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It was a little after eight when I finally got home from school that evening.
Three miles from Tommen, the bus had broken down.
For two hours, we were forced to remain on the bus while another bus from Cork city was sent out to transport us home. It was ridiculous. I had spent every minute of those two hours mentally kicking myself for not taking Johnny up on his offer.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I liked him. I really liked him.
He asked me if I was going to a party, offered to drive me home from said party, and I turned around and practically ran away from him. No, correct that to: I did run away from him.
In my defense, I had been completely taken aback by him.
Never once in the weeks that had passed since my accident had either of us approached the other.
He broke the imaginary rule that had been enforced between us. He threw me by talking to me and I was still very much thrown now.
All evening my mind continued to churn the encounter round and round until I was blue in the face from thinking about it and thoroughly disgusted with myself.
I should have gone to the party. If I had, I wouldn’t have spent two hours on a freezing-cold bus in semi-arctic conditions. At least, if had gone to the party, being late would have been worth it. Because the look on my father’s face when I walked into the house assured me that the two hours I’d spent sitting alone on a broken-down bus certainly weren’t.
“Where were you?” Dad demanded, watching me like a hawk from his perch at the kitchen table when I walked through the doorway.
The familiar swell of panic built inside of me.
My father was a powerful-looking man, clocking in at six feet, with dark-blond hair and an athletic build that had stuck since his days of hurling. He too had played for Cork, but unlike my brothers, my father’s merits and achievements weren’t something I openly spoke about. Because I wasn’t proud of the man staring back at me.
I wasn’t sure if I even loved him anymore. Or if I ever had.
Not when he terrified me worse than any of the bullies at school ever had…
“Well?” he pressed, tone tight. He was replacing the rubber grip on what looked like Ollie’s hurley, and the sight of him holding the wooden hurl caused a tremor of panic to roll down my spine. “You’re late!”
I was suddenly very grateful that I had run away from Johnny Kavanagh when he invited me to the party after school. A shudder rolled through my body at the thought of what my father might do if I had accepted his invitation.
“The bus broke down,” I squeezed out as I gingerly set my bag down against the wall. “We had to wait for two hours for another bus to pick us up.”
My father gave me a hard stare.
I remained exactly where I was, not daring to breathe.
Finally, he nodded his head.
“Fucking buses,” my father muttered, turning his attention back to his task.
The air I had been holding in released from my lungs in a loud gasp.
It’s okay, Shannon, I told myself. He’s not slurring; there’s no smell of whiskey, and no evidence of broken furniture.
But I wasn’t foolish enough to push my luck when it came to my father and moved for the bread bin with the intention of making a cheese sandwich to go.
Getting out of this kitchen and up to my bedroom without confrontation was my goal for the next minute or so while I hurriedly pieced together a lopsided sandwich and poured myself a glass of water from the tap.
“Good night Dad,” I whispered when I had my sandwich and water ready.
“Don’t be late again,” was all he replied, not taking his eyes off the hurley in his hands. “Do ya hear me, girl?”
“I hear you,” I croaked out and then scrambled up the staircase to the sanctitude of my bedroom.
