Drinking Problems #2
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. Halfway down, he misses a step, pitches forward, and tumbles the rest of the way, landing with a loud, hollow thud at the bottom.
Maxwell sighs heavily, shaking his head, and walks toward the front hall without another word.
I swear under my breath and began my own treacherous climb down into the basement. I have to make sure he’s actually in bed and not choking on his own vomit on the floor.
People can call me a lot of things if they want to. A drunk. An arrogant prick. A broken mess pretending to be a captain.
But no one can ever say I’m a bad friend.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
I'M ON MINUTE number thirteen of my mother’s lecture, and it doesn’t look like she’s going to be running out of steam anytime soon.
I had made the fatal mistake of ‘resting my eyes’ on the old couch in Finn’s room after finally wrestling him into bed. I’d then been woken up by Ailbhe Marshall jumping directly onto my stomach, thrilled to find that I’d stayed over.
The problem was that I was supposed to be home before midnight last night.
I hadn't rolled into my own house—which was literally across the street—until dawn was creeping over the horizon.
I hadn't even thought ahead about Mam waiting up, or the fact that my Nokia was dead in my pocket, or the other fact that Finn’s little sisters, Ailbhe and Aisling, would inevitably find me come morning and treat me like their own personal bouncy castle.
Hindsight is a hell of a drug.
Ailbhe had landed knees-first, her tiny fists gripping my shirt as she screamed, “Niall’s here!” loud enough to wake the dead. Aisling had followed, launching herself onto my legs. Finn had just groaned into his pillow, disturbed by the noise.
“Christ,” he’d muttered. “Make them stop.”
“Not my circus,” I’d mumbled back, shielding my face from a stray foot. “Your monkeys.”
The real horror show had started when I walked upstairs. Maxwell was eating cereal, looking smug. Bobby Marshall was standing by the stove, holding the landline phone to his ear, his eyes locked onto me like a sniper.
“Ah,” he’d said into the phone. “There he is.”
I was given a plate of eggs that felt like a final meal, while Finn’s parents cheerfully pretended we didn’t have hangovers, and then I was sent across the street to face the firing squad.
Ergo: the thirteen-minute mark of Mam’s rant in our kitchen.
“...disrespectful, thoughtless, and completely out of order,” she’s saying, pacing in front of the sink. She stops, fixing me with a look that makes me want to shrink into the floorboards. “Give me your phone.”
I blink, my sluggish, throbbing brain catching up too slowly. “What?”
“You heard me.” She holds out her expectant palm. “Phone. Hand it over.”
“But, Mam—” I scramble for an excuse, any excuse.
“Right this instant, Niall Patrick Blue,” she snaps, her voice leaving absolutely zero room for argument. “I am not messing with you today.”
I hesitate, gripping the chunky Nokia in my pocket like it’s my last lifeline to the outside world and we’re in a Zombie Apocalypse or something. She wiggles her fingers expectantly.
“I’m sorry—” I start, pulling the phone out.
“You can show me how sorry you are by handing it over. And your keys, while you’re at it.”
That’s marginally worse. No phone, no car.
She might as well be sending me away to a monastery on the Aran Islands.
I’m the captain. I drive the lads. I drive Molly.
Who the hell was going to drive Molly to the game today?
And besides, I only ever get time alone with her when I’m driving her home—and losing that is punishment enough.