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He didn’t react.
Didn’t seem surprised by my statement, either.
Instead, he asked, “What’s her number?”
Pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, I reeled off the phone number I had memorized since first year, the only number I had stored away in my mind, before saying, “Don’t let her down.” Steadying my body from swaying, I looked him in the eyes and said, “Whatever you’re doing here, Kavanagh, don’t fuck my sister over.”
He tapped on the keypad of his phone before handing it back to me. With eyes full of unrestrained emotion and his tone thick with gritty sincerity, he looked me dead in the eyes and vowed, “I won’t.”
81
Lost Boy
AOIFE
“Aoife, I promise you faithfully that nobody is going to take your baby,” my mother said for the millionth time when we walked into the house after I’d spent most of the day at the hospital being poked, prodded, swabbed, and grilled. “They already explained this to us. Nobody is questioning you. They’re only looking out for your welfare, sweetheart.”
“Well, I didn’t ask them to,” I strangled out, mentally reeling from the twists and turns the day had taken. “I’m clearly fine, Mam. I’m healthy, I look after myself, I come from a warm, safe home, so I don’t understand why my life needs to be put under the microscope like that.”
“It’s not your lifestyle they’re concerned about,” she replied, setting her handbag down on the table. “Jesus Christ, Aoife, you should have come to me.”
“About what?”
“About Joey.”
My heart sank. “Joey’s fine,” I heard myself defend. “He’s dealing with a lot with his family right now, but he’ll be fine, Mam.”
“Aoife.” She turned to look at me. “Can you not?”
“Not what?”
“Not lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.” I threw my hands up. “He’s fine!”
My mother sighed wearily. “Why didn’t you tell me that he’s missing?”
“He’s not missing,” I argued weakly. “He’s just clearing his head.”
“Aoife!”
“Maybe because I didn’t want you to think badly about him,” I admitted, voice torn. “Which is exactly what you’re doing now.”
“I don’t think badly of the boy,” she argued. “I’m worried about him. I’m worried for you.”
“Joey would never hurt me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what?” I demanded. “What’s there to worry about?”
“My daughter was just put through rigorous testing for diseases I’ve never heard about before today,” she snapped, moving for the kettle. “Of course I’m worried!”
“Well, you weren’t the one prodded with needles, and you didn’t have multiple swabs rammed up your fa—”
“Don’t use that word,” she warned, shuddering. “That’s a terrible word.”
“Vagina,” I changed course and said. “Or your asshole, Mam, which, FYI, is not a pleasant experience.”
