Page 34 of Finding Him
God, I hate the ocean.
Eventually, I sigh. “Right... Well, I should go, then.”
She nods, her gaze fixed at her feet. I turn and walk toward the front door, my footsteps heavy.
“Niall.” I’ve just reached the handle.
She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted by the bright light behind her. The gold in her light brown hair makes it look like she has a halo. An angel.
“Thanks,” she says softly. “For the ride.”
I nod. “Yeah. Anytime. Goodnight, Molly. Oh, by the way?”
She raises her eyebrows, clearly waiting for me to continue.
“They call ‘em pubs ‘cause they used to be called, like, a public house or some shite back in the 17th century or so.”
“Good to know,” she nods. I’ve made her smile, the simple fact making my chest burst with joy.
I leave before the urge to walk over there and kiss her becomes a reality.
??` ?? ?´?
IDON'T GOhome.
I know I should. I should be keeping an eye on Claire and the lads, making sure the house isn’t on fire and JJ isn’t running naked through the streets (again). But I don’t get any further than The Strand—I knew I wouldn't. Birthday blues have their claws in me and they aren't letting go.
Usually, I’ll just sit there and drink, watching the water from a distance. I rarely trust myself to get closer, unsure what I’d let myself do. Right now, I’m sober—a rarity, but I wanted to stay vigilant during the party, only drinking minerals the whole time—which makes coming here worse than I could’ve imagined.
Maybe that’s why I walk right up to the edge of the water.
I kick off my runners, socks too, and cuff my jeans. The water stings, enough to make me cold all the way to my teeth, but I wade in anyway. Waves lap at my shins, soaking the rolled denim. The tide’s coming in, pulling at me—like it wants to drag me out to where Da went.
Come on, Nialler. Just a little further. No more birthdays. No more bakery. No more pain. No more lies.
I wonder, for probably the thousandth time, how easy it’d be to just walk in and let it take me away. Because it would be.
It would be so easy.
13
Afraid of a Girl
Molly
September, 2007
ALMOST THERE.
Our first official game of the season is loitering on the horizon like a storm front. Coach O’Shea had laid out the schedule with a gruff brevity that suggested he’s taxed for every vowel he utters.
Games are Saturdays, with every fourth Saturday being a “rest week” meant for tactical recovery—or, as the boys call it, “getting absolutely hammered without a hangover ruining Saturday morning drills.”
That first game is all I can think about. I need the day to get here, not just because I love playing, but because I need to prove myself. I need to show everybody—the doubters, the whispers in the hallway, the guys who still look at me like I’m a breakage risk—that I belong on that pitch as much as the rest of them.
And, if I’m being totally honest with myself, I need to prove it to myself, too.
I’m in the middle of wrestling my school sweater over my head when my phone buzzes on my duvet. I flop down and flip it open, the blue backlight of the screen stinging my eyes.
