by Chloe Walsh
However, it was rare for her to not come back.
I knew she would come back.
It was just a matter of when.
I also knew my father would be back.
It gave me no comfort watching him leave last night.
That wasn’t the first time he had been told to go.
And it wasn’t the first time he had beaten me to a pulp.
Sooner or later, he would be back, promising heaven and delivering hell.
Nothing would change.
It never did.
Tadhg, Ollie, and Sean might believe he was gone for good, but Joey and I knew better.
Without our parents' presence, it was down to Joey and me to fend for our younger siblings.
When there was no sign of either of our parents this morning, Joey sacrificed his own training session with the Cork team so he could take Tadhg and Ollie to a football blitz they were both playing in.
I was left with Sean who had spent the best part of the day screaming for Mam.
It was a disaster.
Countless phone calls to our mother had gone unanswered, so I had given up trying to get ahold of her.
Setting to work on the bottomless list of jobs allocated to me on a weekly basis, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, washing down skirting boards and changing all the bedsheets as I went.
By eight o’clock Saturday evening, I had gone through four loads of laundry, cooked both lunch and dinner for my brothers, bathed and dressed Sean for bed, and had cleaned the house to within an inch of my life.
It hadn't lasted of course.
As soon as the boys had stomped through the front door, the chaos and mess had resumed.
Balancing a bowl of coco pops in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other, I used my hip to push the sitting room door open and stepped inside.
"Here you go, Sean."
Setting the bowl and sippie cup down on the coffee table in front of my baby brother, I ruffled his curly blond locks then stood up and stretched my back.
"Eat it all up before bed," I added, groaning in relief when I felt the muscles in my back click back into place.
I was in so much pain it was hard to walk a straight line.
"I want Mammy," Sean replied, pouting at his cereal. "Mammy's gone."
"Mammy's at work, Sean," I repeated the same sentence I'd told him fifty times today. Striving for patience, I added, "She'll be home soon," and then hurried out of the room before he had a chance to ask when.
I didn’t have an answer for him and I hated lying to him.
The truth was, I didn’t know when Mam would be back.
Shoulders slumped, I padded back into the kitchen and moved for the kettle.
I needed tea.
Lots of tea.
29
Shifting Jackets
Johnny
My training day at the academy on Saturday went down like a lead balloon.
I was weak and it showed on the pitch.
I was called into coach's office mid-way through the morning, where I received something I would consider to be similar to the Spanish fucking Inquisition from Coach Dennehy.
Afterwards, I was sent straight to the team doctor for yet another examination, followed by a checkup with Janice, the physio.
Like my coach had predicted, I failed both the fitness and medical tests doled out to me.
Sore and demoralized, I was given a stern talking to about the dangers of the nondisclosure of pain before being sent home with another goddamn prescription and a formal letter stating that I was temporarily excused from all academy training and duties until my next fitness test in three weeks' time.
If I failed my next round of tests, I would be back under the knife and out of action for a further four to six weeks.
That meant it would be early to mid-May before I would see a pitch again.
That meant I would lose my shot.
There was no way I'd be match fit in two to four weeks to make the squad at u20's level.
So yeah, it was safe to say that I was royally screwed.
My only consolation was that I could still participate in light training with my school and club – there wasn’t a fucking thing they could do to stop that, but it wasn’t much to cling to in a way of hope.
Not when it was a guarantee that both my coaches at Ballylaggin RFC and Tommen would receive the same letter.
There was little chance of getting any match time now with the club.
There was no way Coach Mulcahy would bench me, he couldn’t afford to, but that was just school boy shite.
Furious at being written out of the upcoming youth games, I was simmering with tension by the time I made it home this afternoon to a – thankfully – empty house.
Mam was gone to Dublin to spend the weekend with my father, so I didn’t have to face the parental third degree for a few days.
I wanted to cry – I wouldn’t, but I fucking wanted to.
I should have worked through the pain.
I should've never taken that fucking surgery.
If I hadn't, I'd still be in with a chance of making the starting team for the u20's European campaign in June.
U20's was a big jump from U18's and I was on goddamn track to make the jump.
Not now.
If I couldn’t get my shit together, nobody would want me.
Not with a broken body.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my home gym, working my body to the bone, desperate to erase the god-awful feeling of despair that was threatening to take ahold of me.
This latest setback was the cherry on top of the year from hell.
To be honest, I was regretting coming back to school after Christmas break.
I should have stayed in my goddamn bed and had my mother write me three months' worth of sick notes or some shite.
Everything had gone to hell for me since then.
My body.
My brain.
My train of thought.
I was all over the place.
In the middle of my personal breakdown, my mind continued to focus on the one person I needed to not think about.
Shannon like the river, with those midnight blue eyes…
"You've got a problem, Kavanagh, and I'm staging an intervention," Gibsie's voice perforated my thoughts, causing me to momentarily lose focus and almost poleaxe myself with the 280lb barbell.
"Christ," I strangled out, locking my muscles into place just in time to save myself from certain choking. "Don’t sneak up on me like that, ya bleeding eejit." I looked up from my perch to find my best friend standing in the doorway of my garage. "I could’ve killed myself."
"Yeah, you could have." Unfolding his arms, Gibsie walked over to where I was and grabbed the bar. Setting it down, he reached for a towel on the stand and dropped it on my chest before saying, "Don’t do this alone again." He pointed to the stacked barbell, expression disapproving. "It's highly irresponsible."
Sagging, I dropped my head back down on the bench and dragged in a few ragged breaths before attempting to speak. "You're giving me a lecture on responsibility?" Exhaling a breathless laugh, I grabbed the towel off my chest and patted myself down. "Jaysus, the hypocrite in you is ripe today, lad."
"Don’t try and throw me off my mission with your shit banter," he shot back. "I've got plans for you."
"Don’t know what you're going on about, Gibs." Pulling myself into a sitting position, I took another few steadying breaths before climbing to my feet. "But whatever it is, I'm not in the form."
"Be that as it may," Gibsie countered happily. "We're still going out." He followed me over to the fridge in the corner of my home gym and swiped a can of coke. "So, go take a shit, a shower, and a shave because the lads are meeting us in Biddies at half eight."
Uncorking the lid of a bottle of water, I drained the contents before replying. "No," I breathed, drenched in sweat and feeling like shite. "We're not."
Liam had phoned me no less
than three times yesterday to try and smooth me over, so that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to go out.
My issue was that I was close to my breaking point.
I was one conversation away from losing my goddamn mind.
"We fucking are," Gibsie countered. "I got your text about your coach sending you home today, and I have to be honest with you, lad, I'm relieved they're starting to see through your bullshit 'I'm fine, it doesn’t hurt' charade."
"Wow." I arched a brow. "Thanks a lot, friend."
"Don’t give me that shit," Gibsie shot back. "You know I want you to get on that team in June more than anyone, but not at the risk of permanent damage." He shook his head. "It's too high a price to pay."
"You don’t get it," I mumbled, regretting the venting text I'd sent to him earlier.
"No, in all honestly, I probably don’t get it," Gibsie replied. "I've never been invested in anything like you are with rugby, but I see what you're doing to yourself. I see that, Johnny."
"Yeah, well," I grumbled. "Unless I can pull off a miracle and get my shit together, it's all in the can."
"Which is exactly why you're coming out with me," he argued. "You need to kick back and take your mind off rugby." Grinning, he pointed to himself and said, "And what better man to help you do that?"
"I don’t know, Gibs." Tossing the empty bottle in the nearby bin, I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. "I'm fairly wrecked."
That was the truth.
Exhaustion was the norm for me and especially lately. I was sore as shit and this wasn’t helping my bad mood.
"I'm probably just going to pass out in front of the telly for the night."
"You're a fucking robot is what you are," Gibsie retorted. "Well, not tonight."
Clamping a hand on my shoulder, he nudged me towards the open garage door.
"You have no early morning sessions tomorrow or any of that academy bullshit to stop you from enjoying a night out with your buddies."
I allowed him to walk me outside for one singular reason; I was too tired to dig my heels in.
"Tonight, we are going on the piss and –" he squeezed my shoulder for emphasis and steered me in the direction of my house, "you are going to be human. Tomorrow you can go right on back to your robotic, dull as dishwater self."
"I'm too sore," I grumbled.
"Of course you're sore," he shot back. "You're not giving your body time to repair itself, you never bloody rest, and you haven't had pussy in months." Winking, he added, "It's time to take your balls off ice and put your shifting jacket on."
"My shifting jacket?" A smile cracked through my bad mood. "What are we, thirteen again and heading to the underage disco?"
"I'm wearing my shifting t-shirt," he replied proudly, flexing his biceps for emphasis. "It has a one-hundred percent success rate."
I cocked a brow. "Probably because the tag on the back of it says it's for ages 12-13."
"Here now." Gibsie grinned widely. "Don’t be jealous of my spectacular form."
"Your spectacular bullshit more like."
Shaking off his hand when we reached the back door, I pushed it open and stepped aside for him to pass and then headed for my favorite part of my house; the fridge.
"That's the plan," Gibsie stated. Traipsing through my kitchen like it was his own – and it might as well have been for the amount of time he spent here – he strolled over to the cupboards and grabbed a slice pan and a knife from the drawer before pulling a stool out from the center island and sinking down. "And you are not giving me any bullshit excuse tonight."
"Who's going?"
"Hughie and Katie are meeting us below –" He paused and then said, "And Pierce and Feely might show their faces."
"Are any of the girls from school going?"
"Katie," Gibsie shot back in a duh tone of voice.
"Aside from Katie," I snapped.
Katie was a given.
Hughie rarely left the girl's side.
"No." Gibsie frowned at me. "Why would they be?"
I leveled him with a WTF expression. "Because they always fucking show up."
"Does it matter if they show up?"
"I'm not in the mood to be dealing with them."
"You mean you're not in the mood to be dealing with the crazy one," Gibsie corrected with a grimace.
"No, I'm not," I replied, rummaging in the fridge. "I'm not dealing with her this weekend." With my arms laden down with sandwich supplies, I walked over to the island and tossed them down on the black marble countertop. "I need a break, Gibs."
Gibsie shook his head and reached for the bread.
"What happened?" Snatching up a knife and the packet of cooked ham, he asked, "Is she contacting you again?"
"When isn’t she contacting me?" I bit out as I slowly chopped a tomato. "It's a constant stream of texts and phone calls."
All the damn time.
I stopped reading Bella's messages weeks ago, but it still drove me batshit whenever my phone lit up because nine times out of ten, it was her on the other line.
"You must be fucking amazing in bed," Gibsie mused. "If she's hunting you down like this."
"Not the point, Gibs," I growled. "No means no, lad."
"You can change your number," he offered.
"What's the point?" I grumbled. "She'll just find a way to get my new one."
"I know I'm always saying it, but I really have to say it one more time, lad." Slathering two slices of bread with butter, Gibsie layered on cheese, dumped half a dozen slices of meat on top, and then proceeded to fold his sandwich in half and stuff it in his mouth before continuing, "I do not know how you ever put your dick inside that girl."
"I lost my bleeding mind," I bit out, focusing way too hard on spreading the butter evenly on my slice. "That's how."
"You can say that again," Gibsie shot back, making himself another sandwich. "You were blinded by big tits," he added between huge mouthfuls of ham and cheese. "And posh pussy."
"Yeah." Tossing the knife down on the counter, I layered my bread evenly with slices of tomato and then added some fresh chicken pieces before folding it over. "Well, I'm not blinded anymore." Picking up my sandwich, I took a huge bite, chewing and swallowing before adding, "I'm seeing everything clearly now."
"You need to get yourself a girlfriend, lad," Gibsie declared. "It's the only way you're going to shake Bella off."
"I don’t want to get a girlfriend," I bit out. "I am too fucking busy for a girlfriend, Gibsie. You know this."
"Even Little Shannon?" he tossed out with a grin.
My heart leapt in my chest at the sound of her name.
Christ…
"What did I tell you about her?" I snapped, tossing the remainder of my sandwich on my plate, appetite gone. "What in the bleeding hell have I been saying to you for the last two months?"
"It's not what you're saying," he replied with a snicker. "It's how you're acting."
"I am not going there," I growled. "I've said it a hundred fucking times."
"And you can say it a hundred more," Gibsie shot back with a laugh. "And I still won't believe you."
Jesus Christ.
"You like the girl," he continued to taunt. "Maybe you even loooooooovv–"
"If I agree to go to Biddies, will you stop talking about it?" I asked, desperate to stop him before he went into full-fledged Gibsie-mode and drove me insane. "Will you let this drop?"
My best friend nodded eagerly. "Absolutely."
"Fine." I sighed in defeat and moved for the door. "I'll grab a shower."
"Good man," Gibsie called after me. "I'll phone for a taxi for us."
I swung back to face him. "I can drive us–"
"No, you can't," Gibsie interrupted, holding his phone to his ear. "We're going on the lash. Both of us."
Shoulders sagging, I turned and made my way to my room.
Fucking Gibsie.
30
We'll manage
Shannon
"
How's the face, Shan?" Joey asked when I walked into kitchen a little after midnight.
He and Aoife were sitting at the table with coffee mugs in front of them and wore matching looks of concern.
"Jesus," he muttered, flinching at the sight of me.
"I'm okay, Joe." I forced a smile to comfort him. "It looks worse than it feels."
That was a lie.
My face was killing me.
Every inch of my body was in agony.
I was black and blue from head to toe.
Thankfully, the only visible evidence of last night was a small shiner on my cheekbone.
It was the rest of my body that had taken the brunt of his fury.
My only saving grace was it was cold out and I could hide my bruises with baggy sweatpants and long-sleeved shirts.
My lie didn’t seem to comfort my brother, though.
He just stared back at me, looking broken and defeated.
"I'm so fucking sorry, Shan," my brother choked out, dropping his head in his hands. "I should have been here."
Joey had gone to the cinema with Aoife last night and I was glad.
Had he been here, I knew in my heart that someone would have left this house in a body bag.
"It's not your fault," I told him sharply. "None of what happened last night was your fault. You're entitled to have a life, Joey."
"Did you manage to get Sean to go to sleep?" Aoife asked, smiling sadly at me as she thankfully changed the subject.
"Finally." I sighed heavily. "Tadhg and Ollie are out for the count. But Sean…god, he's in an awful way over Mam." I tucked my frazzled hair behind my ears and leaned against the kitchen counter. "He was sobbing his heart out for hours. He ended up crying himself to sleep."
"Fucking cunts," Joey muttered beneath his breath.
"Joey," Aoife coaxed. "Don’t say that."
"Say what, babe?" he countered hotly. "The truth? Because that's what they are. A pack of fucking cunts."
"She's still your mother," Aoife replied sadly.
"And she's worse than him," my brother shot back. "Leaving those kids here on their own." He ran a hand through his blond hair and growled. "She could pick up the phone and talk to the boys, but no, like always, she runs and buries her head in the sand."