“Were you okay after our dive in the harbor? It was only when I got home and thought about it that I realized you’d bolted when you saw that shoe. Why did it freak you out?”
Part of me still wants to tell him everything. About Eddie, about Dillon, about my father. But then I imagine myself talking, and it sounds ridiculous. How do you just come out with something like that? Oh, I thought it was my dead twin brother’s shoe, and I think my dad and my older brother are hiding something about the day he died.
What if I cry in front of him? And anyway, I don’t want to share Eddie. It would feel like giving part of me away.
“I wasn’t freaked out,” I reply. “I just wondered what it was.”
Tay flicks ash onto the floor, then rolls onto his back. I watch him smoke. He watches me.
“There’s so much trash in the sea,” he says. “It’s careless, some of the things that people lose.”
I’m one of those careless people.
“I’ve found all sorts,” Tay continues. “Wallets, dolls, keys . . . mobile phones.” He stops to give me a wink. “Cushions, laptops. Even a hairbrush once, covered in hair. I mean, how do you accidentally drop your hairbrush in the water?”
“I dropped my Barbie in the water when I was a kid.”
Tay smirks. “I didn’t think you were the Barbie kind of girl.”
“I’m not,” I say, reaching for the joint. “That’s why I threw it off the bridge. My mum went nuts.”
My turn to interrogate.
“Tay, can I ask you a question?”
“You don’t always have to ask me if you can ask me something.”
I play-punch him on the arm, and it feels nice to touch him.
“I do, because you don’t always answer. And I’m just being polite.”
He rolls in close to me again and licks his lips. It takes every effort for me not to grab him and pull his face to mine, but I have no idea if he wants me to.
“Why did you leave the Black Isle? Where did you go?”
It’s the wrong thing to ask. His smile disappears and he sits up.
“Can’t we just be in the moment?” he grunts. “Why do we have to talk about the past?”
He fumbles for his cigarettes, and when the lighter doesn’t work, he throws it across the floor.
“Sorry,” I say. My cheeks get hot. “I wasn’t prying. You don’t have to tell me anything.” I say this even though I want him to tell me everything.
“No, it’s fine.” His eyes lighten up a bit, and he seems to accept my apology. “It’s just not that interesting, that’s all.”
I wish I had just kissed him instead of talking. I never learn to keep my mouth shut. I give him the lighter from my pocket. He says thank you. Then he opens up.
“I didn’t choose to leave. My dad didn’t want me around. He thought I was trouble, and he wanted to work or hang out with his mates, not look after me.”
I nod this time so I don’t risk saying anything stupid. Tay keeps talking.
“I was always in trouble, little things like skipping school, getting into fights, breaking stuff around the house. Stealing. The police picked me up a couple of times—it was never serious, but you see, my dad’s a cop and I was destroying his reputation. He didn’t want to deal with me, so he ignored me. And then one day, he snapped and said he’d had enough. I came home from school and he had my bags packed. He drove me straight to the bus station and sent me off to my mum’s. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to anyone. The bastard.”
“That’s shit,” I say. “So you were with your mum all this time?”
“Yeah, she lives in Dornie.”
“Where?”
“West coast. It’s pretty remote.”
Tay seems small and vulnerable now, and I’m responsible for making him feel sad. I put my hand on his leg to show that I care, and he shocks me by taking my hand and squeezing it.
“I’ve stolen stuff too,” I say.
He grins. “I knew you were badass. What kind of stuff?”
Hardly badass. I blush when I think about the packet of condoms I stole. “Makeup, mostly,” I confess. “Hair spray, razors. Noodles.”
Tay lets go of my hand and slaps his thigh when I mention the noodles.
“What? What’s so funny? What do you steal?”
He laughs harder.
“I don’t do it now, but bikes were my thing.” He can barely get the words out.
I try to ignore his hysteria. “What kind of bikes? Like, bicycles? Didn’t you have your own?”
“When I was eleven, I stole a moped—the idiot left the keys in the ignition and I thought I’d just take it for a ride and bring it back. But then . . .” He carries on laughing and it’s contagious.
“I crashed it,” he finally finishes. “Broke my arm. That’s why my shoulder dislocates sometimes. My dad had to pay for a new bike.”
“Oh my God. So that’s why he sent you away?” I ask, half shocked about the moped, half impressed.
Tay wipes his eyes and clears his throat. “Actually, no. A year after my broken arm, I stole another bike. A bicycle this time. And that was the final straw, apparently.”
He looks sad now and doesn’t say anything else.