodded. “Tonight. When he comes over after work.”
“Oh my Jesus, talk about a squeaky bum moment,” she strangled out. “Do you have a speech planned?”
