.i’ll cry if I want to
...i’ll cry if I want to
Niall
SHE LIVES OFF the Coast Road.
At the edge of town, just past Main Street, are the docks my father used to take us to.
There are other docks in town—bigger ones up on the way towards Dublin—but these ones are down by this sandy area everyone calls The Strand that people usually go to for swimming when the weather’s warmer.
We used to go a lot when we were younger, but that was before Da died.
We used to do a lot of things before Da died. Things that I don’t think we even mention around the house anymore.
Sometimes I still go to The Strand, all on my own.
If you keep going down Blackenridge, it eventually turns into Strand Street (which is the technical name of the coast road, but no one ever calls it that for no apparent reason), which puts The Strand straight on your right.
Kilmore Road is a left turn off the coast road, and there are only two places on Kilmore that I know of.
One is Rafferty’s farm, which is way far down and I’ve never really been there on my own, but sometimes the lads and I pass it when we drive down the backroads.
The other is this big empty house that I reckon is haunted—or at least I thought so when I was small.
It used to belong to some Brits, but they moved to England ages ago and I guess the rumor gets started up that there’s some headless maiden terrorizing the place.
Of course, the haunted mansion is the house Molly tells me to turn into.
This girl has not ceased to amaze me since she’s gotten here.
One day she was nowhere, the next she was everywhere.
How is it that, by chance, the very same girl my best mate nearly knocks down with a trolley, is the same girl Principal Lynch asked my sister to be a welcome buddy before, and ends up being the girl who earns her way onto the footie team?
I told her my da was at St. Jarlath’s for the sake of ambiguity.
I had all intentions of just nodding or shrugging along with whatever she understood me to mean.
But then I went off and told her my dad was dead—for no reason at all—even though she’s probably the only person in town who doesn’t know.
She would’ve found out anyway, I reason. But I know in my gut that I wanted to tell her. For some reason.
“This is you?” I ask plainly, killing the engine as I pull into the drive. It’s a bit of a scary, gothic revival looking place, and had a good reason for garnering the reputation it did.
Maybe Molly Lockhart is like, the ghost of football’s past here to haunt me or something?
It would explain the odd coincidence of her being everywhere I look, but not much else.
Molly’s looking through the windshield at the front door. There aren’t any lights on in the windows, but a tiny, yellow glow comes from just above the front stoop. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t look like a ghost. In fact, she looks like a very young, and very lonely girl right now.
“It’s... something.” I’m not quite sure what else to say.
Molly just hums in response, making me turn to look at her.
She’s still wearing that green dress she borrowed from Claire, though it’s wrinkled and riding up on her thighs.
Her lips are still stained a soft pink, her hair slightly mussed up.
But even looking a little post-party messy, she still looks... pretty.
Pretty. As superficial as it sounds, that’s the first thing I ever noticed about her—that Friday we ran into her in the store.
She’s pretty with her brow furrowed in anger and confusion; she’s pretty when she’s in her zone during practice; and she’s pretty even after throwing up at my birthday party.
I’m convinced this girl can’t be anything but pretty.
Should I be thinking that? She’s my teammate, I’m the captain. There’s a line there—and I’ve spent my whole life drawing lines and making sure I don’t cross them.
But god, crossing this one would be pretty.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Humor me,” I cut her off, already getting out.
The driveway’s a soundless stone that conceals the sound of my footsteps as I round the bonnet, opening her door before she can protest again.
She keeps looking at me the whole while she gets out, finding her footing on the stone.
She wobbles slightly as she stands, and I quickly catch onto her elbow to steady her.
“Told you I’d be fine,” she mumbles, shaking me off with little vigor.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England,” I roll my eyes, keeping a light grip on her arm as we move up the path. I help her up the steps and to the door, which I follow her inside of without asking.
I’m not sure why, but I’m not ready to let her go into that dark house alone. I think it was that lonely look in her eyes, seeing her stare up at the house.
The entryway’s massive, with a high ceiling and a chandelier that looks like it’s been pulled from the set of a Disney movie. Molly flips on a switch, exploding the space into light. Somehow it looks emptier with the lights on—imagine that.
“Where’s your family then?”
She shrugs, kicking off her heels. “My dad’s still in the States. My parents are divorced. My little sister and my mom are probably already in bed.”
I follow her into the kitchen, which is all stainless steel appliances and marble countertops.
There’s a note on the island, written in looping cursive.
Molly picks it up, scans it, then tosses it back down with more force than necessary.
The paper doesn’t seem to mind, floating back down onto the marble with grace.
“Nevermind, my Mom’s out,” she mumbles.
“You want me to stay for a bit?”
Sometimes my mouth just moves all on its own, saying shit before I can filter the thought. I’m not like JJ, where I can just let whatever fly out without a care in the world—I do care. And I most especially care about what Molly Lockhart thinks of me.
“What?” She looks equal parts stunned and curious.
“Just—” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m not trying to—I just mean, if you didn’t want to be alone—”
“I’m not alone,” she says coldly. “My sister’s upstairs.”
Silence stretches out between us, vast and unforgiving as the ocean.
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.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
I DON'T GO home.
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.