A small smile tipped her lips upwards. "It was going just fine."
"Right." I cringed. "Sorry again."
"It's okay," she whispered, studying my face with those big eyes. "And you can stop saying sorry now. I believe you."
"You believe me?"
"Yeah." She nodded then exhaled a sharp breath. "I believe you when you say it was an accident," she squeezed out. "I don’t think you'd intentionally hurt anyone."
"Well, that's good." I had no idea why she would think otherwise, but I wasn’t about to question the girl. Not when I had half-mauled her. "Because I wouldn’t."
She grew quiet again, withdrawing from me, and I found myself racking my brain for something to say.
I had no explanation for why I wanted to keep her talking to me. I guess I could scratch it down to needing to keep her conscious.
But deep down I knew that wasn’t the reason.
Scrambling through my brain to find something to say, I blurted out, "Are you cold?"
She looked up at me with a sleepy expression. "Huh?"
"Cold," I repeated, resisting the urge to run my hands up and down her arms. "Are you warm enough? Should I get you a blanket or something?"
"I'm…" she paused and glanced down at her knees. Releasing a small sigh, she looked back to my face and said, "I'm actually hot."
"Completely fucking accurate assessment."
The highly inappropriate response was out of my mouth before I had a chance to filter myself.
I quickly followed it up by touching her forehead, my pathetic attempt at checking her temperature, and then nodding solemnly. "You're definitely warm."
"I told you." Her big eyes were wide and locked on mine. "I'm really, really hot."
God.
Fuck.
"So," I tossed out casually, trying to distract myself from my wayward thoughts. "What year are you in?"
Please say fifth year.
Please.
Please.
Please god make her say fifth year.
"Third year."
Yeah, and that was that.
She was in third year.
And just like that, I watched my five-minute dream float out the window.
Fuck. My. Life.
"What about you?" she asked then, voice soft and sweet.
"I'm in fifth year," I told her, distracted by the sudden and prominent pang of disappointment churning around inside of me. "I'm seventeen –and two-thirds."
"And two thirds," she giggled. "Are the thirds important to you or something?"
"They are now," I muttered under my breath. Sighing in resignation, I looked at her and explained, "I should be in sixth year, but I repeated sixth class when I moved to Cork. I'll be eighteen in May."
"Hey – me too!"
"You too what?" I asked cautiously, trying not to get my hopes up, but it was a hard thing to do with her sitting so close.
"I repeated a class in primary school."
"Yeah?" I straightened up, a sliver of hope sparking to life inside of me. "So that makes you how old?"
Please be seventeen.
Please fucking throw me a bone and tell me you're seventeen.
"I'm fifteen."
Fuck my luck.
"I can't think what the fractions are for turning sixteen in March." She frowned for a moment before she added, "I'm bad at math, and my head hurts."
"Ten-twelfths," I reeled off glumly.
Ugh.
Just fucking ugh.
I would turn eighteen in May and she'd still be sixteen for another ten months.
Nope.
No way in hell.
Not happening.
Bad fucking plan, Johnny.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
Now why in the holy hell did I have to ask that?
You are almost two years older than this girl, asshole!
She's too young for you.
You know the rules.
Stand the fuck down.
"No," she replied slowly, cheeks turning pink. "Do you?"
"No, Shannon." I smirked. "I don’t have a boyfriend."
"I didn’t mean –" Pausing, she exhaled a sigh and gnawed on her bottom lip, clearly flustered. "I meant –"
"I know what you meant," I filled in, unable to stop my smile from spreading, as I re-tucked that wandering curl behind her ear. "I was just messing with you."
"Oh."
"Yeah," I teased. "Oh."
"Well?" she pressed, voice small. She glanced down at her lap before returning her attention to my face. "Do you –"
"Shannon!" A panicked female voice called out, distracting us both. "Shannon!"
I swung my gaze to the tall, dark-haired woman hurrying down the corridor towards us, sporting a small baby bump.
"Shannon!" she demanded, closing in on us. "What happened?"
"Mam," Shannon croaked out, turning her attention to her mother. "I'm okay."
Highly uncomfortable at the sight of her mother's protruding stomach, I took this as my que to get the fuck away from her minor daughter.
Pregnant women made me nervous, but not nearly as much as Shannon like the river did.
I stood up and made to move away, only to be cornered by what I could only describe as a deranged mother bear.
"What did you do to my daughter?" she demanded, prodding my shoulder with her finger. "Well? Did you think it was funny? Why in god's name are children so fucking cruel?"
"What– No!" I shot back, hands up in retreat. "It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her."
"Mrs. Lynch," the principal coaxed, stepping between the woman and me. "I'm sure if we all just sit down and talk about this –"
"No," Mrs. Lynch barked, voice thick with emotion. "You assured me this kind of thing wouldn’t happen at this school and look what happened on her first day!" She turned to look at Shannon and her expression caved in pain. "Shannon, I don’t know what to do with you anymore," the woman sobbed. "I really don’t, baby. I thought this place would be different for you."
"Mam, he didn’t mean to hurt me," Shannon stated, pleading my case. Her blue eyes flicked to me for the briefest of moments before returning to her mother. "It really was an accident."
"And how many times have you spun me that line?" her mother asked wearily. "You don’t need to cover for him, Shannon. If this boy is giving you a hard time then say it."
"I'm not," I protested at the same time Shannon shouted, "He's not."
"Shut up, you," her mother hissed, shoving me hard in the chest. "My daughter can speak for herself."
Gritting my teeth, I did, in fact, shut up.
I wasn’t going to win any verbal disputes with her mother.
"It was a complete accident," Shannon repeated, chin jutting out defiantly, still holding her head with her small hand. "Do you think he'd be here helping me if it was on purpose?"
That gave the woman pause for thought.
"No," she finally admitted. "No, I don’t suppose he would – what in god's name are you wearing?"
Shannon looked down at herself and flamed scarlet. "I ripped my skirt when I fell down the bank," she said with a deep swallow. "Johnny…uh, gave me his jersey so everyone didn’t see my…my…well, my knickers."
"Uh, yeah, here," I mumbled as I pulled the scrap of grey fabric from the waistband of my shorts and held it out for her mother. "I, uh, broke that, too."
Her mother snatched the skirt from me, and I took a safe step back.
"Let me get this straight," her mother demanded, her gaze flickering between Shannon and me. Recognition flashed in her pale blue eyes, of what I had no fucking idea because I was feeling clueless right about now. "He knocked you over, tore your clothes off, and then he put his jersey on you?"
I muttered a string of curses and ran a hand through my hair.
It sounded so fucking bad when she said it like that. "I didn’t –"
"He helped me, Mam," Shannon snapped.
She moved to stand up, and like the asshole I was, I moved to help her, catching a narrowing glare from her mother.
I went to her anyway.
Fuck them all.
I'd seen this girl half mindless an hour ago.
I wasn’t taking any chances with her.
"Mam," Shannon sighed. "He was football training and the ball hit me–"
"Rugby," Mr. Twomey interjected proudly. "Our Johnny's the finest rugby player Tommen College has seen in fifty years."
I rolled my eyes.
This was not the time to be talking me up – or the company.
"It was an honest mistake," I added with a helpless shrug. "And I'll pay for her uniform."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" her mother demanded.