No Bark, All Bite
Niall
TUESDAY AFTERNOON CAME dragging its feet, though I can’t decide if I’ve been dreading it’s arrival or waiting for it like a man dying of thirst.
Ever since Saturday night, my mind has been a fractured mess.
I spent yesterday’s practice totally distracted, my touches heavy and my passes completely off target, earning me a barrage of yelling from Coach.
All this thinking came paired with my knee, as it usually did, and I swallowed down the ache with a handful of ibuprofen and told myself it’ll pass. That I’m only still healing.
It seems like every time my mind starts churning, my knee decides to flare up right along with it. Like right now, as it gives a small throb with each step I take and each thought that flies by. Molly is on her way over, a fact I was acutely aware of.
Okay, maybe a little bit more than acutely.
“Niall! Stop pacing, you’re making me dizzy,” my mother scolds from the sitting room doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Are they here yet?”
“No, Ma,” I mutter, forcing myself to stop walking. “Does it look like they’re here? No. But they’ll be here in a min—”
The doorbell rings.
My head snaps towards the kitchen doorway, and before I knew it I was striding down the hall to the front door. I pull it open, and the breath I didn’t realize I was holding gets caught in my throat.
Molly’s standing on my porch. She’d wearing a grey jumper that swallowed her hands, her long hair pulled back into a messy claw clip that left loose strands framing her face.
She looks as effortlessly beautiful as always, and it pisses me off how easily she can dismantle my focus just by standing there.
Lorraine was holding her hand. The younger girl has pale skin, light blue eyes, and short blonde hair that swung around her chin.
She’s currently dressed in a black ballet leotard, pale pink tights, and a slightly battered pair of ballet slippers.
A tiny, sheer wrap skirt in the same pink as her tights is tied around her waist.
Claire had told me Molly had to pick Lorraine up from her ballet class, and would be here after to pick out a kitten. My sister’s at the Keane’s, since she and Niamh and Marissa have a group project. But also it always guts her to give away her animals.
At least whatever kitten Molly and Lorraine pick will be going to a good home.
“Hey,” Molly says, her voice a little softer than usual. Her eyes flicking up to mine, and for a split second, I think she might be thinking about the other night too. Whether she’s thinking about the me being a prick part, or the quietness in the kitchen part, I didn’t know.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice rough. I clear my throat and look down, focusing on the younger girl. “Hi, Lorraine. Remember me?”
Lorraine tilts her head, her bright eyes—which match Molly’s almost perfectly—studying my face. “Duh, of course I do.”
I can’t help the laugh that barks out of me. The tension in my chest eases just a fraction. “Right, of course you do. Come on in.
Molly gives me a small, grateful smile as she ushers Lorraine inside. “Sorry if we’re a little late. We kinda had to rush out of her dance class. ”
“With Mrs. Fitzpatrick, right? That’s Fitzy’s Mam, ya know?”
“Oh, really? I guess I didn’t realize,” Molly says.
“She’s very nice,” Lorraine interjects, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “But she makes us do pliés for a million years.”
Ma appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, you must be Lorraine! Aren’t you gorgeous? Would you like some apple juice?”
Lorraine nods enthusiastically. “Yes, please!”
“Molly, pet, would you like tea? Or juice?” Ma asks, smiling warmly.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Molly says, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jumper.
The girls follow Ma into the kitchen, and I head into the sitting room where the kittens have been stationed, in a little basket with their food nearby. Molly and Lorraine come in a few minutes later, the latter letting out a high-pitched squeal when she sees the kittens.
“Oh my gosh, they’re so tiny!” Lorraine gasps, dropping to her knees beside me.
Molly laughs, shaking her head. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“Here, this ‘ere is Atticus,” I say, handing Lorraine the mostly black kitten with orange patches. He’s the only boy of the lot, and he’s already imprinted on me.
Lorraine squeals again as she takes him, cradling him against her chest. “Oh my goodness, he’s perfect! Hi, little baby, my name's Rainey.”
Molly sits beside me on the floor, a big grin on her face. She’s close enough that our shoulders brush. Lorraine gently sits Atticus on her lap and reaches in to pluck Penelope out, letting the two of them tumble over her legs. “I love them. I love them all. Can we take all three, Molly? Please?”
“Absolutely not,” Molly shakes her head. “One is plenty, Rainey. Mom would kill me if we brought home three cats.”
“But they’re siblings! It’s cruel to separate them!” Lorraine argues passionately.
Before Molly can argue back, the front door bangs open with the subtlety of a bomb going off. Heavy footsteps thunder down the front hall, accompanied by a loud, off-key whistling.
“Nialler! I brought you—oh, hello.”
JJ skids to a halt in the doorway, a plastic shopping bag dangling from his wrist. He takes in the scene—the three of us sitting in my living room, covered in kittens.
“You,” Lorraine says, pointing a tiny, accusatory finger at him. “You’re the cart crasher.”
JJ’s face lights up with a massive, goofy grin. He doesn’t miss a beat. He drops the plastic bag on the armchair and immediately throws himself onto the floor right next to her, criss-crossing his legs.
“What? Would I do something like that?” JJ feigns innocence, reaching over to pluck Shannon out of the basket. “It doesn’t sound like me. I’m JJ. And you must be the famous Lorraine I’ve heard absolutely nothing about.”
Molly rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling.
“I’m eight,” Lorraine tells him, as if that explains everything about her.
“Brilliant. I’m basically eight too, mentally, so some people say,” JJ replies completely seriously. He holds the white and orange kitten up like Simba in The Lion King, presenting her to Lorraine. “Have you met Shannon? She’s mental. Watch this.”
He grabs a feather wand toy off the floor and begins waving it frantically above his own head. Shannon launches herself from his lap, scrambling up his shirt and latching onto his shoulder, swatting madly at the feathers.
Lorraine bursts into a fit of giggles, a bright, chiming sound that fills the room. Within thirty seconds, the two of them are completely engrossed in a high-stakes game involving all three kittens, a laser pointer JJ had apparently brought with him, and a lot of unnecessary yelling.
I watch them for a moment, shaking my head.
It’s genuinely difficult to tell who’s having more fun, the eight-year-old girl or my sixteen-year-old best mate.
JJ has always been like this. He possesses a chaotic, puppy-like energy that makes him impossible to hate and makes you feel like you just have to join in on his antics.
I feel a shift in the air and turn my head. Molly is standing up from the floor, watching JJ and Lorraine with a small smile, but then she turns and begins to wander slowly around the perimeter of the room.
Our house isn’t small, but it is cluttered, and very lived-in. One thing we always have had an abundance of is photographs. Every spare inch of wall space, every mantle, every side table is covered in framed pictures.
I hang back, keeping my hands shoved in my pockets as I watch her. She stops in front of the large gallery wall on the far side of the sitting room. I take the chance and walk closer to her.
“Your family really likes pictures,” she murmurs, leaning in to look at a small, silver frame. It’s a picture of Claire and me when we were probably six and four, both of us missing front teeth, covered in mud in the back garden.
I step up behind her, keeping a safe distance, though my skin still prickles with the awareness of our proximity.
“My dad,” I say quietly. “He loved taking them. Always had a camera strapped around his neck. Claire inherited it from him, ‘s why she’s always taking pictures.”
Molly smiles softly, trailing her fingers lightly over the edge of a wooden frame. “That’s nice. It’s like... you have your whole life mapped out right here on the wall.”
Her eyes track upwards, moving across photos of family holidays to Spain, school plays, and football tournaments. Her eyes pause, staying on one specific photo. I know exactly which picture she’s looking at before she even says anything.
It’s a black and white portrait of Da. Just him, when he was about my age. The photo was frozen on him mid laugh, and he looks young, vibrant, and completely untouchable. Totally alive.
“This is him, right?” Molly asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. She turns her head slightly to look at me. “He looks just like you.”
The words feel like a cold stone dropping into the pit of my stomach.
He looks just like you.
I hear it all the time. From my mother, from my aunts, from Mr. O’Reilly at the pound store who had known him since he was a kid.
It’s a suffocating kind of legacy. A constant, visual reminder of the man I’m supposed to be, the man who was gone, the man I feel like I’m failing every single day I wake up with my heart pounding from dreams of drowning in water.
“Yeah,” I force the words out, my voice tight. I swallow hard, dragging my eyes away from the photograph and focusing on a scuff mark on the skirting board. “I get that a lot.”
Molly must be able to hear the strain in my voice. She doesn’t push. She’s perceptive like that, always catching the things I tried to hide—like my knee. Instead, she gently shifts her gaze to the next cluster of frames and changes the subject.
“Who’s this?” she asks, pointing to a larger, candid photo.