falling for 13 || Johnny Kavanagh

Photo's In The Paper

G R A C E

"Who's this?" were the words I was greeted with as I stepped through the front door after training on Friday night.

"Who's who?" I asked, a frown on my face, completely confused by my Father's words.

He slammed a newspaper down on the table, pointing to a certain Brown haired boy, covered in muck. "Are you deaf?"

"That's eh..." I paused, trying to come up with an excuse that made sense, and usually I would easily lie- but fuck Johnny was my boyfriend, it wouldn't be long before my Father found out somehow. "My- my boyfriend, Dad."

As soon as I said the words, my boyfriend, I could see the flicker of rage in my father's eyes, like a match being struck. The silence that followed felt thick, suffocating. His whole body tensed, his fists clenching at his sides as if the very word had done him some unforgivable offense. "Your what?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous, the kind that always made me take a step back.

"My boyfriend," I repeated, swallowing the lump in my throat. I was bracing myself, trying to sound steady, even though I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

For a moment, he just stood there, eyes darting back and forth between me and the crumpled paper on the table. There it was—the picture of Johnny and me at his last rugby match, both of us beaming, his arm around my waist, the kind of image that should've been innocent. But in this house, in front of my father, it was anything but.

"Are you taking the piss, Grace?" he finally said, stepping forward, looming over me. His breath smelled of whiskey—he was already drunk, which made this so much worse. "You, with that scumbag? You think I'm gonna let my daughter run around with a rugby-playing Dublin scumbag?"

"Dad, he's not—" I tried to explain, but before I could finish, he swiped the paper off the table and threw it to the ground.

"I know his type," he snarled, his face red. "Lads like him think they can get whatever they want. And you? You're just giving it to him, aren't you?"

The accusation stung, and I felt the familiar burn of shame creeping up my throat. He always made it sound like everything I did was dirty, like I wasn't allowed to be happy, to have something for myself. I bit down on my lip, forcing myself not to cry, not in front of him.

"Jesus, Grace," he said, shaking his head in disgust. "Is this what you've been hiding from me? Going off to see him when you're supposed to be at school? You think you're so clever, huh?"

"I'm not hiding anything," I said, my voice cracking slightly, but still trying to stand my ground. "Johnny's not like that, Dad. He's—he's good to me."

"Oh, I bet he's good to you," he snapped, stepping even closer until I could smell the sharp stench of alcohol on him. "But you listen to me, Grace. I'll not have you running off with some lad who'll use you up and leave you. Not while I'm around."

I swallowed hard, backing away from him slightly. This wasn't going to end well, I could feel it in the air. I kept glancing at the kitchen door, half-hoping Joey would come in and put an end to this, but he wasn't home. He was never home when things got like this. It was just me, because Shannon was at Nanny Murphy's with the boys.

"Dad, you don't know Johnny," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not like that."

"I don't need to know him," he bellowed, slamming his hand down on the kitchen table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "I know his type. Sneaking around. Lying."

I flinched at the sudden noise but didn't say anything. My body had already gone into survival mode, shutting down. I knew what was coming, and no amount of reasoning would stop it.

"You think you're too good for this house now, huh? With your fancy rugby boyfriend. You think you can just walk in here and do whatever you want, like your mother?"The mention of my mother sent a cold wave through me, he could leave her whenever he wanted, so why didn't he? I clenched my fists by my sides, staring at the floor, trying to keep my breathing steady.

"That's not true, Dad. You're wrong—" Before I could finish, something cold and heavy hit the side of my face. Pain shot through my skull as the bottle he'd thrown cracked against my cheek and smashed against the wall behind me. The sound echoed in the small kitchen as shards of glass clattered to the floor. For a moment, everything went still. My vision blurred, and I could feel the warmth of blood trickling down my face, mixing with the tears I'd been fighting to hold back.

I stumbled back, instinctively raising my hand to my cheek, my fingers brushing against the wetness. I tasted blood.

He stepped toward me again, his voice suddenly low and menacing. "Don't think for a second that I'm gonna let you turn out like your mother, Grace. You're staying here, under my roof, and you'll do as you're told. Got that?"

I couldn't even speak. My throat felt tight, choked with fear and pain. I just nodded, my whole body trembling. I wanted to run, to get out of that house, but I knew there was nowhere to go. Not yet.

"Clean that up," he ordered, gesturing toward the shards of glass on the floor. "And for fuck's sake, wipe that blood off your face before your brothers get home. They don't need to see this."

With that, he turned and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, blood dripping down my face, surrounded by broken glass.

I don't know how long I stood there, frozen in place, before I finally moved. My hands shook as I grabbed a cloth from the sink and pressed it to my cheek, wincing as the pain flared up again. I wiped away the blood as best I could, but I could already feel the swelling starting.

I couldn't stay in the kitchen, not with the glass scattered across the floor and the overwhelming smell of whiskey clinging to the air. I headed upstairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see the ugly bruise already forming on my cheekbone, dark and angry. It was going to be impossible to hide.