“Why not?” I asked, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the hall to switch on the light.
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
“So?” I argued. “I asked if you wanted to come inside, not marry me. Does having a boyfriend suddenly mean that I can’t be friends with boys?”
“I’m not your friend, Molloy.”
Releasing a frustrated growl, I caught ahold of his hand and dragged him into my house. “Well, I’m yours, asshole.” Closing the door behind us, I reached up and pushed his hood down. “See; that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No.”
“Besides, you’ve been in my house a million times with Dad.”
His jaw ticked. “That’s different.”
“Because he’s your friend?” I taunted. “Shut up and feed me.”
“Feed you?”
“I can’t cook, remember?” Leading him by the hand into my kitchen, I walked him over to my fridge and smiled. “And you can.”
Joey gaped at me. “You think I’m going to cook for you?”
“For us,” I corrected, giving him my sweetest smile.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Give me that butter wouldn’t melt smile,” he growled, pointing a finger at me. “It won’t work on me, Molloy. I’m immune.”
Of course it was going to work. “I love steak.”
“Steak?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“You have steak.”
“I have two steaks.”
He eyed me for a long moment, clearly weighing up his options, before blowing out a frustrated breath. “Get the frying pan.”
“Yay.” Clapping my hands in delight, I did a little shimmy dance before bouncing off in the direction of the cupboard where Mam kept the pots and pans. “I like my meat well done.”
“You’ll take your meat whatever way I give it to you,” Joey grumbled, rummaging in my fridge for what he needed. “This doesn’t mean anything, Molloy,” he added. “You didn’t win this round.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “I always win, Joe.”
THIS IS NOT A DATE
OCTOBER 10TH 2000
JOEY
Don’t ask me how it had happened but sitting on my boss’s couch in front of a roaring fire, with a full stomach and an empty plate on my lap, with his daughter’s shoulder touching mine, was exactly how I found myself ending what had, otherwise, been a very shitty day.
Not only had I cooked for the girl, but she had somehow wrangled me into bringing in buckets of coal and slack, and lighting the fire for her, too.
Persuasion was certainly a skill that Molloy had honed to perfection.
Knowing that I shouldn’t be here, but not wanting to eat and run like a prick, I decided on half an hour being a reasonable amount to time to linger.
“Right.” When the thirty minutes was up, I set my plate down on the arm of the couch and slapped my thighs. “I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not,” she grumbled, hooking her arm through mine.
“Molloy.”
“No.” Shifting closer, she rested her cheek on my shoulder and returned her attention to the film playing on the television. “Now shush.”
“I can’t be here when your parents get home,” I argued, trying and failing to pry my arm free from her freakishly strong hold.
“Why not?”
“Because your dad will flip the fuck out.”
“No, he won’t,” she scoffed. “We’re friends, Joe. I’m allowed to have friends over anytime I want.”
“We’re not friends, Molloy. And stop snuggling me.”
“Friends snuggle.”
“Friends do not fucking snuggle.”
“I snuggle with Casey all the time.”
“Well, I can assure you that I have never snuggled with Podge.”
“Then you can practice with me.” Shifting closer, she curled up in a small ball, and burrowed her head under my arm. “See. You’re already a pro.”
“Okay, how is this normal?” I demanded, glaring at my arm that she had somehow managed to drape over her shoulders. “You’re a real slick mover, aren’t ya?”
“Just chill, Joe,” she coaxed, resting her head against my chest now, as she draped her arm over my stomach. “Watch the film.”
“I don’t watch films.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you do now.”
“Fine.” I blew out a frustrated breath. “What’s the film called?”
“It’s a grisly horror called Wrong Turn about this group of twenty-something-year-olds who take a wrong turn and end up getting hunted by these really creepy cannibal people. It’s all blood and gore, with minimal sexy time, but it’s a good movie.”
“Kind of like how I took a wrong fucking turn tonight and ended up in a nightmare,” I drawled sarcastically. “Not quite as grisly as your film, but once my boss gets home and sees me snuggling his daughter, I’m sure it’ll be a bloodbath.”
“Listen here, Joey Lynch.” Sitting upright, she grabbed my chin and turned my face to look straight at her. “I saw you first. You’re my friend, not his. So, stop worrying about my dad, and start focusing on me.”
“Technically, your dad saw me first—“
“You’re mine, okay?”
“I’m not yours, but whatever.” Huffing out a breath, I attempted to fold my arms across my chest, only for Molloy to loudly clear her throat expectantly. “I’m here, like you want, I’m staying for the fucking film, like you want, but I draw the line at snuggling.”
“Snuggle me.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“It’s not happening, Molloy.”
“Snuggle me, Joey.”
“I said no.”
“Snuggle me or I’ll scream.”
“For fuck’s sake, fine,” I snapped, lifting my arm up for her to nestle into my side. “There. We’re snuggling. Are you happy now?”
“I will be,” she cackled, shifting closer to drape her long legs over my lap. “Once you do one more thing for me.”
“Oh Jesus, what?”
“Tell me that we’re friends.”
“Molloy.”
“Say it, Joe.”
“Why?”
“Because it matters.”
“To who?”
“To me.”
Jesus Christ. Shifting uncomfortably, I let my shoulders sag before mumbling, “We’re friends.”
“What was that?”
“We’re friends.”
She laughed. “I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Aoife, you’re my dearest, sexiest, most lovable, bestest friend in the whole wide world’.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“But I’m your favorite, right?” With a teasing lilt to her voice, she said, “Your favorite friend?”
“Yes, fine! Whatever. Christ,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes. “You’re my favorite friend, with my favorite legs.”
“Well, now see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she laughed, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And just so you know, Joe?” She leaned in close and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’re my favorite friend, with my favorite everything.”
Well shit.
TAKE IT EASY, LAD, IT’S NOT THAT DEEP
MARCH 11TH 2001
JOEY
You know the saying about idle hands being the devil’s workshop?
Yeah, I thought that might be true.
Sunday was the one day of the week that I didn’t have work, school, or training. Aside from the occasional match, I was a free agent.
Problem was, doing nothing didn’t come easy to me.
I was never less in control than when I found myself at a loose end.
With my hands hanging, and nothing to occupy my racing mind, I went looking for trouble, and found it in the form of sharing a few lines of coke with Shane and the lads.
The temporary high was fantastic.
I felt on top of the world.
I felt like I could run a marathon and win it.
I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do.
The only snag to an otherwise perfectly planned out Sunday was that I forgot about the match I had to play.
And now, several hours later, after crashing hard, I felt like shit.
Throughout the entire game, my heart continued to race violently, thundering so loud and hard against my chest bone, that I could hear it in my ears.
Distracted and on edge, I messed up all over the pitch, either pucking the sliotar too long or not being in the right position for defense and had only managed to score two measly points in the whole sixty minutes.