Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

FIRST-TIME CRUSHES AND PAPER BALLS

TARA

"Daddy!"

"Tara!"

"Daddy!"

"What are ye doing to her?"

"Help me!"

"Get your hands off my daughter, ye fecking bastards!"

"They're hurting me, Daddy."

"I'm going to kill ye all!"

"Save me."

"I'm sorry."

"It hurts."

"Daddy's sorry, baby girl."

"I want to die."

I woke up startled and drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my body. The images vividly replaying in my mind.

It's just a nightmare.

It's not real.

You're okay.

Fumbling in the dark, I managed to locate my phone and glanced at the time. 4 a.m. With a heavy sigh, I let myself fall back, my head hitting the pillow. Sleep was a distant possibility now; once I woke up, falling back asleep was nearly impossible.

"A-Are y-you o-okay?" My father's slurred voice cut through the stillness, and I turned to see him watching me from the kitchen. He was wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in the day before, standing across the street from the Academy as I left training with Coach.

I rubbed my face and got up from the couch, careful not to bump into anything or step on any of Ollie's scattered Legos. I made my way to the kitchen.

"I'm okay," I sighed, "it was just a nightmare."

We both needed coffee—me to put up with his bullshit and him to keep his bullshit to a minimum. I opened the pantry, pulled out the coffee beans, and started preparing the French press. I could feel his eyes on me as I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice filled with a regret we both knew was too little, too late.

You're 13 years late, I thought bitterly. Instead, I asked, "Have you eaten anything?"

The kettle whistled, and I poured the hot water over the coffee grounds, giving it a quick stir before putting the lid on the French press. The kitchen fell into a tense silence, broken only by the ticking clock and the hum of the refrigerator.

"I'm really sorry, Tara."

I tightened my grip on the kettle, my knuckles turning white. I refused to turn around, knowing that if I did, I might lose control and do something I'd regret. "Can we not talk about it?" I asked, forcing myself to stay calm. I took out two mugs and poured the coffee, letting the rich aroma soothe my nerves. "It's water under the bridge."

I sat down across from him and slid one of the mugs his way. "Had fun last night?" I asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters.

It was absurd, this charade I was playing. Yet, sitting at the table with Teddy Lynch was easier than facing Marie Lynch.

It was easier to talk to him.

It always had been.

How fucked up was that?

In my mother's eyes, we were both redundant in this family.