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“Really, really,” I confirmed, mirroring her smile.
“And you danced,” she teased, snaking a hand out to playfully pinch my good cheek. “The boy who refuses to dance was throwing shapes like a raver.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I shot back. “It was safer to join the madness. You had that neon body paint all over you—”
“Oh my god, the body paint!” She squealed out a laugh. “So did you.”
Yeah, because she caked me in it. “And every time the strobe lights flashed around us, you lit up like fireworks.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, Molloy.” Releasing a contented breath, I reached a hand up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I was high that night, but you sent me soaring.”
“Smooth.”
“Not smooth, just honest.”
“That was an epic summer, Joe. Wrapped up in you.” Her eyes lingered on mine for a long moment before she released a wistful sigh. “I guess all that’s behind me now, huh?”
“No, Molloy.” My heart gunned in my chest, twisting and morphing between sorrow and guilt. “We’ll do it again.”
“Yeah,” she replied, but it was a half-hearted mumble. “With a baby on my hip.”
“We’ll do it again,” I repeated, catching her chin with my hand and forcing her to look at me.
“Yeah?” she whispered, tone hopeful.
“Yeah,” I confirmed gruffly. “And you’ll be just as reckless.” Leaning in, I brushed a kiss to her lips. “And I’ll be slightly less high.”
68
Easter Break
AOIFE
“Where are you going?” I asked my father on Saturday morning, watching from my bedroom doorway as he thundered down the stairs with a furious scowl etched on his face. “Dad?”
“Work,” my father roared over his shoulder. “So, you better tell that boyfriend of yours to get his hole out of your bed!”
Oh crap.
“Joey’s not here.”
“I know he stayed over.”
True. “He left a while ago.”
“Well, then, let’s hope he’s at the garage, because if he’s not, then he’d better start looking for somewhere else to work because I’m done with the bullshit.”
“Dad, wait!” Hurrying down the stairs after him, I chased him all the way outside to where he had parked his van. “Don’t hit him, okay?”
“I’m not going to hit him.”
“You swear?”
“If I was going to hit the lad, I would have done it the other night,” my father grumbled as he climbed into his van. “Go inside out of the cold before you get sick on top of everything else.”
“Don’t fire him either,” I pleaded, holding onto the door of his van so he couldn’t close it. “Please, Dad. He needs his job.”
