Chapter Text
Erin would like to tell herself that she’s actually fine.
Unfortunate truth is that she’s not even in the ballpark with regards to fine, but if she’s about to admit that, it’ll be if – and only if – the police come knocking at her door.
And, of course, providing that they don’t encounter her Ma before that.
(God knows Ma Mary would send them running down the street before they’d get to ask anything. Wooden spoon and all).
No, Erin’s definitely not fine.
It’s at the kitchen table that she thinks she properly realizes this– the top sprayed with fresh toast crumbs and dangerous jam stains from uncleaned knives, the five of them having plonked themselves down for a spot of second breakfast, or brunch – whatever the hell you call it.
James sits pride of place in the middle of them, a near-shit-eating grin on his face that Erin almost chalks up to the slew of positive attention he’s currently receiving.
“You nearly gave us a fucking heart attack, you eejit!” Michelle snorts, slapping James’ back as she crunches down on what Erin can only assume is her fifth piece of toast. Michelle is not known for a weak stomach. Regarding anything, actually.
James just smiles again – a grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes, lip almost wobbling at the warmth he’s currently being smothered in. It’s like having a mother, but better.
Better than any mother he’s ever known.
“Why were ye even gonna consider it, anyway? Sure, we all know Cathy wasn’t gonnae actually get you to help her make stickers-“
“They actually were self-adhesive labels, Michelle,” James smirks despite his defense, shedding his fleece lined jacket in one shrug of his shoulders. Cold and all as it might be in Derry, it’s boiling in the house.
“Aye, stickers – that’s what I said,”
James just shakes his head in disbelief.
Why did her ever think he had a chance of leaving these four?
Erin watches from across the table, slathering jam across her third slice of toast, stretching as far as she can over to the worktop to reach the radio, turning up the dial a little. Christmas music is currently invading the channel, and they’re hardly even into December.
Erin would complain, but she’s got so much to look forward to with Christmas. Always her favourite season.
(Mostly because she doesn’t have to go to school, but you know - presents, too).
Erin catches James’ gaze as he smiles over at her, eyes darting between the four of them with some kind of unreadable expression on his face. Probably still in disbelief himself over what just happened. He still has the dodgy American flag draped around one of his shoulders, the other end caught in the collar of his jacket now draped, inside-out, over his chair. It’s still a little raw for her – the sinking, wrenching emptiness hauling her stomach through her arse as she’d tried to grasp the idea of him leaving; the cheering crowds a carefully planned distraction to hide her guilt over how she’d treated him so casually before. Like she really wouldn’t have cared if he’d left.
She realizes now that it might actually have been a waking nightmare, shattered before it could proceed.
She doesn't want to think about having to maybe have sat here tonight without James beside her, or near her, or even within sight. He's become such a casual expectation for her - tall and gangly and softly spoken, often pushed into small spaces by the four of them, all vying for the loudest voice.
She'd gotten so used to him being there, she hadn't ever thought about how impossible life before him seemed.
A Derry Girl, indeed.
The Quinn household is small, multi-coloured fairy lights glowing pink and blue and orange in the early morning glow, the noise in the town still prevalent despite the distance. Any minute and her Ma and Da will be back – no doubt to heckle them about where they wandered off to.
Erin kind of just wants to sit here – the weird, tingly, overly clichéd part of her, that often only gets a voice in her diary, is enjoying this too much.
Seated around a table with her friends, each of them keeping James in their view, frightened he might vanish from their sight if they don’t appreciate him.
Erin thinks it wouldn’t be entirely untruthful.
All it took was for him to leave (for five bloody seconds and all) for them to realize they couldn’t be the same wee group without him.
For her to realize she liked him.
A lot.
Maybe too fucking much than’s normal.
Maybe a wee bit more than she’d originally planned, even.
See, the thing with James is - he's not like other boys. Precisely because he isn't a lad. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the Protestant boys, too caved in and gentle for their often rough shake-abouts. James was just - something else. Genuine; soft. Occasionally sweet when he really wanted to be.
Erin's mind flashes back to him at her door, striped scarf draped around his shoulders. They'd looked broader in the suit than she thought she'd be interested enough to care about, all swept back hair and coy smile. Maybe just imitating her romantic daydreams a little too much. And she'd been wearing that awful dress and her mascara had stained her eyes a jet black and he'd smiled and sighed and she'd just -
She hadn't been able to take it.
Erin snaps back to the scene at hand, watching him lean into the conversation with a sincerity that is never lost on any of them, no matter how they mess him about.
He’s James.
Michelle is now to work, currently scrubbing at his curls with her knuckles, her smile tugging on being almost teary, trying to cover up her relief with vengeance. James just laughs, Orla still clasping his hand as she nibbles away the crust of her rather floppy looking slice of toast.
Shite, Erin thinks to herself, chest feeling tight as she sits back in her chair a little, fingers going a little nervy in her lap; she grimaces at the scene in front of her, chest restricting a little more. She feels like crying, but only because there's too much to contain anymore.
James' smile softens a little as his gaze turns to rest on her, hair now a mess from Michelle’s affectionately violent head scrubs. She pulls an expression equal to a thumbs up in his direction, trying to keep her nervy hands under control. She schools her face into one of indifference.
His weepy smile doesn't affect the sparkle in his eyes, from tears and relief and overflowing joy at feeling at peace with the ground beneath his feet.
Ugh.
Katya really wasn’t fucking about.
James is actually gorgeous.
+ + +
The realization hits her a lot harder than she’d like – almost the equivalent of, like, a road bombing, but she’s not gonna say that cause there’d be too many expressions worthy of the wooden spoon on Ma Mary’s face to even begin counting.
So she keeps that observation to herself, and instead busies the others into a frantic hustle over Christmas, each debating how best to get away from the dreary family visits (Jesus, Uncle Colm becomes unbearable when he starts on the mince pies) and hang out with each other instead.
“Christ, Erin – if you think me ma is even going to consider letting me go upstairs, nevermind outside- ” Michelle starts, but Erin glares at her.
“Well you’re just gonnae have to figure it out, aren’t you? You’ve another thing coming if you think I’m wasting my time on Uncle Colm’s stories about the IRA men one more time -”
Clare looks over at her with an iconic, confused expression on her face, but Erin chooses to ignore it. Clare’s default expression is confused and slightly scorned. Or panicky.
“The IRA men?”
“The radiator thing, Clare,”
“The radiator thing?”
Erin sighs far more dramatically than is entirely warranted, catching Orla spilling cereal over her bedspread as she watches the conversation like live stage theatre. Erin’s often of the opinion that Orla wafts through life like its theatre – as in, she can just up and leave when the notion takes her.
Erin almost doesn’t have the heart to tell her she wishes it really was like that.
“Unless you’ve forgotten that Fionnuala banned us from the chippy?”
Clare mouths an ‘oh’ of realization.
Erin falls backwards onto her bedspread, French braid fanning downwards, feeling like she’s been thrown from her window and then asked to scale the wall to get back up.
“What’re you’s all asking for, anyway?” Clare pipes up, but Michelle’s groan of frustration is enough to make Erin shoot back up from her bed.
“Are you not asking for anything?” Erin’s nose scrunches up in confusion.
Michelle glances up from her nails, hoop earrings swinging amongst her black curly hair. Despite Michelle being Erin’s labelled ‘mouth’ of the group, she has to admire the dedication she puts into her appearance, even when it’s just them and the majority don’t care.
“As if, Erin.”
“As if what? Not even a CD or something?”
Michelle raises her eyebrows in damning formation.
“Aye, dead on, Erin – cause my ma would just buy me a CD, for Christ sakes. Get a grip,”
“It’s not exactly a huge ask, Michelle,”
“Concerning my ma, Erin, just about anything is a big ask – including living in this godforsaken hole,”
“That’s not entirely true, Michelle,” Clare pitches in, finger pointing in her friend’s general direction.
“What isn’t? The state of this place? Wise up, Clare,”
“It’s not a hole!”
Another raised eyebrow from Michelle, accompanied by everyone else.
“Ireland–”
“Northern Ireland.”
“Ireland,” Clare insists.
“If you’re stupid enough to pretend people are magically grand after one mention of a ceasefire,”
“The ceasefire was an important event, Michelle-!”
“Aye, but not important enough to make me start magically wanting to ride Prods,”
“Why’d you always have to make it about –“
“Riding people?”
“Yes!”
“Because everything else is a fucking waste of time, Clare. D’ye even live here or what?”
“I really want to live in Africa,” Orla chips in. Erin’s head whips around at the comment, currently now cross-legged on her cereal splattered bedspread. She feels about ready to boke at the sight of potentially spilt milk.
“Jesus, you're not back with this Africa thing, are you?" Erin's exasperation keeps pushing to reach new heights, apparently.
Orla scoffs.
"It's on the map,"
"How is that a reason?"
Orla shrugs.
Erin just scrunches up her face again, earning a diverted gaze from James.
"I’d really like you to think before you open your mouth,” she quips, glaring at the growing mess on her duvet cover.
“They get more sun than us,”
“Because that’s really the most important thing, now that I’m thinking about it,” Erin dabs her finger on her bedspread.
Yep. Definitely spillages.
“Oh for God’s sake, Orla! Did ye have to eat your stupid cereal on me bed!”
“The table was full!”
“The table was full,” Erin mimics, face contorting into one of her iconic rubber expressions that makes her look almost caricature.
“Why’re you even eating cereal at this time?” Clare asks, head lifting up from her current novel.
"Cereal's lovely,"
"You say that about everything, Orla," James and Clare both quip, briefly swapping a quiet smile at their shared thought.
Erin looks to her friend, face now dawning with slight horror as a deep regret sinks into her stomach.
“Why? What time is it?”
A brief glance at her watch tells Erin almost immediately that it can’t be good.
“Almost seven.”
Shite.
“Shit! ” Erin shouts, almost leaping off her bed.
“What? What is it?” James starts, making Erin turn around and catch him looking at her, a slightly dazzled look in his eyes. The lot of them had been sitting in her room for a least two hours since their subsequent brunch, and he’s gained a disheveled look to his appearance.
Not in like, a sexy way. It was James. There were limits.
Well.
Maybe.
She ignores how comfortable he looks sitting here, before taking a quick minute to consider that he’d had no second thoughts about being in her room.
Testament to the level of dodgy-ness currently residing in the James-is-actually-decent-looking department.
Why’d she have to make it so fucking weird anyway? Sweet Jesus, she needs help.
“I haven’t even washed me bloody hair yet! And now Aunt Sarah’s going to hog that bathroom until tomorrow morning!”
“Give over, Erin! All you ever do is plait your hair, I don’t see what the big deal’s about,”
Erin whirls round on her friend, a horrific snarl on the end of her tongue.
“As if you’d know, Michelle! Blonde hair looks greasier than darker hair!”
“Your hair always looks greasy, I don’t see the difference.”
“Why do you always plait your hair, Erin? D'you not like any other styles?” Clare pipes up, twirling one of her own plaits around her finger. The distinct impression that they’re crowding round her fleetingly catches her attention.
“Because it’s fashionable, Clare. It’s trendy,”
“My arse you’re trendy, Erin. You’ve got the taste of an eighty year old woman,”
“No, I don’t!”
“Plaiting your hair isn’t old-fashioned, Michelle,” James says, in a half-arsed attempt at defense, glancing between his cousin and Erin, with what could be determined as both a protective and bemused expression. Erin has recently garnered the opinion that James manages to appear out of his depth in a lot of situations. The only time she’s ever seen him entirely on his own ground was when he asked her to the prom.
And when he decided to leave.
She shoves away the thought of the pained look on his face, distinctly remembering the frown lines around his brow as he’d told them he was going.
She just can’t be doing with memories like that.
“You don’t catch me doing it, though, do you?”
“Your hair’s curly, Michelle!”
“Well-spotted!”
The sound of the bathroom door clicking – it’s got a deliberate creak that the whole house has learned to memorize – and lock turning makes Erin’s temper hit the roof.
“Jesus! Now I’m never gonna get my hair washed!”
“Would you actually fucking give over, Erin,” Michelle snaps.
Erin glances at the ones in front of her, lain out around her room like they’re nesting there. Orla, still refusing to clean up her mess on her bed. Clare and Michelle, splayed out on crumpled bedspreads on the floor, taking up more than twice the necessary space needed - meaning it’s a game of twister to try and actually make it to the bedroom door. And then James, sitting rather stoically on her desk chair, limbs tucked under the legs of it and blinking every once or twice.
Erin’s gut twists at his intent gaze, resting on her a millisecond longer than it used to.
God sakes.
Erin turns a lethal stare on Michelle, lip curling in disgust.
“Remind me again why I should hang out with you lot over Christmas.”
Michelle just shrugs.
Erin curls her lip in mental agony.
Brilliant.