“I don’t know. Reading. Whatever she does.”
“And you’re okay with that? Not joining her?”
“She didn’t invite me.”
“So invite yourself. You’re engaged, not strangers.”
“Maybe she wants space.”
“Or maybe you’re being an eejit.” He sighs. “What’s going on, Cavin? You sound off, mate.”
I want to tell him. Want to ask if I’m being irrational, if the doubts eating at me are justified or just my own damage manifesting.
“Nothing.I’m fine.”
“You’re a shite liar.”
“Runs in the family.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You know what? Forget dinner. Come to the gym. Beat the fuck out of a bag or something. You need to work off whatever this is before you do something stupid.”
How does he always know?
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think. Just come. Seven o’clock.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
I sit there, staring at my phone, at the last message from Erin about the books and the challenges.
Am I just so damaged, so convinced that good things don’t happen to men like me, that I’m inventing problems where there aren’t any?
The next day, I want to see her.
I get an idea, so I send her a text on a whim.
Need you in the garden? The wee sprites are running wild on me.
And her responding text that came shortly thereafter:
Erin
Can’t you just sort them like you did the lads at St. Albert’s?
And I can almostseethat cute little smirk she gets when she’s being cheeky.
Cheeky little thing. Those lads had it coming. Your plants are innocent, mostly. Now shift your arse,
Erin
Lucky for you it’s good timing, Mam’s on the rampage today and I need to get out of the line of fire. See you half past?
I’m as nervous as a fuckin’ schoolboy, and it takes me off guard. I haven’t been this nervous since Iwasa fuckin’ schoolboy.
I'm leaning against the fence when she arrives, right on time. Course she is. The lass probably color-codes her fucking calendar.
Why's that so goddamn adorable?
