Page 12 of Keeping 13

But she won’t be,a small voice in the back of my head hissed,and you know why.

Tearing viciously into another rasher, I continued to dwell and mull over every moment I had spent with Shannon Lynch from the day I knocked her out with my ball to the moment I sent her away from this room.

I figured it was a coping mechanism. Avoiding my feelings about my impending therapy and prospect of losing out on the U20s. I couldn’t think about rugby right now. If I did, there was a very good chance I would have a meltdown. Therefore I locked my focus on Shannon Lynch, obsessing about every teeny, tiny, insignificant detail until I was sure I would explode.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong and you know it.

Open your fucking mind andthink!

Dropping my fork and knife, I shoved the tray away and reached for my phone again. Redialing Joey’s number, I clutched the phone and prayed for an answer. My anxiety was festering inside of me to the point where I couldn’t think beyond anything other than her. When I was greeted with his voicemail again, I lost it.

“Listen, fucker, I know you’re getting my messages, so you can either answer your bleeding phone or text me back. I’m not going away until I talk to her. Do you hear me? I’m not going the fuck away—”

“Morning, love,” Mam chirped as she walked into my hospital room, interrupting me from the one-way conversation I was having with Joey Lynch’s voicemail. “How’s your penis today?”

Give me strength…

“Call me back,” I muttered before ending the call and gaping at my mother.

“I brought you some flowers,” she continued without waiting for an answer, setting a bouquet of I had no idea what the hell they were called on my bed tray. “You’ve been so upset.” Smiling, she padded over to my bed and fussed with my blankets. “I thought these might cheer you up.”

“How’s my penis?” Gripping the sheets around me, I yanked them up to my chest, not trusting that she wouldn’t pull them off and check for herself. “Do you think that’s a normal thing to ask your son?”

Mam shrugged. “Would you prefer if I called it a willy, love?”

Jesus Christ.

“Well, I’m not six years old, Ma, so no, I wouldn’t prefer that,” I bit out, eyeing her warily as she hovered at the side of my bed. “And it’s fine.”

Mam worried her lip. “Are you sure—”

“I’m sure!” I snapped, batting her hand away when she, like I had predicted, tried to pull down my blanket. “Christ, Ma, we’ve talked about this before. You need to start respecting my boundaries!”

Huffing out a breath, Mam sank down on the edge of my bed and patted my cheek. “Will you at least show your father?” She gave me a bleeding look. “I’m so worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I grumbled. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both fucking fine, Ma. I’m in a hospital, you know.”

“Yes, but—”

“Trust me, I’m fine.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “It’s all good, Ma.”

Mam sighed heavily. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever trust another word that comes out of your mouth.” She bit down on her lip and gave me that horrific, wounded-mother look—the one that always cut me deep, designed to make a son feel like a piece of shit. “You really let me down, Johnny.”

Christ, twist the knife, why don’t you…

“I know, Ma. Christ.” And I did. “I really am sorry.” Knowing she wouldn’t let it go until I compromised, I forced out, “So if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll show Da when he stops by.”

Mam smiled, appeased, and I sagged back on my pillows, grateful to have dodged that particular bullet. “Were the doctors in this morning?”

I nodded. “Yeah, they were in first thing.”

She looked at me expectantly. “And?”

“They’re letting me go home in the morning.”

“That soon?”

---