falling for 13 || Johnny Kavanagh

Don't Talk Back

G R A C E

The walk home from the bus stop felt heavier than usual, the familiar weight of my athletics bag pressing down on my shoulder. The ache in my legs from the sprints earlier was a reminder of how hard I had pushed myself at training. My heart was still racing, not from the run, but from Johnny Kavanagh's smirk, his eyes lingering on me for that moment on the track. I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts of him away.

This was reality now. Home. And home meant I had to keep my head down.

As I turned the corner onto our street, the small row of terraced houses that had never felt like much of a home came into view. From the outside, it was just another Ballylaggin house, plain and dull like the rest of them. But inside, it was a place I couldn't wait to escape. Every time I came through that front door, there was always the tight knot of fear in my stomach, the worry of which version of Dad I'd get today.

I reached the front door and paused. The windows were dark, the house eerily quiet. Shannon, Tadgh, and Ollie wouldn't be home yet, because they spent Tuesday and Thursday evening with Nanny Murphy, and ever since Darren left I have no clue what Joey's been doing. I took a deep breath and stepped inside, closing the door behind me with as little noise as possible.

"Mam?" I called, my voice barely a whisper. No answer.

Maybe it was safe. Maybe he wasn't home yet.

I tiptoed through the hallway, hoping to get to my room unnoticed. The old wooden floors creaked beneath my feet, and I winced at every sound. But as I reached the kitchen, I heard it. The low murmur of the TV in the sitting room. My heart sank.

Dad was home.

"Grace," his voice called out, sharp and slurred. He was drunk again. "Get in here."

I froze in the hallway, my hand tightening on the strap of my bag. I could already feel the tension creeping into my shoulders. There was no way to avoid it now.  I swallowed hard, forcing my legs to move as I walked toward the sitting room. My heart pounded in my chest, and I quickly rehearsed my excuses in my head, though I knew none of them would matter. Nothing ever did.

Dad was slumped on the couch, an empty beer can crushed in his hand and another half-drained one on the table beside him. His eyes were bloodshot, the stench of alcohol and cigarettes hanging thick in the air.

"You're late," he grunted, not even looking at me, eyes glued to the TV.

"I stayed late at school for training," I said quietly, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. I knew better than to sound defensive, better than to let any frustration seep through. That only ever made things worse.

"For what?" he scoffed, finally turning to look at me, his face twisted into that familiar sneer. "Running around like a fucking eejit? That's what you're wasting your time on?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to say something back. "I'm on the athletics team, Dad. We've got a big competition coming up, and I need to—"

"A competition?" He cut me off, slamming the beer can down on the table. "What's a stupid competition going to do for you? You think running is gonna make something of yourself? You think you're better than the rest of us, girl?"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I stayed silent. I'd learned by now that arguing was useless. I could feel the tightness in my chest, the familiar anger bubbling up, but I pushed it down. I had to.

"It's not like that," I whispered, staring at the floor, avoiding his gaze.

"Not like what?" He stood up, staggering toward me, his breath reeking of booze. "You think you're special because you go to some fancy school? That you're gonna be something? You're nothing. You'll end up just like your mother—stuck here, good for nothing."

My jaw clenched, and I felt my nails digging into the palm of my hand, the words cutting deeper than they should have. The anger I'd been holding back rose to the surface, threatening to spill out. "I'm not her," I muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

But he heard me.

Before I could react, his hand was on me. A sharp slap across my face, hard enough to send a shockwave of pain through my cheek. I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Don't you dare talk back to me," he snarled, his face inches from mine, his voice low and dangerous. "You're lucky I even let you stay at that school, stay in this house! Don't think for a second you're better than us. You'll always be nothing."

I blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. My cheek throbbed, and I could taste blood where I'd bitten the inside of my lip. But I didn't say anything. I didn't flinch.

"Get to your room," he muttered, stumbling back to the couch. "And don't expect your mother to make you any dinner. You don't deserve it."

I didn't need to be told twice. Without another word, I turned and bolted for the stairs, my legs shaking beneath me as I climbed to my room as fast as I could. The second I was inside, I shut the door and locked it, sinking down onto the bed.
I pressed a hand to my stinging cheek, the pain throbbing beneath my fingers, and for a moment, I let myself cry. Silent tears rolled down my face, hot and angry, but I refused to let any sobs escape. I wouldn't let him hear me.

He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

I wasn't nothing. I couldn't be.

I curled up on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest as the weight of it all crashed down on me. The pressure, the expectations, the constant battle to be enough—not just for the school, but for myself. And the constant reminder at home that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it was never going to be good enough for him.

But I had to make it. I had to make it out of this shitty house, and this shitty town. Because if I didn't, then everything I was going through, everything I'd endured, would be for nothing. And I wasn't going to let him win. Not this time.

The tears slowed after a while, and I wiped my face with the back of my hand, taking a deep breath. My cheek still ached, and my lip was sore, but I pushed it all aside.

I had to keep going. I had a race to train for, and that was what mattered. That was the one thing I could control.

As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I thought back to the way Johnny had looked at me today—how he had seemed so carefree, so confident, with his friends always at his side. He had no idea what life was like for me, no clue about the things I dealt with when I went home. To him, I was just another girl on the track, someone who didn't fit into his world of rugby and popularity.

But maybe that was for the best. Because the last thing I needed was for someone like Johnny Kavanagh to know how broken I really was.