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“I still love you.” I heard her sudden intake of breath, but she didn’t say anything for a long beat. “Don’t.” “I fucking love you, Aoife Molloy,” I repeated, focusing on an oil stain on the back wall of the garage. “I always will.”
She joked about rings, and weddings, and babies, but I didn’t know if she was serious – or if it was something I was capable of giving her. I didn’t want marriage or babies, but the thought of her having those things with someone who wasn’t me made me want to die.
“I’ve loved your daughter for six years,” Joey finally broke his silence by saying. “I can easily love her for another eighteen.”
The father of my unborn child was a heroin addict.
“Hey, stud.” “Hey, queen.” “Nice shirt.” “Nice legs.”
“All those years back when we were in first year.” His lips brushed mine once, twice. “I’ve loved you since then.” Another kiss. “From the first time I laid eyes on you, sitting on the wall with your blonde hair blowing around your face.” His tongue snaked out, teasing mine. “I just didn’t know it then.”
