Declan turns on a dime and leans into me. He gets so close I have to jerk my head back. “It isn’t the fucking same as being inside your sugar-coated pussy.”
My lips part from his brash statement.
“Finish the fucking sausage. I’m going to shower.” He storms off, leaving breakfast to me.
Well, that was more entertainment than I bargained for.
“Your daddy needs to get laid.” I make a silly, guilty face at Aisling. “But not by me.”
She claps and laughs. Sometimes she can be adorable.
When Declan finally comes out of the shower, his energy doesn’t feel so uptight. I have a feeling he took my advice.
I took pity on him and put on a pair of shorts. No more teasing if he’s going to get so shitty about it.
“Have you heard anything from March yet?” he asks as he helps himself to a piece of sausage.
“Nothing yet. But he’s working as fast as he can.”
Declan nods. “The sooner the better.”
“I agree.”
“I’m going to take Aisling for a walk. I need some fucking air. This place feels like it’s closing in on me.”
“Hey.” I grab his arm, but he isn't receptive to my touch. “I didn't mean to piss you off.”
“Yeah, well, you did. I get it. You’re mad at me. We had a thing. I know that. I felt it too, but my shitty circumstances fucked it all up. Ronan and his family have done nothing but screw with me since the moment I met them. I am trying to do one damn thing right in my life. And that’s her.” He points at Aisling still in her highchair. I gave her whipped cream to play with. She’s been occupied for an hour. “And it’s clear I’m pretty shit at being a father, too–”
“That’s not true,” I interject.
“The jury is still out.” He unhooks Aisling and rips her out of the highchair. “So, if you don't fucking mind, can we just live under the same roof civilly, keep our privy parts covered, and avoid all sexual innuendos.”
I stand there speechless as Declan hastily wipes Aisling down, puts her coat on, and then his own.
“Fine,” is about all I can manage before he rolls the stroller outside.
“Good.” He slams the door behind him, and I’m suddenly fucking irate.
It bothers me that he’s mad. And I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t give a fuck, but I do. He isn’t supposed to mean anything. But he does.
“Fuck.” I kick an empty box and pace the room. He’s right. Being cooped up in this shitty trailer is making us both nuts.
I grab the laptop March sent and decide to do something utterly normal and non-killerish. Surf the Internet.
Opening my Bad Bitch playlist on Spotify, I blast a little Celebrity Skin while I'm alone. I then log into Farrah’s Snapchat profile that March hacked for me. This is the most incognito way I can spy on her. I know we keep in touch through email and all, but it’s always good to have secondary channels. She’s a teenager. She isn’t going to tell me everything, and despite not wanting to be a big part of her life, I want to make sure she stays on the right path. I want to make sure she doesn’t live the horrors I did. My father forbade me from having social media. From having friends, from having any kind of social life, basically. It was school. And only school. And I was his. And only his. His little girl. And when I was young, I loved all the attention because I didn't understand. But as I got older, I began to see the truth. Something was wrong. Our relationship was wrong. And I am determined to make sure Farrah doesn’t suffer the same atrocities I did. Which by the looks of it, she isn’t.
There are tons of snaps of her smiling with friends, and silly pictures of her with elf filters since it’s so close to Christmas. She looks happy, which in turn, doesn’t make me want to murder anyone.
A new picture pops up of her trying on a formal dress. It’s dark blue with rhinestones outlining the top and mid-drift. Hashtagwear-what-you-want-and-make-it-look-good.
I smile. She got that advice from me. In not so many words. And she does look damn good. I stare at the picture as Billie Eilish sings about being the bad guy, smiling ear to damn ear. If Farrah is one thing, it’s the best distraction.
With my mood lifted, I decide to start tidying. This place is a wreck.
Blasting Missy Elliot, I get my freak on and clean the fuck up.
I get a good amount done while Declan is gone. He’s been out with Aisling for most of the morning. I hope she doesn't come back an ice cube wrapped in frostbite. Rapping along with some old-school Foxy Brown, I wash the whipped cream off the highchair tray. Jeez, this stuff is sticky. When I spin around, I find Declan standing there watching me, his expression priceless.
