TARA
Jonathan: I'm sorry about yesterday.
Jonathan: Tell Nanny I'm sorry.
Jonathan: I haven't seen you today.
Jonathan: Did you go to the Academy?
Jonathan: I didn't see you this morning.
Jonathan: Are you mad at me?
Jonathan: I haven't seen you today either. Are you avoiding me?
Jonathan: Are you okay?
Jonathan: Answer me.
Jonathan: If it's something I've done, I'm sorry.
Jonathan: Can I see you?
Jonathan: Tell me what's going on.
Jonathan: Tara, you're worrying me.
Jonathan: Are you... are you breaking up with me?
Jonathan: Jaysus, why did I text you that? We're not even in a relationship.
Jonathan: I still like you though.
Jonathan: Are you going to talk to me?
I'd been dodging Jonathan all week, ignoring his endless texts and calls, letting them go unanswered. I didn't want him to see me like this—shattered, broken, barely holding it together. He'd already asked enough questions about Shannon's black eye, trying to figure out what had happened. God knows what he'd ask if he saw me now.
The bruises on my face had shifted to shades of sickly green and yellow, the swelling finally receding enough that I could at least glance in a mirror without feeling like I was looking at a stranger. But it wasn't just my face; my back was the worst of it. The wounds there were raw and deep, the skin scarred and sensitive. Every time I moved, the cuts would split open again, fresh blood seeping out, the pain flaring up like a red-hot brand.
Tadhg was the only one I let help me. He'd sit with me in the bathroom, a grim look on his face as he carefully dabbed cotton soaked in alcohol all over my back, the sting making me clench my fists the entire time, biting my lip to keep from crying out when the sting became too much. Then came the Betadine, its orange hue staining my skin as he carefully applied it over the cuts before wrapping my torso in bandages that felt far too tight. But I didn't complain. The pressure was comforting, almost grounding in a strange way.
Afterwards, I'd slip into one of Tadhg's old shirts—ones that had grown too small for him. They pressed against the bandages, helping to keep everything in place. I didn't want Joey or Shannon seeing the state of my back. I couldn't handle the looks of pity or the worried questions I wouldn't have answers for.
It was a week before the bonfire when I arranged to meet Gregory outside the O'Shea mansion. Though it wasn't as massive as the Kavanagh estate, the place had a kind of quiet grandeur. The house had been in my best friend's family for generations, a sprawling structure of aged stone and ivy-covered walls, the kind of place where history whispered through the halls. It had that old-world charm, the kind of place you'd expect to find rooms filled with vintage furniture and corridors lined with portraits of long-gone relatives.
The interior didn't disappoint. Nearly every corner of the house told a story, with its grand staircase, richly patterned wallpaper, and heavy wooden doors that creaked when opened. However, many of the family portraits were now tucked away in the attic, gathering dust and memories. The only portrait still on display had a place of honor in the living room, right above the grand stone fireplace. It dominated the room in a way that made you stop and take notice every time you passed it.
YOU ARE READING
Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh
RomanceI had never needed anyone. I didn't know what it was like to need a person until I met him. I needed him. He looked at me as if there was something inside me worth looking at. I hated him for it. Why? Because I could see myself loving him. If o...
