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“Seriously, Joe,” I encouraged, pouring two bowls of chocolatey goodness, and then filling both bowls to the top with milk. “Tuck in.”
With a deep frown set on his face, he steered the overflowing bowl towards him, and reached for a spoon. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied around a spoonful of cereal, feeling a swell of something strange in the pit of my stomach, as I watched him wolf down his bowl of cereal like he hadn’t eaten in days. “Mam’s out with a few of the girls tonight, and I don’t cook, so it’s the best I can come up with.”
“You don’t cook?”
“No, do you?”
Joey shrugged. “A bit.”
My brows shot up. “What can you cook?”
Another shrug. “Depends.”
“Depends?” I pressed, as I reached across the table and refilled his empty bowl. “On what?”
“Thanks,” he replied, dutifully waiting for me to remove the box before his wolfing resumed. “It depends on what’s in the cupboard.”
“Well, I know you’re good at home economics,” I decided to add, having sat in a classroom with him for the past few months. “The dishes you prepare are always the teacher’s favorite.”
“Only because it’s edible,” he snorted, keeping his head bowed as he ate. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“With your mam?” I asked, thoroughly intrigued by this boy, as I rested my elbow on the table and watched him. “Did she do a lot of cooking with you growing up?”
“Something like that,” he replied, reaching for the cereal box. “Do, ah, do you mind if I…”
“Go for it.”
“So, where’s your brother?”
“Knowing Kev, he’s probably inhaling the books in his room.”
“He’s a fair bit of a brainbox, isn’t he?”
“Just a tad,” I reluctantly conceded, grimacing when I thought about my twin and his superior academic brilliance. “He’s my mother’s golden boy.”
“Hm.” Joey nodded in understanding. “I know that feeling.”
“What?” I teased. “You’re telling me that you’re not the pet at home?”
He arched a brow. “More like the pest.”
I laughed. “I don’t believe that for a second, mister hotshot hurler.”
He smirked. “You’d be surprised, Molloy.”
“So, how many siblings do you have?”
“Four,” he muttered before quickly correcting himself and saying, “three.”
“Four, three?” I laughed. “Which is it?”
“Ihadfour, Ihavethree,” he replied in a flat tone.
“Oh my god,” I croaked out, feeling a pang of sympathy hit me. “Did one of your siblings pass away?”
“He’s still breathing,” Joey deadpanned. “But he’s dead to me.”
