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“Night, Cap. Love you.”
_______________
Forty minutes later, I found myself a breathless, wheezing mess at the mercy of a masochistic Dub with a penchant for sadism when it came to his best friend’s lungs.
“You’re a monster,” I strangled out, gasping for air, as I tried to keep up with his inhuman stride. Aside from the fact that it was pissing rain down on top of us, it was still dark outside. “Seriously, Cap. I’m just about ready to die here, lad.”
“Come on, Gibs, you’ve got this,” he called over his shoulder. “Keep the heart rate up, lad. You’re on the last mile.”
“That’s what you said three miles ago,” I wailed, while I contemplated throwing myself in over a ditch and letting the cows have me. “And I don’t ‘got this,’ Johnny. I don’t ‘got this’ at all.”
“Yes, you do. Come on, lad, the house is just up ahead,” he tried to motivate me by calling back. “At the top of the hill. One more big push and we’re home.”
“No, fuck it, I can’t,” I called back, feeling every muscle in my legs cramp up. “It’s not worth it. Just go on without me.”
“I’ll ask my ma to make you pancakes.”
Dammit.
“I want sugar and lemon juice, and I don’t want to hear a word about wasted calories.”
“Deal.”
“Fine,” I bit out, heaving my body up the steep country road that led to the manor. “The things I do for my stomach.”
38
Rude Boys and Elephant Trunks
CLAIRE
Gerard Gibson was becoming a super ninja at evasion, somehow managing to avoid me all day at school, much to my disappointment.
I felt awful about the whole Lizzie drama last night and knew he had to be stressed about Mark’s return. The fact that he hadn’t shown up in my room last night, or appeared in the kitchen for breakfast this morning, only proved to me that things were a lot worse in Gerard’s head than I originally anticipated.
Even though he didn’t join us at lunch, I knew he was at school because I’d passed him in the hallway a couple of times while he was in full-blown erratic Gibsie mode.
Regardless of how unsettled I felt, I remained at Tommen after school to watch his game. Like a faithful friend, I stood in the torrential rain with Shannon and cheered our boys on just like I had at every other game.
After eight minutes of intense physical athletic performance, our school’s rugby team ended up thrashing St. Andrews off the pitch with a final scorecard of 64–3, with Gerard receiving ten minutes in the sin bin for a tactical foul on the oppositions number 13.
Instead of waiting with Shan at the car for the boys to come out afterward, I found myself knocking on the changing room door instead, both unwilling and unable to let another minute tick by without talking it out with him.
“Hi!” I beamed when the door finally swung open. “Is Gerard there?” I fully appreciated the fact that the boys were probably celebrating in there, but I couldn’t wait another second. Hence, my current overstepping of boundaries—and school rules. “I really need to talk to him.”
“Who wants to know?” a boy I wasn’t familiar with replied, keeping a firm hold on the changing room door to prevent me from entering, no doubt.
“Uh, me?” I rolled my eyes. “Clearly.”
“And you are?”
“Who am I?” I gave him a slow appraisal, taking note of the towel hanging precariously low on his narrow hips. “Who are you, more like?”
“Damien Cleary.”
“And where did you come from, Damien?”
“I’m new,” he replied flatly. “Transferred in from St. Pat’s for sixth year.”
