Until now, I’d never been able to persuade anyone of anything – and they were all women. I’d have no chance of convincing a guy, unless maybe he were gay. I guess if that were the case, I’d have no choice but to sacrifice my needs for Skylar’s sake…
“I’m sure you’ll manage. Even without your usual moves,” my mother says, suggestively.
“I’m sure you’ve got something up your sleeve.” My father waves his fork around in the air, before sliding it into his mouth.
I’m not sure I agree with him on that one – but it wouldn’t be the best idea to make them panic, too. My own sense of panic is definitely enough for us all.
“I’ll do my best.”
I take a sip of beer to drown the absolute crap that just came out of my mouth, and start to eat again, if only to avoid saying anything else. I’ve already fed Skylar enough bullshit – despite the fact that she wasn’t listening to almost any of it, with her ever-present headphones firmly stuffed into her ears. I don’t know if she’s ever actually listening to the deafening noises coming from those things, or whether she only does it to drown out the sound of my voice. Or, worst of all, whether she does it purely to piss me off.
I told her that we’d be coming to live in a beautiful little city in the north, by the sea, with a school full of students for her to befriend, a huge shopping centre down the street, and a world of possibilities. I maybe failed to mention the fact that we’d have to live with her grandparents for a while, because I still don’t know if I’ll be able to find a job here, and I’m in desperate need of some help. But, hey – if I’d mentioned it, would she even have listened?
This is only a temporary measure. We moved quickly, with half our stuff still in a storage unit in Dublin, waiting to be shipped. Let’s just say that I didn’t exactly have time to sort everything out properly. We needed a change of scenery – she needed it – and this seemed like the best place for a broken teenage girl who needs a little peace. She needs to realise that she’s not alone in the world: that there are people who are ready to welcome her into their lives and love her.
Niall
Isink onto the stool by my parents’ kitchen counter as my father places a glass of whisky in front of me. I thank him with a curt nod and clasp my fingers around the glass, swirling the liquid. My father sits down next to me as my mother places an apple tart on the counter.
“I hope this is still your favourite.”
“Always.”
It’s actually the only dessert I eat. I don’t even know if I really like it, or whether it’s just one of the many memories that I have of this place. Maybe it’s because, until a few months ago, I would never have been allowed to eat this much sugar.
My mother cuts me a generous slice and pushes the plate towards me. It’s enormous – but why the hell do I care? I don’t have rules or diets to follow anymore, no health programmes, no training. And with a permanently pissed-off teenage daughter, and the fact that, at my age, I’m living with my parents again, no woman will want to come near me, let alone jump into bed with me. Well, into what is, technically, my mother’s bed.
“You didn’t tell her that you’d be staying here, did you?” my mother asks, sipping at her tea.
“Not exactly,” I admit sheepishly. “I may have skipped the part where I told her we’d be here while we were waiting for a new place.
“Do you think you’ll find one soon?” My dad presses, pouring himself two more fingers of whisky and earning himself a glance from my mother that says:if you fall asleep on the sofa again, I’ll leave you there for a week.
“I hope so.” I throw down the rest of my glass – and the lie I just told.
“There’s no rush, you know. It’s a big house.”
“We can’t live with you.”
“Why not?”
“Well, firstly, because I’m thirty-eight years old. I moved out twenty years ago. What kind of example would I be for my daughter?”
“Someone who loves his family?”
I glance at my father, raising my eyebrow.
“It’s just nice to have you here,” my mother says, resting her hand on my forearm.
I smile guiltily at her. I left so long ago, without looking back. I came back home maybe once a year, despite living only a few hours away. I wasn’t exactly in another country – even though, for most people around here, living in Dublin is like living on another continent. But that’s an entirely different issue.
“How come Rian isn’t here tonight?
“She works late on Fridays. She’ll be here for dinner tomorrow.”
Apparently, my eighteen-year-old sister is doing better than me. She has a job, she lives on her own, and she has a raging social life. And she doesn’t give a damn about coming to see her thirty-eight-year-old older brother, who’s come crawling home with his tail between his legs and a teenage daughter in tow.
I can’t blame her. Rian and I barely know each other. We’re almost strangers – and that is completely my fault.
