Page 43 of Finding Him
I’m confused for a minute, before it slowly dawns on me. “Your father?”
He nods, his gaze fixed on a point far out at sea. “Out past the harbor, which is way over—” He gestures vaguely eastward, “—but yeah. He fell over. There were people in another boat who saw but they weren't able to help him quickly enough.”
I don’t say anything—because what can I say? Sorry? That’s meaningless. No words I can offer would do anything to makehim feel better. Instead, I lean into him. I let my shoulder press firmly against his, offering the only thing I have—weight. Presence.
Niall exhales sharply, a ragged sound that is lost to the wind. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “Feck,” he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. “Didn’t mean to just... dump that on you. I’m a real catch, aren’t I?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s okay.”
He glances at me, his dark eyes—dark as the water at our feet—searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. The feeling—the thing I’ve been trying to categorize as a ‘silly crush’—surges up in my chest, suffocating me. For a second, the space between us seems to vanish. I can see the individual lashes on his eyelids, the slight tremor in his breath.
I think he might kiss me. I want him to kiss me.
I stand up abruptly, nearly stumbling on the uneven wood. “I’m freezing,” I half-lie, my voice sounding high and frantic. I am cold, but it isn't why I stood up. “Can we walk?”
He nods, his expression shifting back to that guarded, neutral mask. “Yeah. Sorry. Let’s move.”
We walk in silence along the shore, the sand shifting and groaning under our feet. I feel like an idiot. A complete and utter coward. But the thought of feeling his lips on mine, of letting someone actually in... it feels like stepping off a cliff without a parachute.
“Here,” Niall says suddenly, and then he is pulling his hoodie off.
“Wha—oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“I’m fine. I’ve got Irish blood, ‘m used to the cold.” He holds out the hoodie to me, and doesn’t look satisfied until I pull it over my head. His scent and warmth are draped over me like a hug I don’t have to reciprocate.
“Thank you,” I mumble, pulling the sleeves over my hands.
Niall reaches out, carefully, tucking a loose strand of wind-blown hair behind my ear. His fingers linger for a second before he pulls away.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the car. “I should get you home before you catch pneumonia and O'Shea kills me for breaking his new star player.”
It only takes five minutes to get from the Strand (that's what Niall calls it) to my house. Niall pulls up in front of the massive stone steps. My house always looks like something out of a Gothic novel at night, imposing and looking like it is crawling with vampires. But tonight, I am still riding the high. I have his hoodie on my shoulders. I have the memory of him spinning me around on the pitch. I have the look in his eyes on that dock.
I’ve had crushes before, that usually end in awkwardness or tears. I like to think I am the kind of person who learns from her mistakes, who is level-headed and knows not to get caught up in a boy.
But Niall Blue feels like a mistake I am willing to make over and over again.
“Hey,” I say as he kills the engine. “You want to come in for a sec? I can get you some water. Or a snack? I think we have some of those fancy cookies my mom buys but never eats because they have too many calories.”
“Alright,” he says after thinking for a minute, a small smile playing on his lips. “I could go for a fancy biscuit.”
“Cookie.”
“Bis. Cuit.”
We laugh as we climb the steps. My ribs throb slightly as I reach for the heavy brass handle, but I barely feel it. I feel light. I feel... happy. The house is silent, smelling of expensive candles and lemon polish. I kick off my shoes, feeling the plush rug beneath my toes.
Maybe if he tries to kiss me again, I won’t panic.
“Just through here,” I whisper, gesturing toward the kitchen. Niall follows, his own shoes abandoned by the door.
We walk past the main living room, the one with the high ceilings and the fireplace that is never lit. I see a light on, a warm glow spilling out onto the polished floorboards.
“Molly? Is that you?”
My stomach plummets through the floor.
My mother is home. Great. Just great.
