Niall
October, 2007
I'M A JERK.
I know that. I’ve known it for two-and-a-half weeks. But still, sometimes it’s hard to believe that I’d actually done what I did.
It had been sixteen days since I’d caught a moment of madness and kissed Molly Lockhart. Sixteen days since I’d tasted her lips and felt a surge of something so electric it made every other kiss in my memory seem like a flickering candle next to a forest fire.
Sixteen days since Ifucked up.
There was room for improvement, sure. I could’ve chosen a better time, better location. Maybe gone a little easy on the tongue.
Oh, and maybe next time I shouldn’t immediately push her away and retreat into my little turtle shell. Ugh.
Among the many, many animals Claire and JJ have taken in over the years, they once had these two turtles. One of them, JJ insisted, was female, and the other was male. Claire thought otherwise. It didn’t matter, though—whatever their turtle gender, they were inseparable. They’d eat together, sleeptogether, and whenever they got spooked, they’d retreat into their shells in perfect sync. Claire said turtles were like that—they needed water and companionship, but when things got too intense, they’d withdraw into themselves.
I’d never related to an animal so hard in my life.
There was a tennis match going back and forth in my brain. One side arguing:What were you thinking—kissing her? Why would you want to drag her into your mess of a mind? Why would you do that if you supposedly care about her?And the other side saying:Why would you pull away like that? Why would you put up a wall if you like her so much? God, Niall, do you want to be alone forever?
That whole night, it was a battle ofWhy Would You’sgoing back and forth in my head. I couldn’t fall asleep, but also couldn’t come to a solid conclusion of which part had been a fuck up.
Starting the kiss? Or ending it?
And if I didn’t know how I fucked up, how could I fix it?
I can’t. That’s the only thing I’ve figured out in the past sixteen days—that whatever I almost had is irreparable.
We haven’t talked about it. She hasn’t brought it up, and I haven’t brought it up. It’s always festering in the air between us, the two of us pretending not to notice the bad smell.
So I’ve slipped back into old habits.
Last year, before my surgery, the only way I could get through the day was to stay buzzed twenty-four-seven. So that’s what I’m currently doing again, drinking just enough to keep me functioning but hovering about thirteen inches above the reality of the mess I’ve made of things.
Alcohol is like death to an athlete, like smoking and junk food. I had been weaning myself down to a couple of drunk nights a week after this summer, and was hoping to only be down to celebration drinks by Christmas.
Somehow I don’t see that happening anymore.
It might make me feel shittier on the pitch, but I know I won’t let my performance drop. I never do. The only thing that took me off the field last year was my knee, not the drink.
It’ll be fine, I will be fine.
“Do you reckon we’ll get our table back today?” Finn asks, nudging me in the ribs to grab my attention, pulling me out of my head.
Finn is hard to ignore, even when you are three sheets to the wind. JJ’s loud because he likes to be the center of attention and to put on a show, Finn’s loud because he doesn’t know how to be quiet. And every sentence comes accompanied by a frantic dance of his hands, his whole body participating in the conversation, like he’s trying to sell me on a religion or a used car. He’ll go far in marketing, if he ever takes that route.
If any of the lads have noticed I’ve been acting strange lately, no one’s said anything. They’re probably used to it by now, me shutting down every now and then, no one knowing how long it’s gonna last. I’m sure, like usual, they’ll assume it has to do with my da, and that I won’t want to talk about it. Which is half correct. I definitely do not want to talk about it.
“Unlikely,” I sigh. “Rafferty’s a stubborn prick.”
About a week ago, these music lads—led by this mangy third-year named Stephen Rafferty, whose family owns that farm at the edge of town—had decided to take the girls’ usual table by the window. Their lot had been kicked out of the band room for smoking, and I guess they thought my sister and her social circle were the easiest target for a territorial takeover.
So now, every day at lunch, my lads and I had to sit in the middle of the football table, acting as a buffer between the eejits on the team and my sister and her friends.
Friends that include Molly Lockhart.
It wasn’t that I was ignoring her. If she spoke to me, I spoke back. If I spoke to her, she spoke back. But all our talk was thin and empty, nothing like the way it had been before.
