October, 2007
TUESDAY AFTERNOON CAMEdragging its feet, though I can’t decide if I’ve been dreading it’s arrival or waiting for it like a man dying of thirst.
Ever since Saturday night, my mind has been a fractured mess. I spent yesterday’s practice totally distracted, my touches heavy and my passes completely off target, earning me a barrage of yelling from Coach. All this thinking came paired with my knee, as it usually did, and I swallowed down the ache with a handful of ibuprofen and told myself it’ll pass. That I’m only still healing.
It seems like every time my mind starts churning, my knee decides to flare up right along with it. Like right now, as it gives a small throb with each step I take and each thought that flies by. Molly is on her way over, a fact I was acutely aware of.
Okay, maybe a little bit more than acutely.
“Niall! Stop pacing, you’re making me dizzy,” my mother scolds from the sitting room doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Are they here yet?”
“No, Ma,” I mutter, forcing myself to stop walking. “Does it look like they’re here? No. But they’ll be here in a min—”
The doorbell rings.
My head snaps towards the kitchen doorway, and before I knew it I was striding down the hall to the front door. I pull it open, and the breath I didn’t realize I was holding gets caught in my throat.
Molly’s standing on my porch. She’d wearing a grey jumper that swallowed her hands, her long hair pulled back into a messy claw clip that left loose strands framing her face. She looks as effortlessly beautiful as always, and it pisses me off how easily she can dismantle my focus just by standing there.
Lorraine was holding her hand. The younger girl has pale skin, light blue eyes, and short blonde hair that swung around her chin. She’s currently dressed in a black ballet leotard, pale pink tights, and a slightly battered pair of ballet slippers. A tiny, sheer wrap skirt in the same pink as her tights is tied around her waist.
Claire had told me Molly had to pick Lorraine up from her ballet class, and would be here after to pick out a kitten. My sister’s at the Keane’s, since she and Niamh and Marissa have a group project. But also it always guts her to give away her animals.
At least whatever kitten Molly and Lorraine pick will be going to a good home.
“Hey,” Molly says, her voice a little softer than usual. Her eyes flicking up to mine, and for a split second, I think she might be thinking about the other night too. Whether she’s thinking about the me being a prick part, or the quietness in the kitchen part, I didn’t know.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice rough. I clear my throat and look down, focusing on the younger girl. “Hi, Lorraine. Remember me?”
Lorraine tilts her head, her bright eyes—which match Molly’s almost perfectly—studying my face. “Duh, of course I do.”
I can’t help the laugh that barks out of me. The tension in my chest eases just a fraction. “Right, of course you do. Come on in.
Molly gives me a small, grateful smile as she ushers Lorraine inside. “Sorry if we’re a little late. We kinda had to rush out of her dance class. ”
“With Mrs. Fitzpatrick, right? That’s Fitzy’s Mam, ya know?”
“Oh, really? I guess I didn’t realize,” Molly says.
“She’s very nice,” Lorraine interjects, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “But she makes us do pliés for a million years.”
Ma appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, you must be Lorraine! Aren’t you gorgeous? Would you like some apple juice?”
Lorraine nods enthusiastically. “Yes, please!”
“Molly, pet, would you like tea? Or juice?” Ma asks, smiling warmly.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Molly says, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jumper.
The girls follow Ma into the kitchen, and I head into the sitting room where the kittens have been stationed, in a little basket with their food nearby. Molly and Lorraine come in a few minutes later, the latter letting out a high-pitched squeal when she sees the kittens.
“Oh my gosh, they’re so tiny!” Lorraine gasps, dropping to her knees beside me.
Molly laughs, shaking her head. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“Here, this ‘ere is Atticus,” I say, handing Lorraine the mostly black kitten with orange patches. He’s the only boy of the lot, and he’s already imprinted on me.
Lorraine squeals again as she takes him, cradling him against her chest. “Oh my goodness, he’s perfect! Hi, little baby, my name's Rainey.”
