Keeping 13: Boys of Tommen #2

by Chloe Walsh

  She didn't answer me.

  She hadn't answered a single one of my questions for over an hour, but I couldn't let it go.

  I couldn't walk away.

  Not this time.

  "Why, Mam?" I hissed, tears dripping down my cheeks. "Do you hate me that much?"

  She shuddered, her frail shoulders jerking violently, as she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray before quickly sparking up another one.

  "Answer me!" I screamed, barely managing to restrain myself from reaching across the table and shaking her. "You owe me that much, dammit!"

  "He's not safe for you, Shannon," was all she said, and her words were barely more than a broken whisper.

  "You're going crazy," I choked out, shaking my head in horror. "You are losing your bloody mind!"

  "I did the right thing. I did the right thing," Mam whispered over and over, as she sucked on her cigarette. "I protected you."

  "He's not a problem for me," I choked out. "Johnny's a good person." A huge sob tore through my throat and I heaved, feeling so much pain and resentment that I felt I was drowning. "And you scared him away. You pushed the one good thing in my life away from me." Sniffling, I batted my tears away, furious with myself, my mother, and the whole damn world. "He'll never talk to me again," I strangled out, feeling the threat of a panic attack nip at my heels. "You ruined everything for me!"

  "No." She shook her head. "You'll see, I did the right thing."

  "Mam," Darren, who was sitting opposite our mother, interjected. "You're not making any sense here."

  "She can't make sense of it," I strangled out, pointing an accusing finger at her. "Because she knows she's wrong."

  "I'm not wrong," Mam whispered, trembling. "He's just like your father."

  "Mam!" Darren snapped. "Don't say that."

  "It's true," she whispered, flicking ash into the ashtray and taking another deep drag. "He'll be just like her father."

  "Stop it!" I screamed. "Stop trying to do that to him."

  "You'll be glad I stopped it," she whispered. "Stopped you from making my mistakes."

  "You're wrong," I hissed, blinking back the hot, scalding tears. "You're a fucking liar and I hate you!"

  "Shannon, that's enough!"

  "It's not enough." Backing away, I put some distance between our bodies, because I honestly didn't feel like I was in control of myself in this moment. "Joey was right." I blinked away my tears. "You're not good for us."

  "Come on, Shannon." Darren groaned, rubbing his jaw. "Screaming and name-calling isn't helping anyone –"

  "Then stop sitting there and do something," I begged, shaking so hard, I felt like I was about to convulse. "You know this is wrong." My breath hitched and I hiccupped a pained sob. "You know what she did was awful, and you're just letting her get away with it."

  "No, I'm not," he countered. "She knows she was wrong, don't you, Mam?"

  Silence.

  "Mam," Darren pushed, tone harder now. "Tell Shannon that you know you were wrong."

  Nothing.

  "Mam!" Darren barked, voice cracking. "Answer us."

  "Don't bother." Joey's voice cut through the stony silence and I spun around to find him leaning against the doorframe, casually observing the situation. "She can't hear you," he added, tone emotionless. "Because she's broken." He looked Darren square in the eyes and said, "You'll figure that out soon enough."

  "Joe." Crying hard, I barreled towards him, not stopping until my face was buried in his chest. His chest that smelled like Johnny because he was still wearing his clothes. "Make this stop."

  "This is what you wanted, Darren," Joey said in an eerily calm tone as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "You wanted her home with us. One big, happy family." Tilting his head to one side, he gestured towards our mother and said, "I hope we've met your expectations."

  I half expected Darren to say something defensive, but he didn't. He didn't say a word.

  Instead, he looked at our mother who was staring into her coffee stained mug and released a ragged breath. Shoving his chair back, he stood up and walked out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance.

  A few seconds later, the sound of the front door slamming filled the air.

  I threw my hands out and choked out a humorless laugh. "I don't know why I'm surprised anymore."

  Exhaling heavily, Joey released his hold on me and walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the cooker. I watched as he silently went to work, filling a saucepan of water and then pouring the contents of a bag of pasta into it. Setting the saucepan down on the hob, he switched on the heat and flicked on the extractor fan overhead.

  When he was done, he wiped his hands on the tea towel on the draining board before turning to face our mother. "Get up and take a shower," he ordered, tone void of all emotion. "I need to feed the boys and they don't need to see you like this."

  She flinched but didn't move.

  Like the million other times I'd watched this exact scenario unfold through the years, Joey walked over to the table, snatched the cigarette from her lips and stubbed it out. He then proceeded to place both the ashtray and coffee cup on the draining board before returning to her side. "Get up," he repeated. "You stink of smoke and cider."

  Mam dropped her head in her hands and cried.

  "Get up," he said for the third time.

  Once again, Mam made no move to stand. Instead, she snaked a hand out and grabbed his hand, clutching it tightly in both of hers. "Joey," she sobbed, clinging to him. "Joey."

  With a resigned sigh, Joey swooped down and gently helped her out of her seat. A thousand different emotions played across my brother's face as Mam leaned heavily on his rigid body, sniffling and sobbing against his chest.

  "Keep an eye on the dinner, Shan," was all Joey said as he guided our mother out of the kitchen and up the old, wooden staircase.

  And here we are, I thought to myself, back to square one.

  I took a few minutes to compose myself, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose, and then drained the pasta and mixed in the jar of sauce before calling the boys in from the front room. "Dinner."

  Wordlessly, Ollie and Sean ambled over to the table, taking their usual seats. Dishing up their plates, I set them down in front of them with a glass of water each.

  I waited for them to tuck into their food before turning to face Tadhg who was leaning against the fridge with his arms folded across his chest. "Are you hungry?" I asked, holding a plate out to him.

  He glared at the pasta in my hands for a long moment before turning around and walking away.

  Tadhg's silence spoke volumes and it matched my feelings. I knew he was furious, so was I, but he was reining it in because we had something back in our house, something that we were both desperate to not push away.

  Not feeling one morsel of hunger, I sat at the table, in the chair my mother had vacated and waited for the boys to finish before cleaning off the table and washing the dishes.

  Numb, I fell into the old age pattern that was my life, as I tidied up after the boys and helped Sean get dressed for bed. All the while, Joey dealt with Mam upstairs.

  I found myself checking both the front and back door over and over again, making sure they were locked and then panicking when the sound of a car whizzing past outside filled my ears.

  Breathe, Shannon.

  You're fine.

  Everything's going to be okay.

  A little over an hour later, Joey returned to the kitchen. "She's asleep," he stated, moving for the plate of dinner I had set aside for him. "I gave her a couple of her valiums."

  Nodding, I curled my fingers around my cup of tea and blew into the rim, never once taking my eyes off my brother as he heated his plate in the microwave.

  Joey joined me at the table, where he ate in complete silence.

  "Are you okay?" I finally asked.

  "No," he replied quietly, setting his fork down on his empty plate. "Are you?"

  "No."

 
He looked up at me then. "It's going to be okay, Shan."

  "Which part?" I whispered.

  "The Kavanagh part," he replied.

  I exhaled a shaky breath and shook my head. "No, it won't be."

  Resting his elbows on the table, Joey drummed his fingers together. "Aoife's pissed with me."

  My head snapped up. "Since when?"

  He stared hard at his hands. "Since I fucked everything up."

  My heart sank.

  Damn you, Shane Holland…

  "She loves you," I offered, reaching for his hand. "She'll forgive you, Joe, and you guys will sort it out."

  He shook his head. "Maybe I don't want her to."

  I frowned. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I'm a fucking disaster, Shannon." He pushed his hair back with both hands and exhaled brokenly. "And she deserves better."

  "Are you two broken up?"

  He shook his head slowly. "No."

  "Then it's okay," I coaxed, desperate to comfort him. "It will be okay."

  Joey shrugged. "I just…I don't want her to watch me turn into hi–"

  A loud sound floated through the air, startling the both of us, and causing Joey to close his mouth.

  Frowning, I patted my leg that was vibrating for a moment before remembering.

  His phone.

  Shaking, I dragged the phone out of my pocket and stared at the screen. It was a text from Ma.

  "Who owns that?" Joey asked, frowning.

  "It's Johnny's," I whispered, staring down at the expensive piece of equipment in my hands. "He gave it to me." I looked at my brother. "It's a message from his mother."

  "Read it."

  "What?" I gaped at him. "I can't."

  Joey rolled his eyes. "It's obviously him."

  "Really?"

  Joey gave me a knowing look. "Read the fucking message, Shannon."

  Heart fluttering wildly, I clicked into the message.

  A crazy fucking amount. x

  "You're right." I blew out a shaky breath. "It's him."

  "Told you," Joey replied. "He's not running on you, Shan."

  "Are you?" I asked, looking at my brother. "Running on Aoife?"

  Guilt clouded his eyes, but he didn't respond.

  And just like earlier with Tadhg, Joey's silence spoke volumes.

  24

  Pull Your Balls

  Johnny

  "Lose the pants."

  Three words I'd heard more in the last few months than I cared to remember. Sliding off the bed, I kicked off my shoes and then undid the fly of my grey school trousers before pushing them down.

  "The underwear, too."

  Jaw ticking, I did as I was told and stepped out of my jocks until I stood in the middle of the room, bollocks naked.

  "Wonderful, Johnny," Dr. Quirke said, shifting her glasses higher on her nose. "Now, climb back onto the bed please, and lay on your back."

  With my dignity checked at the door, I swallowed down a groan and flopped down on the bed.

  For a moment, I debated covering my face until it was over, but quickly thought better of it. If they were messing around down there, I needed to see what was happening, dammit.

  "Very nice," the good doctor stated and I supposed it wasn't a bad complement to get, but it was a compliment given to me by a sixty-year-old woman while she was cupping my balls in her glove covered hands, so I kind of took issue with it. "Both sets of stitches have dissolved and everything seems to be healing beautifully."

  Beautifully?

  I snorted, because how the fuck could I not? Given my current circumstances, it was either laugh or fucking cry. I had an old lady feeling my ball sac, and another two equally ancient female nurses standing over me, smiling at me in encouragement. One of them was actually giving me a thumbs up.

  Jesus.

  I was in the bleeding twilight zone.

  When the doctor instructed me to roll onto my side and pull my legs up, I did close my eyes, knowing full well what was coming, and also knowing that there was a good chance I'd never find my dignity again.

  "Everything is looking positive," Dr. Quirke said when I was fully dressed and sitting in the chair opposite her. "But I have to ask –" Pulling off her glasses, she twirled them around aimlessly. "Why would you risk yourself like you did, Johnny?"

  I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I don't know." I'd been afraid of losing my spot – of being dismissed. I'd seen it happen to countless players since joining The Academy at fifteen. I knew what happened to the boys that didn’t quite cut it and I saw what happened to the lads that did make it but were cut due to injury. It sucked and I worked my arse off to never be one of those. It was why I had tried to play injured. I was desperate to impress, to stay relevant and on the top of their minds. The thought of some younger, uninjured, fresh-groined fucker coming in and stealing my spot was something that kept me up late at night. "I didn't think," I finally replied. "I just did it."

  "Well," she sighed. "I'm recommending another seven days of using one crutch, rather than two, and refrain from driving for at least another week.

  "And training?" I asked, knowing it was a long shot. "What's the deal?"

  "Hmm." Dropping her gaze to the notes on her desk, Dr. Quirke flicked through a few pages, clicking her tongue every few minutes. "The physiotherapy sessions you've been attending," she mused, studying one specific page in my file. "You've had a full week's worth, yes? How have they been going?"

  "Unproductive," I bit out, jaw tensing. "I can do more, I'm ready for more, but they're not pushing me."

  "And you've been swimming every other day?" she continued, ignoring my response. "In the hydrotherapy pool?"

  "Yes," I replied, drumming my fingers against the armrest. "But I need more."

  "You need to take your recovery slowly," she corrected. "Slow and steady wins the race." Picking up a pen, she scribbled something down on my notes. "Pain relief?"

  "Unnecessary," I ground out. "I'm fine."

  "I see," she replied even though she clearly didn't see a damn thing. "And you've been doing your stretches and home exercises? You've been following the guidelines?"

  Frustrated, I blew out a harsh breath and tried a different approach. "Listen, doc, I'm going to level with you here. I have an important international campaign in the summer – one I need to be fit for. I'm doing everything you're asking of me. I've done the physio. I've done the resting. I've done the bleeding everything, so I just need you to cut me some slack. I'm fit, I'm strong –" resting my elbows on the table, I leaned forward and implored her with my eyes to take pity on me, "and I can't wait another month to get back out on the pitch."

  "You do realize how tremendously strenuous the surgery you've had has been on your lower body?" she asked, blinking back at me through her black rimmed glasses. "Your body needs time to recover. Your muscles and tendons need time –"

  "Then give me another two weeks and let me back out," I interrupted. "I can do that. I can wait another fortnight, but you've got to help me out here. I need to get back on the pitch, Doc –"

  "Johnny, you're not listening," the doctor cut in, tone sharp. "You're recovering from two surgeries, in two separate areas of your anatomy. You need to have patience."

  "I don't have the time to have patience," I shot back, jaw clenched. "What part of that doesn't anyone get?"

  "I understand that you're keen to get back to playing, but you need to take caution –"

  "He knows, Doctor," my father, who was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, called out. "Patience is a virtue." Dragging his gaze from a stack of paperwork he was sifting through, he turned his gaze on me. "Isn't that right, Johnny?"

  I glared at my father, using my eyes to communicate how little I cared about virtues. I was in a pissy mood with him and in no form for his early morning banter. He knew this and was still goading me. Lovely.

  "Keep up with the program," Dr. Quirke said, smiling knowingly at me. "And you'll be back on the pitch
in no time."

  "That's reassuring," I growled. "Because I have no time."

  "Four more weeks," she mused. "That's nothing in the grand scheme of things."

  "Nothing except my future," I grumbled, feeling thoroughly defeated.

  "Well, I think we're about done here." Clasping her hands together, she gave me a bright smile. "I'll see you next week for your follow up appointment."

  "Looking forward to it," I drawled sarcastically before turning to Dad. "Can we go now?"

  "Thank you again for seeing us earlier than normal, doctor," Dad added, tucking his paperwork into his briefcase. "It's his first day back after Easter and he's hellbent on getting to school." Dad's tone was laced with humor. "Apparently, his mother raised an overachiever."

  "That's no problem, Mr. Kavanagh," she replied, smiling knowingly. "And Johnny's always a pleasure, but I'm sure he has some pressing engagements to attend to at school."

  "I'm sure he has," Dad agreed with a smirk.

  Jesus Christ…

  Standing stiffly, I moved for the door, just about done with the whole bleeding lot of them, when the doctor called out, "Oh, before I forget – ejaculation should be fine now, Jonathan."

  The fuck?

  I swung around and gaped at her. "Come again?"

  The doctor smirked at me – she actually fucking smirked at me – before clearing her throat several times.

  Was she laughing at me?

  She looked like she wanted to.

  "The pain you were experiencing shouldn't be an issue anymore," she said instead, giving me a reassuring smile. "You're good to go."

  "Uh…" I scratched my head, feeling unsure of how to deal with the curveball of humiliation I had just been thrown. "That's, uh…thanks?"

  "Do you hear that, son?" Dad laughed, slapping a hand on my shoulder. "The doctor says you can pull on your balls again."

  Fuck.

  My.

  Life.

  "Do you have everything you need?" Dad asked, less than an hour later, when he pulled the car as close to the front entrance of Tommen as physically possible. "Your books? Your phone? Your wallet? Your –"