Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
I’m in such a rush that I forget to test the water before stepping over the rim of the bath, and the jet of water spraying up from the showerhead that’s been left on the bottom of the tub scorches the hair clear off my bollocks. “Ah, fuck!” I hiss, as I attempt to avoid third degree burns to my scrotum by performing some kind of elaborate and naked Irish Jig in the middle of the bath. I twist the temperature down while simultaneously cursing my daughter. I must’ve told her a billion times to hang the showerhead back on the wall when she’s finished washing her hair.
Once I’ve soothed my balls with cooler water, I wash quickly and climb straight out…only to hear the front door go as I reach for a towel. “Crap,” I mutter, upon hearing a high-pitched giggle that I can only assume belongs to Ben’s friend Ella. I barely skim the towel across my skin before tying it around my waist and running out onto the landing. “Down in a sec, guys!” I call down the stairs on my way to the bedroom, where I throw on the first pair of jeans I can find, skipping boxers.
I’m still pulling a T-Shirt on when I reach the living room and find, to my horror, Ben and his friends talking with my dad. My heart’s in my throat as every memory of the times he made me feel like a worthless piece of shit as a teen replay in my head like a movie on fast-forward. However, Ben and Ella are…laughing. Everyone seems happy.
My chest deflates, relieved.
Until…
“So who’s this young man then?” Dad asks. “And why you wearing your mam’s Sunday clothes, fella?”
Fuck.
“Kids, why don’t you go upstairs while I order food?” I try to intervene, silently willing them to ignore him. It’s wrong, I know it is, but it’s just…easier. It hurts less in the end.
“Their name’s Jordan and, actually Grandad, they’re not a man or a fella. I reckon their clothes are pretty cool, too,” says my son without a breath of hesitation.
“Who the hell are they?” My dad, the condescending bastard that he is, makes a point of looking all around Jordan. To their right, left, behind. “How many of him are there?”
Jordan dropped their head several seconds ago, probably to hide the red in their cheeks.
“That’s enough, Dad.” I’m surprised by my curt tone. I’m not surprised by the mocking laugh that rumbles from my father’s chest. “Jordan’s a guest in this house and if you can’t talk to them with respect then you can either not talk at all, or leave.”
Ben gives me a look. A brief half-smile coupled with a small nod. A silent thank you. I hope my expression portrays my feelings in return, of how proud I am of him for standing up for his friend. Ben is a ‘lad’s lad’. The kind of lad my dad tried to mould me into. The kind of lad my high school was filled with. Lads who were into girls and sport and gaming. Textbook, stereotypical male. In my high school days, the job of a textbook lad’s lad was to throw every insult ever invented at anyone perceived as even remotely different, and now here’s my kid, not giving a shit. Being a friend. Just like his mum.
“Go on, kids,” I add, nodding in the direction of the stairs. “Text me what you want from the chippy.”
My dad scoffs as they leave the room before chunnering, “World’s gone mental. If you’re not careful your Ben’ll be identifying as a bleedin’ leprechaun by the end of the month. Won’t be havin’ none o’ that shite in my family. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
It’s not your family.
But I take it.
I’ve always taken it.
I don’t even know why.
“They’re just a kid, Dad. They’re not hurting anyone. You embarrassed them. And Ben.”
“Oh, give it up with all this ‘they’ bullshit, son. It’s upstairs now, it can’t hear you.”
I part my lips to argue but…there’s no point. He’ll only offer further insults, or laugh, or mock some more. So, because I’m a coward, I ignore it.
Maybe if I feed him, he’ll bugger off home for another six months. “What do you want to eat?”
It’s seven-thirty. We finished eating a while ago. It wasn’t a complete shock when Becca called to say she wouldn’t make it home in time after all, but it is a shock that my dad’s still here. By the look of it, he’s settled in for the next few hours until the rugby’s finished. He’s already polished off half the cans of lager from my fridge and is showing no signs of stopping any time soon. It's imperative I don’t give my dad the opportunity to cross paths with Andrew Cobbe, knowing he’ll find some way of ruining my chances of securing whatever potential job is on offer.