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“Evening, sweetheart,” Sadhbh acknowledged with a smile from her perch at the kitchen table. “How was your week?”
“It was good, yours?” Draping my coat on the back of the kitchen chair, I made a beeline for homemade pizza on the table. “Oh my god, you put black pudding on it!” I gushed, stealing a slice of cheesy goodness. “You are a queen, Sadhbh Gibson.”
“Sadhbh Allen,” Keith corrected with a chuckle, glancing up from the newspaper he was combing over.
“Allen,” I forced myself to say, offering him what I hoped was a half-decent smile. Because while I had no desire to please this man, I happened to both adore and respect his wife. “Where’s Gerard?”
“In his room,” Sadhbh replied with a worried sigh.
“Oh?” Concern flashed through me. “He didn’t come down for dinner?”
“Apparently, he’s on hunger strike,” Keith filled, flicking the page of his newspaper. “Which would be fine if he wasn’t making such a damn racket.”
“Hmm.” Taking one last bite of my slice, I dropped the crust on the table and moved for the door. “I’ll head up now.”
“Be a good girl and tell him not to break anything, will you?”
As soon as I reached the upstairs landing, the familiar sound of REM’s “Shiny Happy People” echoed loudly from the other side of Gerard’s bedroom door, causing me to groan internally. The upbeat music might lure others into the belief that Gerard was in a good mood.
Not me.
No, because I knew only too well that the more upbeat or outrageous explicit music he played, the worse he was feeling. On the inside, of course. Because Gerard Gibson would rather brush his teeth with glass than admit that he was having a bad day. Problem was that a bad day made for a very erratic impulsive Gerard.
When we were younger children, Gerard’s bad days resulted in him being grounded at home. Nowadays, it was full-blown suspensions and heartbroken girls in his wake. Yeah, he was a complicated little pocket of sunshine.
His current song choice assured me that he was in his head big time and that I had a job to do. A job I took very seriously.
Blowing out a breath, I rolled my shoulders and reached for the door handle.
When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the sight of the entire contents of his room, bed included, thrust into the middle of the room in a huge, messy pile.
Clothes, DVDs, his TV, his furniture…Everything he owned was piled in a giant heap on the middle of his bed.
All that had been left untouched was his coveted stereo system that rested on the huge bay windowsill, where it continued to play today’s mood list of music at an obnoxious volume. Loud enough to have old Eddie Clancy from next door ringing the doorbell any minute now.
Oh, Gerard…
Sighing wearily, I placed my hands on my hips and observed his meltdown.
Oblivious to my presence and with his back to me, Gerard continued to paint—or at least I presumed that was what he was attempting to do—his bedroom ceiling the most obnoxious canary yellow I’d ever seen. Balancing precariously on a rolling desk chair, he strained his body upward to reach the ridiculously high ceiling.
When Sum 41’s “Fat Lip” replaced the previous song, I finally found my voice. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
When he didn’t respond, I shook my head and stomped over to the window. “Gerard!” Lowering the volume of the stereo to nondeafening decibels, I pushed open the window, worried about the fumes of the paint and lack of fresh air. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Claire-Bear.” When he spun around to face me, his smile was wide and full of mischief. Mischief and humor that didn’t meet his eyes.
It’s an act, my heart reminded me. Don’t let him trick you.
All smiles and laughter. Hiding his heartbreak. Hiding his pain. I wanted to save him from his past. I wanted to love him through it all. I just wanted him.
Setting down his paintbrush on top of the open can of paint, Gerard sauntered toward me, body thrumming with energy.
If this was another seventeen-year-old boy, he might be mistaken for being under the influence of narcotics. Not Gerard. Nope. This was his predisposition. His entire makeup was off-centered to the point where energy came too easily for him. He had a prescription for his condition, something I knew his mother harped on about on the regular. I wasn’t sure how regular he was with taking his ADHD medication nowadays, but he’d been a disaster as a younger child.
“What’s that?” I asked when the folded-up piece of paper hanging out from the edge of his bed caught my eyes. “Gerard Gibson.” I feigned hurt. “Are you hiding love letters from other girls under your mattress.”
“No love letters,” he replied with a chuckle, quickly shoving the note back under his mattress. “I promise.”
