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She spoon-fed the bag to him.
He accidentally grabbed her hand as he took it, holding it there.
A turn in the wind-swept curls across her face. She blew them upwards with a heavy exhale. It only half worked, but Fionn, clearly still stuck in his daze said, “here” as he tucked the leftovers behind her ear.
She flinched back, hardly knowing why before saying all heaped, “My dad just went to get petrol.”
“He left you here?” Fionn’s high-browed surprise snapped him out of his moping trance and had him shove the affectionate hand into his pocket.
“Yeah. Said I should make you tea while I’m here.” She chewed her lip harder, waiting to see if the invitation would stick.
“Right, well . . .”
“Look, I’ll pop the kettle on, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She dipped past him, ignoring his barely audible “no.”
“Áine, just wait,” he called.
She beelined down the hall to the back of the house where nearly every kitchen was in a townhouse.
Quick steps followed.
“Áine,” he called again, more urgent this time.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Just fucking wait, please!”
It was only then, when she looked up from her task of reaching out for the kettle, that his hesitation became clear. That it wasn’t about specifically her being in his house, it was not wantinganyone there.
Plates overflowed the sink and draining board. So many meshed together she couldn’t tell what was clean or dirty. Generations of flies hung limp on the orange trap tape running along the bottom of the window and back slider door. The table was flooded with newspapers of theDaily Whatever. The lino made sticky noises until his pace stopped right behind her.
She loosened her grip on the kettle, mouth agape as her sharp inhale recycled itself into a false smile.
“I know it’s a bit out of shape. It’s hard to stay on top of things since . . .”
She turned to face him, her backside right against the worktop’s edging.
Just for seeing him, she realised it wasn’t the dirt that had bothered her, it was that she knew this was just the top layer of Fionn’s life.
“Do you still want tea?” she managed, her voice gravelly.
He unstuffed his hands from his pockets to suddenly place them on the edges of her shoulders, thumbs beneath her collar bones. It was pressing and heavy like he needed to physically force some distance between their bodies. “No, I don’t want tea.”
If it was pain he was projecting, Áine was happy to take it all.
She looked down at his touch, scourging her mind for any fitting reason he’d done it. Drawing a blank, she acted on instinct. On opportunity.
She placed her fingers, ever-so-gently, above his brow where he’d been hit. The slight lump was darkening, and the splitting wound would most likely need stitches.
Fionn inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, having her hold her breath to see if the sheen coating them would melt into tears, but they didn’t.
“Is it hurting you?”
“No.” He swallowed. “Not right now.”
Áine’s fingertips traced the edge of his face right down until reaching the curve of his pulsing neck. “Do you want me to leave?”
His eyes remained closed despite his body instinctively pressing closer to her centre. Pressing himself hard against the thin layer of her pleats. “No.”
