She turns back around to face me, biting her lip. “Niall?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you go to the dance with me?”
My heart skips. “Are you fucking kidding me?! Why would you do that?”
Molly blinks, startled. “Do what?”
“Ask me first,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I was trying to ask you all day.”
She bursts out laughing, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh my god, is that what all those random questions were about?”
“Yes,” I admit miserably.
Molly giggles, reaching out to tug at my jumper. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Will you go with me?”
I grin, pulling her closer. “Obviously.”
She leans up, pressing her lips to mine in a quick kiss. “Good.”
“But on one condition.”
“What?”
“We need to go on a date. A real date. And I want us to... you know... be official.”
Molly tilts her head, feigning confusion. “Official?”
I roll my eyes, pulling her flush against me. “You know what I mean.”
She giggles again, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Yes, Niall. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Thank fuck,” I mutter, kissing her properly this time—deep and slow, savoring the way she melts against me.
“Niall! Are you in there perverting my friend?” Claire’s voice calls from somewhere outside the stall, making us spring apart and start laughing.
I step out of Molly’s stall, smoothing down my hoodie and trying to look innocent. “I’m helping with a zip, you nosy brat! You told me I needed to stay useful, remember!”
She rolls her eyes, pushing on my shoulder. Claire’s wearing a dress the colour of a buttercup—bright, sunny yellow. It’s short with a flared skirt and delicate straps.
A bittersweet smile climbs its way onto my face.
“What do you think?” she asks, her voice too small for the large heart of a person she’s grown into.
She turns away and looks into the alcove mirror almost right away, as if she’s embarrassed. I step closer to her, hands going to her shoulders.
“Yellow is definitely your colour, Clairey,” I say, using da’s old nickname for her on instinct. “You look gorgeous, you know? You’re... you’re growing up on me.”
I don’t know why I feel so choked up, but then again I do.
She was just a baby yesterday, and now she’s fifteen and wearing dresses and going to dances and—
“Are you crying?” Claire asks incredulously, spinning around to face me.
