“What were you up to when we were in fifth year, Joe?” “I’m not the comparison here, Molloy,” he replied, breezing through his apartment in a low-hanging pair of gray sweatpants. Both of his arms were inked in an array of black loops and swivels that stopped at his wrists and disappeared beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. “No,” Aoife laughed, eyes tracking him. “Because you know damn well what kind of trouble you were getting into, Joe.” “I think it’s pretty clear what I was getting into, Molloy,” he shot back without a hint of embarrassment, before gesturing to the baby she was
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Joey speaking
