Page 48 of Finding Him
Fitzy sighs from the cab, the gears grinding as he shifts. “Are we done emptying our stomachs?”
Finn nods weakly, not opening his eyes. Fitzy sighs again. Just as the truck starts moving, JJ chokes on his own spit, goes pale, and then promptly throws up all over his own shoes and a good portion of the truck bed.
Fitzy slams on the brakes so hard I nearly go over the cab.
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“OKAY...OKAY YERcomin’ up on a step,” I whisper, using my 'indoor voice' which might still be loud enough to wake Lady, the Marshall’s dog, but I take my chances. She’s not a big barker, luckily for us.
Finn misses the step by about a mile, his boot catching the edge of the concrete, and nearly busting his face before we’ve even gotten him up his own back porch. There are only two steps.
“Alright. Let’s try that again,” I hum patiently, hauling him up by his armpit.
I can feel myself swaying. I know I’d had too much. I could run comfortably day-to-day with a light buzz, maintaining the facade of the dedicated captain, but it makes it hard to remember my actual limits when the goal is always oblivion. At least I’m blacking out or having to be the one smuggled home like contraband. Yet.
Right now, I’m kinda wishing I had offered to help Fitzy hose down JJ and his truck bed instead of taking on the task of getting Finn inside. He trips over the step again. He leans his entire body weight on me, and I’m not exactly a pillar of stability at the moment. But hey, at least my knee doesn’t hurt.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Finn groans. “Leave me here. Let the foxes have me.”
I sigh, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “Finn, your Mam will kill me. And then she’ll resurrect me and kill me again.”
“Better you than me,” he mutters, sliding down to the grass until his legs are splayed out in front of him like a discarded ragdoll.
I bend over, trying to grab him under the arms to haul him back up, but my balance is shot. I stumble forward, my feet tangling with his, and we both go down in a tangled heap of limbs and swearing. Finn lets out a loud “Oof” as my elbow jams into his ribs.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, rolling off him and lying flat beside him on the cool grass. “Alright. New plan. We’re both sleeping outside.”
Finn lets out a breathy sigh, rubbing his side. “If you need to keep warm, Nialler, just snuggle closer. I won't tell anyone.”
I snort, shoving his shoulder blindly in the dark. “Piss off.”
“You say as if you weren’t the one molesting me a second ago.”
“In your dreams, Marshall.”
Our laughter dies in our throats as the back door slides open, casting a rectangle of yellow light over us. I’m fully expecting his father to be standing there. That would mean a phone call to my Mam, which would mean I reallywouldbe sleeping outside for the rest of the year.
Maxwell Marshall’s eyes widen as he takes in the pathetic scene—his older brother sprawled out on the grass in front of the back steps like roadkill, and me lying beside him, my hair sticking up in every direction, both of us reeking of bad cider and worse decisions.
“Oh my God,” Maxwell whispers, looking entirely unimpressed. “Are you two locked?”
Finn groans dramatically, shielding his eyes from the porch light. “No. We’re just, uh... camping.”
Maxwell rolls his eyes. “Ma and Da are asleep. But I can hear you eejits from all the way up in my room. You sound like twobadgers fighting over a bin bag. I already covered for you earlier and told them you were downstairs watching telly, so you owe me a tenner, Finn.”
Finn groans, patting his pockets loosely, probably because he doesn’t have a tenner. I sigh, reach into my jeans pocket, and pull out a crumpled and slightly damp ten-euro note. “Here. Now help me get him up before we all freeze to death.”
Maxwell snatches the money, pocketing it with the speed of a seasoned criminal, then grabs Finn’s arm and hauls him upward. I stumble to my feet, gripping the iron railing for support, my head spinning in a slow, nauseating circle.
Finn sways precariously, leaning heavily on his much smaller brother. “You’re a good lad, Maxie,” Finn slurs, patting Maxwell clumsily on his head of dark curls. “I’ll buy you a pint someday. When you’re a man.”
“Sure, then I could end up just like this. No thanks,” Maxwell deadpans, dragging Finn over the threshold. “You're enough stupid for the whole family.”
I follow them inside, trying to walk heel-to-toe as normally as possible despite the way the linoleum floor seems to be tilting at a ten-degree angle. I reckon Bobby Marshall needs to get his foundation checked. The kitchen is dimly lit by a plug in on the wall, so I’m at least not walking blind. The Marshalls keep nightlights in every room of the house, because Finn’s youngest sister is terrified of the dark. Finn would deny it, but I think he hasn’t ever gotten over his own fear of it either.
Maxwell shoves Finn toward the door that led down to his basement bedroom. “Go to bed. And if you wake up Ma or Da, I’m telling them you were out drinking, and you threatened to duct tape me to the wall again if I snitched.”
Finn groans an acknowledgment, starting his descent down the narrow stairs. It proves to be a disastrous idea. Halfwaydown, he misses a step, pitches forward, and tumbles the rest of the way, landing with a loud, hollow thud at the bottom.
