Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s a Tuesday the first time it happens.  

Clare had already moved to Strabane by that point, so it’s only James, Erin, Orla, and Michelle gathered in their usual corner for lunch. Five chairs, four friends, and one foot rest. Orla sits kitty corner to Michelle with their head half buried in a bag of cheese and onion Taytos. James tries to subtly lean away from Orla to avoid catching any of the Tayto crumbs tumbling from their upturned bag, but this inadvertently causes him to lean further into Erin who has her head bent over a Uni pamphlet. 

“I tell ya girls, I’m about to be loaded thanks to this gig. Dennis said he’d pay me £4 an hour, and I can help myself to any of the expired goods at the end of my shift too. It’s so class,” Michelle brags, her feet propped up on one of the empty chairs in the common room. “Got my first shift today and everything.”

Erin looks up sharply causing James to jerk back in surprise. “ Today? ” she squawks, “Sure, you’re supposed to go to the library with us. We’re supposed to work on our UCAS applications together.”

Michelle waves her away. “First of all, I was never gonna work on a bloody UCAS application. Mammy making me do A levels is bad enough. Secondly, you can visit me at the shop– I’ll give you girls a cracker discount.”

“Well, I guess,” Erin acquiesces, “James, Orla, we’re still going, right?”

“Can’t,” Orla says, still inside their Taytos bag, “Step.” 

Erin slumps back in her seat, knocking into James in the process. She tosses her arms up into the air and exclaims, “Well isn’t this just splendid! It’s like none of you even care about going to Uni together.”

“Because we don’t,” Michelle replies flippantly. “If you wanna talk Uni, ring Clare.”

James opens his mouth to remind Erin that he is still free to go to the library, but quickly closes it as he shoots a look at Michelle. For the past year or so, she’d been acting as their unofficial chaperone. He would always feel her eyes on him any time he stood too close to Erin, or inserting herself between them when they sat down somewhere. Always subtly monitoring them in some way, making sure they didn’t get too close, didn’t enjoy each other’s company more than was appropriate.

If Michelle had forgotten that if she is at work and Orla is at Step, it would leave Erin and James to their own devices, he sure isn’t going to be the one to remind her. 

As soon as the last bell rings, Michelle legs it out of there to get to her shift at Dennis’s shop, with Orla close behind traipsing along to Step, leaving Erin and James behind at the gates of Our Lady. 

“Un-be- lievable .” Erin gripes at their friend’s retreating backs, “not even a word of goodbye! What am I, chopped liver?”

James gives a conciliatory shrug, not exactly feeling the same despair as Erin at the thought of being left behind. Does that make him a bad friend?  

Erin lets out a beleaguered sigh before hiking her rucksack up her shoulder. “We should get a shift on if we don’t want to miss the bus.”

James casts one last glance towards his cousin’s retreating back. It seems they’ve been well and truly forgotten… 

“Erm, yeah,” he nods, falling into step beside Erin as they head towards the row of yellow buses lined down the road. Now seems like a good time to say it so he says, “Y’know, if you want, we can still go to the library and work on our UCAS applications. Cause, I mean, I’m free.”

She shoots him a look over her shoulder that seems to say ‘what are you on about?’ as they climb onto the bus. He returns her look with his most impassive stare. The seconds tick. He can practically see the gears turning in her head. 

“Oh.” She turns back to face the bus, so he can’t see what face she’s making when she says, “Erm, yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She flits a look to him as she sits down in one of the seats towards the middle and he pauses. Typically, Orla sits next to Erin and he sits next to Michelle. Should he take the seat across from her? Or would that be weird? 

“Well? Are you gonna sit down or what?”

He slides into the seat next to her, his shoulder bumping her. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

James keeps his eyes forward as the bus gives a metallic belch before slowly beginning to trundle on down the road, his school bag nestled in his lap. He holds onto the strap with both hands, his nails scratching over the woven nylon. It is excruciatingly quiet. And all the while, it feels like the left side of his body is under a sunlamp every time their shoulders bump or they get jostled into one another when the bus takes an especially sharp turn. 

Eventually, he caves and skirts his eyes over to Erin as they ride along, only to catch her eyes quickly tear away from his, a little colour flooding her cheeks as she bites her lip. 

“Erm. So.” His voice cracks on ‘so’ . “What schools are you thinking of applying to?”

“ Well, Mammy and Daddy want me to apply for Queens so I’ll be closer to home, but I really want to go to Trinity. Samuel Beckett went there and so did Oscar Wilde. Beckett says the cream of Ireland goes to Dublin University, so,” she gives a shrug, as if this should be reason enough. “I’ll be applying to those two for sure, but I need to find two more schools for backup– though, with my English score I highly doubt there will be a problem. What about you?”

James shrugs, “Dunno. Edinburgh has a good film programme. And so does Westminster. And then of course there’s always London–”

Erin whips around to face him, her whole body turning in her seat to stare at him. “Wait, Scotland? England? Are you not gonna apply to any Irish universities?”

“Well,” James says haltingly, “I kind of want to study film… Are there any Irish film schools?”

“I don’t know!” She says, accusatory, “have you looked though?” 

He hasn’t.

“Well then!” She turns with a huff. “We’ll have to look for some Irish film schools at the library. I just don’t understand why none of you seem to care about wanting to stay together– or at least trying. ” Erin rants, looking out the window. “Honestly James, I’m fine with Edinburgh, but I draw the line at England. I will not be applying to any schools in England, so help me God.”

It’s like his brain is three paces behind. “Wait– you’ll apply to Edinburgh?”

She shoots him a look, her nose wrinkling. “ Catch on, James. How else are we supposed to go to Uni together? Besides, I’m sure Edinburgh has a fine English programme.”

“Erm. Okay,” James says, he feels his stomach turn as she frowns out the window. He watches her for a spell, freely drinking in the gentle slope of her nose, and the slight pucker of her brow. Erin always seems to have this natural talent for keeping him off balance. Every time he thinks he’s righted himself, she’ll go and do something, or say something, that’ll completely knock him off his axis again.

James tries to remember the first time he met Erin. Standing at that bus stop wishing he could literally be anywhere else while Michelle’s friends whispered about his funny accent and the fact that he was a boy. 

His first day of school had been mental, and he’d been so nervous and overwhelmed by everything all day that all the faces had just kind of blended together. He remembers saying goodbye to his mum before school in the morning, and then not seeing her again until two years later. He remembers laying in a bed that didn’t feel like his and thinking about maybe just running away. Back to London. John would maybe let him stay with him for a while. Anywhere would be better than Derry, he remembers thinking. 

He remembers Erin being there, but not totally conscious of her. At least, not at first. It started off as small things. One morning, James noticed Erin’s hair had this habit of curling at the ends. All soft, and spilling over her shoulders to curl around her face. At lunch, he noticed the baby blonde hairs that covered her arms and that in the sun, she got the lightest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. 

He remembers thinking she was kind of over-the-top, that someone like her would be friends with his cousin. He remembers thinking he could see straight up her nose when she laughed, and that it kind of unsettled him to look her in the eye. Any time he made the mistake of meeting her gaze, he felt like he’d been caught in a whirlpool and was slowly getting dragged under. He still feels like that any time he catches her eye, but now it’s accompanied by other feelings too.

He stares at her on the bus and thinks of cherries. That’s the flavoured lippy she likes to wear. He knows this because he’s tasted it before and wonders if she’s wearing it now. He imagines leaning forward and kissing her. Of cupping her cheek in his hand and tasting cherries. He wonders if she’d pull away, or lean in. He snaps his eyes back to looking out the front window.

This is fine. Everything is fine. He can totally do this and be normal and not think about the fact that they’ve kissed. That he has had his mouth on that bottom lip she’s chewing on. They are just friends, he reminds himself. She doesn’t want to date and James is totally cool about that. Really. He is very cool, and normal, and fine with it. He repeats it like a mantra for the rest of the ride: friends. Just friends. Friends that hang out alone sometimes, but not like that. Friends that have kissed maybe once or twice, but it’s not like that’s going to happen again.

Right?

As it turns out, Trinity does have a film programme, as does Queens. And Edinburgh has a rather impressive English programme too. 

The funny thing about Tuesdays is that they are, typically, completely inconsequential. It’s not the weekend, nor is it the beginning or the end of the week. It’s no Wednesday– the middle of the week– and even Thursday is just Friday-Eve. Tuesday is just kind of. There. 

So of all the days of the week, it was Tuesday that made his insides buzz at the thought. He isn’t necessarily counting down the days until Tuesday, but James felt peculiarly aware of his general proximity to the day.

Wednesday. Tuesday just happened. Which meant there’d be six days until the next Tuesday. 

Thursday. Five days from Tuesday.

Friday. Four days from Tuesday

Saturday. Three days from Tuesday.

Sunday. Two days from Tuesday.

Monday. Tuesday-Eve. 

Tuesday. Today. Which also means from about 3pm- 6pm James would have Erin’s undivided attention. A thought which fills him with as much anticipation as it does trepidation. It’s not that he doesn’t like to hang out with Erin, but being alone with her has a certain edge to it that makes him nervous. He can’t shake the feeling he’s standing on the precipice of something, balanced on an edge and not sure which direction he’s going to fall. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming all at once and– 

“Is that– is that a xylophone? ” James nearly jumps out of his skin as Erin appears next to him at the gate, her face uncomfortably close to his as she strains to hear the music spilling out of his headphones. “I can’t tell what you’re listening to. It sounds weird.”

“ Christ– Erin!”

“Sorry.”

“Give a guy some warning, Jesus, ” he gasps, clutching his chest in a futile attempt to restart his heart. 

“ Sorry! ” She says again, not looking sorry at all. He can see the mirth shining in her eyes. “I called your name, it’s not my fault you didn’t hear me. What are you listening to?”

“Just– some stuff,” he says. “ The Psychedelic Furs. Ever heard of them?”

She shrugs. “They don't sound familiar.” 

She’s so close he could count the clumps of mascara in her eyelashes if he wanted to. And he’s suddenly painfully aware of the fact he had herring for lunch and hopes he doesn’t have fish breath. 

“Erm, do you want to take a listen?” He offers her the headphones, trying not to get any of his fish breath on her. He hopes he doesn’t smell like fish. She smells like vanilla. And cherries. 

“Sure. On the bus?” She tilts her head towards the line of buses. 

He nods and follows her onto their bus, and tries not to notice the way her school skirt swishes as she walks. When they take their seat, he hands her the headphones, but she only takes one of the speakers, turning it outwards to hold it to her ear. 

She nods to the other speaker, “So you can listen too.” 

He scoots in and gets another whiff of vanilla and he wishes there was some subtle way for him to check his breath without Erin catching. His hand brushes her as he reaches for the speaker. On his Walkman, he starts the track over and Richard Butler begins to croon the first verse of “Love My Way” again. 

“I– erm. I got this stuff from Paul– my step dad? Ex-step dad? He was really big into the alt-rock wave in the eighties,” James says. On some level, he knows he’s rambling, but he’s also not sure how to stop. “He was apparently really quite punk-y back in the day. Showed me a picture once of him when he had an earring. It looked pretty cool–”

“James,” Erin cuts in, “I’m trying to listen to the music.” 

“Right. Sorry.” He goes quiet and they listen to the rest of the track in silence as they ride along. 

“Oh– wait! I know this one. I love this song!” Erin coos at the cascading chimes that herald the start of “Everywhere” by Fleetwood Mac. “I’ve always liked how optimistic this song sounds. So many love songs make it sound like anguish to be in love.”  

“Yeah, I guess,” James says lamely. 

They finish the first track so James quickly pops the tape out and flips it around for track two.

“Where’d you get this again?” Erin asks.

“Paul. He had loads of vinyls and a whole record player setup back at the old place in London. I recorded some of my favourites before mum and I left for Derry.”

Erin hums in response. Then, “Do you– I mean, do you miss him? Were you, like, close?”

James thinks for a minute. Mum always had loads of boyfriends growing up, but none of them ever lasted longer than a few months, maybe the good ones lasted a year or two, but they never stuck around. James had met Paul when he was eight, and him and his mum were married before his tenth birthday. Paul was nice, and made lots of money as a museum curator, and wore tweed more often than not (which made the former punk habits far more surprising to learn), and was all around not really the kind of guy his mum usually went for. Paul introduced James to Doctor Who, and then for his eleventh birthday took him and his school friends to the planetarium followed by a showing of the new Indiana Jones movie. It was nice. 

When it all ended, James wasn’t so much surprised as he was disappointed in himself for thinking this time would be any different. 

“Yeah, I mean, I guess,” he says at last.

“Have you talked to him at all since you came to Derry?”

“I called him when Mum first left, actually,” he says, feeling his face heat up. “I asked for him to come get me.”

“And?”

He shrugs. “He said he couldn’t. Something about it being technically kidnapping, or whatever. I dunno.”

For a moment there’s nothing but the sounds of the bus, and the music on his Walkman. 

“I’m sorry,” Erin says, her voice soft. “But not really, because I’m glad you stayed. I would never have gotten to know you if you’d left right away.”

Her free hand is fiddling with the hem of her skirt and he has to fight the overwhelming urge to grab it. 

“Yeah, me too.”

That weekend, the girls take the bus down to Strabane to visit Clare. It’s their first time they see her new place, and moving boxes still sit in stacks in the corners of the parlour and along the walls. 

They crowd into Clare’s room, dropping their things in a pile by the door to give Clare’s new school uniform their critique. Clare’s room is already fully decorated with pink walls and fairy lights strung around the perimeter in an almost perfect replica of her old room in Derry. Her collection of Beanie Babies are neatly stacked along the top of her dresser, below her Take That! and Celine Dion posters. Mrs Devlin even got Clare a brand new cheeseburger telephone for her room to go beside her Hello Kitty alarm clock. 

It doesn’t take long for Geraldine to grow tired of their squawking and shrieking and then they’re being kicked out of the house with a £20 note in Clare’s hand to get themselves something to eat. 

“He was like a fucking whippet, girls, I’ve never seen someone nab a whole crate of hooch like that!” They’ve crammed themselves into the booth of a diner down the road from Clare’s place after Orla spotted a sign promoting their ‘All-Day Breakfast’ and Michelle was not regaling them with tales of the many misadventures of working for Dennis. “I tell ya, it was absolutely class.”

Erin had gotten up to go to the loo but was stopped on her way back by a lad in an oversized flannel. 

“Isn’t that a bit, y’know, illegal, though?” Clare frets. 

“It’s not stealing if there’s no price tag,” Michelle reasons. 

James frowns, “I don’t think that’s true, Michelle.”

He is a tall bloke with dishevelled blond hair and ripped jeans, all grease and grunge. James thinks he looks kind of like a taller, blonder David Donnelly. He towers over Erin, making her tilt her head back as they talk. He says something and she laughs. 

“Oh, shut up. You guys are absolutely no fun, I brought a bottle down for us tonight, but I’m not sharing if you guys are gonna be craic killers.”

“You did what?” Clare nearly shrieks. “Michelle, my Mammy will cack if she finds us with alcohol. I’ll be grounded til Uni. ”

“Sure what’s the trouble? We’re all eighteen anyways. That was just for us to prefunk before the pub.”

“ I’m not eighteen yet,” Orla pipes up.

“Yeah, Orla’s not eighteen yet. And I think giving alcohol to a minor is, like, definitely a crime.”

Michelle rolls her eyes, slumping back in her seat. “James’s face is a crime.”

“Need to work on our insults there a bit,” James says, shooting Michelle a look. She flips him the bird in return. 

Erin and that blonde wrap up whatever they were saying to each other and as she turns, she catches his gaze. Her expression changes when she spots him. It makes him smile. 

“I made you this,” James says the following Tuesday. He shows Erin the mixtape with her name printed on it in his best handwriting. “You seemed to like the stuff I was playing last week so I made you a copy.”

“Oh, wow,” Erin gasps, a pretty blush rising onto her cheeks as she takes the mixtape, “ thanks , James! This is so class. I can’t wait to listen to it– what’d you put on it?”

“Just some Psychedelic Furs, The Cure, Fleetwood Mac– stuff like that. Nothing trendy,” he demures. He watches her take in the tape, turning it over in her hands before glancing back up at him through her lashes, her cheeks still pink.

“Should we listen to it together? On the ride home today?”

He can feel his own face heating up now. It felt like someone was inflating a balloon in his chest. 

He points to her and then to himself. “You– want? ” He asks, eloquently. 

She nods.

“Yeah, okay,” James nods, feeling a bit like a bobble head but too ecstatic to care. “ Yes . Let’s do it.”

It’s not a Tuesday but a Saturday when James shows up on the Quinn's doorstep with a VHS tape in hand. Michelle had picked up an extra shift to help her afford Erin’s birthday present, leaving James with a delightfully free afternoon. And he knew exactly how he wanted to spend it. 

It’d taken him the better part of two weeks to record the Doctor Who episodes onto the blank tape. He’d carefully combed through his mental archive, choosing only the best episodes to show her. He had one shot to show Erin Doctor Who , to convince her it wasn’t a creep show, and so he’d carefully picked episodes he thought she would like. He doesn’t even know if she’ll watch it with him when he shows up on her doorstep with the videotape in one hand and a bag of her favourite pick ‘n’ mix in the other. 

It catches him a little off guard when Orla opens the door. 

“Hiya, James.”

“Oh, hi Orla, erm–” 

“Erin’s in her room,” Orla says, stepping aside. 

“Oh, thanks,” James says, awkwardly. His plan had been to watch Doctor Who with Erin alone. He completely forgot the small fact that her house is literally always teeming with people. He feels guilty because he doesn’t particularly want to invite Orla to watch with them (again, no guarantees Erin will even go for it), but it would be weird if he didn’t.

“You gonna watch a movie?” They ask, nodding to the tape. 

“Erm, yeah. Sort of. It’s Doctor Who . Do you want to watch it with us?” He offers.

“Nah, I don’t trust doctors after what Grandda said they did to my wee tonsils. But I will take those bonbons,” they say, already reaching for the bag.

“Oh sure, help yourself,” he says as they take the bag from him. 

They take a bite out of a licorice whip. “I prefer Maltesers, but this’ll do,” they say, breezing past him, head next door.

“Right, I’ll remember that,” James says to their retreating back. He swears he hears them mutter “Who throws out perfectly good tonsils?” as they walk away.

Stepping inside, he can hear the other inhabitants of the Quinn house puttering about within its recesses, but doesn’t come across anyone else as he makes his way up the stairs to her room. 

The door is slightly ajar, but he knocks on the frame anyways.

“I’m writing, Mammy!” Erin calls, “Just five more minutes, then I’ll do the dishes.”

He pushes open the door to see her sitting at her sitting at her desk, scribbling away in her diary. 

“It’s James, actually,” he says.

Erin whirls around in her seat and a smile splits across her face that makes him feel light headed. “Perfect,” she says. The vision of her smile, and her ‘perfect’ still ringing in his ears, he almost misses what she says next: “Can you do the dishes for me? I’m writing.”

“What? No, ” James says vehemently, “it’s your chore, you do it! I have to do my own chores at home.”

“Oh come on, I’m in the middle of inspiration striking!” Erin pleads, brandishing her diary. He rolls his eyes. “If I stop now, I’ll lose my flow.”

“No,” he says resolutely. 

“Please? I’ll owe you,” Erin says, hitting him with her best kicked puppy expression. It is highly effective. 

He narrows her eyes at her, “You don’t even know why I’m here yet,” he points out. 

“Do you need a reason to be over here?”

He holds the VHS tape up and raises his eyebrows. “If I do the dishes, you have to watch this with me.”

She tucks her chin into her neck, eyeing the tape warily. “…What’s on it?”

“You have to agree first, then I’ll tell you.”

She casts him an appraising look. “Fine. ”  She says at last, sticking out her hand. “Deal.”

He takes her hand. “It’s Doctor Who. ”

She shrieks. “ James! ” And tries to yank her hand back, but he clamps down on it, not letting her pull away. She wriggles in his grasp. “ No! This is entrapment– I’m not watching your creep show!”

“So you’ll do the dishes then?” 

A look of confliction mars her face. She gets more writing time, and doesn’t have to do the dishes, all she has to do in return is watch his show. By all accounts she’s still getting the better end of the deal. “…Fine,” she says after a moment, “but I’m going to complain the whole time. ”

He imagines yanking her forward and snogging that scowl off her face. He grins. “Deal.”

James lets go of her hand and practically skips down the stairs. Once he’s reached the bottom step does he turn back around to find her still staring at him. High on his momentary victory, he winks and turns into the kitchen. From up the stairs, James hears an “Ugh!” and her bedroom door slam shut shortly after. 

He was only able to fit three Doctor Who episodes onto the VHS, but it’d taken twice as long to get through it because Erin kept pausing to ask questions:

“And who are the talking trash bins?”

“ Those are the Daleks?”

“Why would anyone be afraid of a bin ? It can’t even go up stairs.”

“Honestly, Time Lords is a bit of a pretentious name, if you ask me.”

“Why’s his scarf so long, anyways?-- Wait, weren’t you wearing that at Prom?”

She talks over a lot of Tom Baker, but James finds it hard to mind because despite all her criticism, she never asks him to turn it off, and when the Doctor and Romana II are running from the Daleks, she seems genuinely invested. They sit in the living room talking about Doctor Who for a while until Mary finally boots them so she can watch Coronation Street . 

English gets out early that Tuesday, so James waits for Erin by the front gates. Spring is just beginning, and he enjoys the pleasant breeze that tugs at his clothes while he waits. He thumbs the outline of the VHS tape through his school bag and hums to himself a little as he waits. Since the first showing of Doctor Who had gone over so much better than he’d anticipated, he decided to step it up. James had managed to tape The City of Death: Part Three and was particularly excited to show it to Erin. It was, in his humble opinion, probably one of the best Doctor Who episodes out there.

He spots her almost immediately, but waits for her to reach him at the gate. 

“There you are. Did Sister Crawford keep you late again? Thought I was gonna have to take the bus by myself.”

Erin groans, tilting her face up in exaggeration. “I’ve never encountered someone who reads more slowly! Like, honestly, Latin is a dead language, what’s even the point in learning it? They’ve already translated all the bibles into English anyway.”

“What if they come out with a new Bible? They’ll need translators.”

Erin scoffs. “Why in God’s name would they come out with a new Bible?”

“I dunno,” James shrugs as they head towards the buses, “to spice things up? Put all those Irish kids they’re forcing to learn Latin to use.”

“The Catholic religion is many things, James,” Erin says seriously. “Spicy is not one of them.” And this makes them both laugh as Erin follows James into their usual seat. 

Erin pulls out her Walkman and then glances over to James. “Forget your Walkman?”

“Michelle took it at lunch when she realised she’d forgotten hers.” Or, maybe he’d offered his when she realised she’d forgotten hers. But, semantics.

Erin rolls her eyes, but there’s a little smile tucked into the corner as she turns her headphones out so that they can each hold a speaker to their ear.

“What tape do you have today?”

“The one you made me, actually. With The Psychedelic Furs?”  

“Oh really?” His voice goes up an octave when he says it, pleasantly surprised to find her listening to the tape he made her. 

“ Yeah. I’ve been really into “Love My Way”– the xylophone in the intro is so cracker. You don’t hear enough xylophone in songs.”

“Oh yeah, songs need loads more xylophone, like,” he mimes passionately playing the xylophone and Erin laughs. “They’re the cornerstone of BritRock.”

James scoots in closer and holds the speaker up to his ear to hear the first xylophone riff(?) as the song starts. 

They listen in silence for a while, heads bent towards each other as they bump and jostle down the road. The proximity is more comfortable now, less tenuous; when their shoulders bump, it’s less of a shock to his system. Now, he leans in.

They’re able to listen to “Love My Way” by The Psychedelic Furs, “Here Comes Your Man” by Pixie, “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure, and “She’s A Rainbow” by The Rolling Stones all before they reach their stop. 

“Right so,” James starts as they hop off the bus. “I’ve got some more Doctor Who for us. Not as much as last time though, so I was thinking we could watch that, and then do Murder She–”

“Oh no, didn’t I tell you?” Erin looks stricken, and James feels his stomach bottom out. She’s gonna tell him she doesn’t want to hang out anymore. That she hates him. That she just doesn’t like him like that– “I’ve got to babysit Anna tonight. It’s Mammy and Daddy’s monthly date night, and they said no friends over while they’re out. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” James says. “Right. Yeah. No worries. We can watch another time.”

“Course,” Erin nods, “next time.”

It’s at least a slight balm to his soul that she does look genuinely sorry about it. But now he was staring down a whole evening with nothing to do and no one to hang out with. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. Erin inclines her head slightly, “I’ll call you tonight?”

“Yeah?”

She nods, her cheeks a little pink. “If you’re free. Otherwise I’ll be bored out of my skull watching Anna.”

James finds himself already nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m free.”

“Grand so,” she smiles, “I’ll call you once everyone’s out and I’ve got Anna settled, okay?”

“Okay.” He’s still not ready to say goodbye to her though, even with the promise of getting to talk to her later. “Do you think– could I walk you home?” He blurts out.

Her face quirks in that way it usually does when he’s said something she finds particularly ridiculous. “Sure I can make it home in one piece, James.”

“I know,” he says, feeling heat rising up his face. “May I, though? Walk you?”

She bites her lower lip in a poor attempt to hide her smile. She nods. “Sure. Okay.”

A frisson of energy races through him, making him feel all tingly and light. And as they walk, he does his best to stamp down the swell of nerves that were now fluttering around inside his chest. And when they reach the Quinn house, he leaves her on the doorstep, rocking back onto his heels to keep himself from leaning into her when she turns around to face him.

“Talk to you tonight,” she says, a little breathless.

“Do you know what time you’ll call?” James asks, trying not to sound too eager. 

She thinks for a moment. “Erm, maybe seven or eight?”

“Okay.” James checks his watch as he walks away to find it half past three. So. That means he only needs to kill four hours. That shouldn’t be too bad. 

The evening trickles by slowly. 

At some points, he even begins to wonder if time has started moving backwards. James tries everything to keep himself distracted: reading his comics, doing his homework, he even nips down to Video Village to return Pulp Fiction for Michelle and peruse the new arrivals, then stops in at the wee shop to say hi to Michelle and gets overcharged for a bag of ten pence mix. 

When he runs out of errands, he ends up just wandering around the house, picking things up at random, then setting them down again, until Deirdre finally snaps at him for getting in her way while making dinner and banishes him to the living room sofa. 

James is sitting on the sofa watching an episode of Press Gang when he hears the phone ring in the kitchen. He has to resist the urge to jump from his seat when his Aunt Deirdre gets it. He can tell right away that it’s his Uncle Martin that called by the way his Aunt answers the phone. James taps a finger on his jeans leg and tries to pay attention to the episode on the television. Something was going on and Spike and Lynda were argue-flirting again. He wonders how much longer it’ll take until they finally get together. It’s so obvious that they like each other. 

What if Erin tries to call and can’t get through and gives up because she thinks he doesn’t want to talk to her? What if she’s changed her mind and doesn’t call at all and James ends up waiting up the whole night like some prick? How much longer was his aunt gonna be on the phone anyways? He huffs. 

“Stop that,” Michelle says from the opposite end of the sofa. She’d only just walked in the door, and immediately had flopped on the sofa next to him, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table. 

“Stop what?” He grabs some popcorn from the bowl between them and shoves it in his mouth, munching indignantly. 

“Being a ballache.”

“I’m not doing anything, Michelle.”

“You are though,” her eyes flick over to him. “You’ve been weird all afternoon. I mean, you’re typically weird, but you’re being extra weird. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” James says defensively. “Nothing's up.”

“Bullshit.”

From the kitchen Deirdre shouts, “Language, Michelle!”

“Sorry Mammy!” Michelle calls back. 

“I just–” James searches for a diversion and gestures back at the screen. “Will they ever get together?”

Michelle’s brow furrows for a second at the sudden change in topic, her eyes snap back to the telly “Oh, I know. Right? But even if they do get together, they won't last.”

Now it’s James’s turn to furrow his brow. “What do you mean? They clearly like each other.”

Michelle waves a hand at the screen. “Yeah but Lynda is too uptight, she jumps to conclusions constantly .”

“Well, Spike doesn’t really explain anything to Lynda so she has to draw her own conclusions,” James says, feeling oddly defensive of Lynda. “If Spike just explained, then Lynda wouldn’t have to draw her own conclusions.”

“Yeah, but they don’t, do they?” Michelle says. “That’s why they’ll never last. First bump in the road they hit, they’ll fall apart.”

He huffs. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Yeah well, I’ve seen more of this show than you have. So shut up.”

From the kitchen, he hears his Aunt Deirdre say, “Aye, I’ll put a load in tonight… Grand so. Okay. Love you too. Okay. Bye.” 

As soon as she hangs up the phone, it starts ringing again, and James once again practically jumps out of his seat. Michelle shoots him another pointed glare from her perch. 

His aunt answers the phone. “Mallon residence,” she says. “Course. One moment– James, phone!”

James springs to his feet. “Can I take it in my room?”

Deirdre nods. Michelle looks like she’s about to say something, but James is already bounding up the stairs. Once in his room, he tries to catch his breath before picking up the phone. It doesn’t work. He picks it up anyways. 

“Got it, thanks Auntie Deirdre!” He waits for the line to click over. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Erin says, and all the tension of waiting rushes out of him. He flops onto his bed.

“Hi,” he breathes. 

She giggles, and he can feel it against his ear. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Hi.”

“I didn’t know if you’d call.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but… I dunno. I’m stupid.” She laughs again, and James is glad he’s taking this call in his room. He has no idea what kind of face he’s making right now. “Is Anna asleep, then?”

“What? No, it’s not even seven-thirty, James,” she chides. “We’re watching Postman Pat.”  

“Oh my God, Postman Pat, ” James reclines on his bed, crooking his arm beneath his head so he can stare up at his ceiling. “I remember watching Postman Pat growing up– that’s still running?”

“Aye.”

“I can almost remember the theme song– how did it go? Something like: Postman Pat. Postman Pat. Postman Pat,” James sings.

“And his black and white cat!” Erin chimes in. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Wow,” James sighs, “that takes me back. Now I wish I was watching Postman Pat. When I was little, I used to want to have a cat just like Jess, but mum never let us have any pets.” 

“Oh that’s so weird. Did you?”

“Yeah?” James says, but it comes out more like a question. “Weird?”

“Oh, nothing– I don’t mean weird I guess,” Erin pauses, “It’s just funny to picture you as a wain. It’s hard to imagine a you before Derry. Feels like you’ve always been here, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Like, what else don’t I know about you?”

“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”

“I dunno. Everything? What were you like as a wain? What other shows did you watch? What were your friends like?”

“Erm, well I was basically the same as I am now,” he says. Though, that wasn’t necessarily true. He’d been bolder when he was younger, more outgoing. He wonders when that stopped. “I watched Doctor Who, you know that, and Postman Pat. I also liked Art Attack, though I never really did any of the crafts. As for my friends, I dunno, they were just lads? I guess? There was Dan, John, and Mikey. John had a little sister, Lily, who I think maybe fancied one of us because she was always trying to tag along with whatever we did…” he trails off, feeling his face heat up when he realises how long he’s been talking.”I dunno. I don’t really feel like there’s much to tell.”

“I like it,” Erin says quietly. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he demures.

“Just anything. I like listening to you talk.” Erin says. “You sound different over the phone. Your voice sounds deeper. Smoother.” 

It feels like his insides are purring at this admission. James notices her voice also sounds a little different over the phone too, higher, warmer. They’d never talked on the phone like this before. Never called each other just to hear each other’s voice. 

“I’d rather talk about you,” he says. His voice drops a little when he says it. Like he’s telling her a secret. 

“Orla’s literally read you my diary. You already know everything about me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

They go back and forth like that for a while. Trading questions and answers, asking everything from ‘if you were an animal, what animal would it be?’ to ‘what’s your earliest childhood memory?’ until Anna finally falls asleep around eight-thirty and Erin asks him to call her back in fifteen so she can put her sister to bed. 

As soon as the phone is down, he rushes to the bathroom, having needed to pee for the last several minutes. James quickly brushes his teeth and washes his face, but it’s difficult to do around the goofy grin still plastered on his face. When he opens the door, Michelle is standing there.

“Who were you talking to?”

“What are you, the RUC?” He tries to shoulder past her, but she blocks his path. 

“You talking to Erin?” She asks, cutting to the quick. 

“That’s none of your business, actually,” he replies tartly, finally managing to skirt around her. 

“Fine then!” Michelle says hotly. “I need to make a call anyways, now that you’re finally off the phone.”

James whips back around. “What? No, I’m not done yet.”

“You’ve been on the phone for an hour, give someone else a turn, Dicko.”

“Come on, Michelle! I never talk on the phone–” 

“Not my problem,” Michelle makes to move and James lunges for his room. Suddenly, it becomes a race down the hall, seeing who could get to their phone first. James throws himself into his room, and bangs his knee on his bedside table as he reaches for his phone to punch in the Quinn’s number.

“That was hardly fifteen minutes,” she says. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says breathlessly. 

“DICKHEAD!” Michelle screeches from across the hall. 

“Is that Michelle?”

“Yeah,” then he hears footsteps thundering down the hall. “-- Shit.”

He clicks the lock just in time. He sees Michelle try the handle, then bangs on the door. 

“Get off the fucking phone, you stupid English prick!”

“She sounds rippin’,” Erin comments.

“She’ll get over it,” James says and moves back to his bed.

From elsewhere in the house, he can hear his Aunt Deirdre shout, “Why in God’s name is there shouting in my house, Michelle? Have you any idea what time it is?”

“Mammy, James won’t get off the phone!” He hears Michelle tromp downstairs and lets out a sigh. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to talk for much longer,” he says. 

“Oh,” Erin says, sounding genuinely disappointed. 

Aunt Deirdre knocks on his door. “Ten more minutes, James,” she calls through the door. “Then you have to let Michelle have a turn.” 

“Okay!” He calls back. “I’ve got ten more minutes,” he says to Erin. 

“Okay.”

James resituates himself on his bed, laying back into his pillows as he asks Erin, “What are you doing now?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Talking to you,” she says drolly. He can practically hear her eye roll.

“No, I know that, I mean besides that.”

“Oh, erm. Nothing much. Just sitting at the kitchen table.” Faintly, he can just make out the soft scrape of a chair being pulled across the linoleum floor. He can imagine her sitting there, in the chair closest to the phone, twiddling the cord around her fingers in the preternaturally quiet Quinn-McCool house. Has she changed into her pyjamas yet? He wants to know what she’s wearing. He wishes he was there with her. 

“What about you?”

“I’m laying in my bed,” he says, then blushes at the way it sounds. 

“Are the lights off? It sounds dark.”

He rolls over and clicks off his bedside lamp.

“Is now.”

They go quiet. He can hear her breathing over the line. 

“Erin?”

“Mhmm?”

“What’ll you do after we hang up?”

“Oh I dunno,” she sighs, “ Murder She Wrote doesn’t come on until nine, so I guess I’ll just putter around until then.”

“Wish I could watch it with you.”

“Me too. It’s dreadfully boring being home alone.”

There’s a knock at his door.

“Times up, get off the phone, dickhead!” calls Michelle.

“I have to go,” he says morosely. 

“Aye, I heard,” Erin says. “See you at school.”

“Yeah, see you.”

There’s a beat. Then, when they both realise neither of them were hanging up, they laugh. 

“You hang up first,” Erin giggles. 

He can’t help himself. “No you.” 

“I don’t want to hang up though.” 

“Well me either.” 

From outside his room, Michelle bangs on his door again. “Get. Off. The. Phone!”

“Okay. Okay, I need to hang up before Michelle busts down my door,” James says. “Goodnight, Erin.”

“Goodnight, James.” 

I know you said you don’t want to date but

Would you want to go on a date sometime?

Do you want to go see Traveller with me today after school?

Ps. You look really pretty today.

Do you want to go see Traveller today after school?

James has nearly ruined a full piece of paper before he finally lands on the note he wants to send Erin. When Sister Michael’s back is turned, he leans forward and hands it to Aoife, and whispers “Pass this to Erin'', before leaning back and watching the note travel. Up three seats, then two to the right before he watches Eleanor Cearly subtly slide the note onto Erin’s desk, tucking it under her notebook. He watches her unfurl his final draft note. Erin turns and shoots him a thumbs up and he feels his smile explode across his face. 

It’s hard not to think of it as a date because, well, it practically is . He just hopes she thinks it is too. 

On the bus ride home they decide on the seven-thirty showing that evening, which provides ample time to get their homework and necessary chores done and still leave time to get ready. A frisson of energy zips up his spine, making him feel downright electric when he thinks of the way Erin waved at him after he’d walked her home, her eyes all bright as she said “See you tonight!”

The energy only seems to grow as the clock creeps closer to seven until he’s practically buzzing around his room as he gets ready. He does his homework and chores in record time providing him with ample time to stare at himself in the mirror and worry over the state of his appearance. 

Has his hair always looked this minging? He tries flattening it with a comb, but that looks stupid. Then he tries brushing it to the side, but that looks even worse . He puts gel in it, but overestimates the amount and puts too much in again and has to go rinse his hair out in the bathroom sink. 

At a quarter past, he finishes getting ready and wishes he had some kind of cologne to put up but settles for reapplying his deodorant and putting on a fresh shirt. He wonders what she’s going to wear. Will she dress up? The idea of her dressing up makes his heart stumble over itself. He’s so caught up thinking about what she might wear (one of her skirts? A dress?) that he almost walks in on Auntie Deirdre and Uncle Martin on his way out the door. 

“I don’t want to talk about this Martin,” Deirdre hisses, stopping James half way down the stairs. They’re whisper-shouting in the kitchen, their voices floating up the stairs. He feels an icy hand grab his heart because they’re talking in that tone that adults only ever use when they’re discussing something they don’t want kids to hear. 

“But he could be getting out–”

“They’ll never approve it, and then what’ll ye do? Banging on like that, you’ll get Michelle’s hopes up and then what?”

James feels his heart drop. Niall. They’re talking about Niall. 

At the bottom of the stairs, James spies Michelle with her back pressed against the wall next to the kitchen door, her eyes downcast. And not for the first time, he feels caught in a moment he doesn’t belong in; he watches Michelle listen to her parents argue over the fate of her brother. 

“They’re saying that if the referendum passes–”

“And so what if it does?” Deirdre pleads, her voice wavering on a cry. “You think we’ll know him? That man? That’s not our son anymore.”

There’d been lots of relics of his room’s former owner that James had learned to ignore over the years: the broken cricket bat in the closet, the initials ‘NM’ scratched into the underside of his headboard, the single issue of Playboy that’d been secretly tucked into the slats under his bed. For the most part, James didn’t think of Niall, because, well, he didn’t really know what to think of his older cousin, and the subject was taboo in the Mallon residence. If he got out, who would he meet?

“He’s always been our wain, even if you won’t acknowledge him,” Martin says sharply. 

From across the hall, James catches Michelle’s eye and he nods to the front door. She follows him out. He’s careful to close the front door, to not alert the still arguing adults and turns to Michelle who’s leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, her expression hard. 

He starts, “Do you want to–”

“ No, I don’t,” Michelle says, her voice brittle. 

“ Okay,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’ ,“...do you want to come to the cinema with me, then?” It’s the last thing he wants to ask, but the only thing he can think to say. 

“What?”

He jerks his thumb down the road in the direction of the cinema. “Erin and I are going to go see Traveller, do you want to join?” He hopes she can at least appreciate that he’s basically showing her his whole hand.

She looks at him for a moment with her mouth still set in a firm line, her eyes searching. He’s not sure what she finds but she exhales hard through her nose, looking out to the street. “No,” she says at last. “I don’t really feel like a movie right now. Think I’ll just head down to the pub.”

“Do you want some company?” he offers. 

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Really. Go.”

“Okay,” he says again, taking a few hesitant steps down the pavement. “If you’re sure– ”

“ Yes, I’m sure! Jesus, ” Michelle rolls her eyes. “Fucking English and their feelings, Christ.” She pushes off the railing, starting down the street in the opposite direction.

“Okay well, if you change your mind–! ” She flips him off over her shoulder. 

He watches her go for a spell, her arms still crossed and head bent as she marches away. Then, he checks his watch, swears, and sprints all the way to the theatre. 

Erin looks ready to skin him alive as he dashes up to the doors of the cinema. 

“ I’m late! I’m late– I’m sorry, I’m late,” he gasps, doubling over to catch his breath. He’s sweaty and dishevelled, and he’d bet money his face was bright red from his run. Great. 

She looks livid and beautiful standing there in a corduroy skirt with flowers embroidered on it and a red top, her blonde hair glowing under the marquee lights, but he barely has time to appreciate any of it before she’s laying into him. “We said seven-thirty!”

“I know!” He spies the tickets and the two sets of popcorn cradled in her arms. “Did you already get everything?” He wanted to buy their tickets and concession snacks. 

“Well of course I did! Somebody was late,” she snaps, shoving one of the popcorns at him. “And I know how you get about missing the previews now, so get a shift on.”

He looks down at his popcorn and sees she’s dressed it with extra butter and smarties just how he likes. He deflates a little more. 

“I’m an idiot,” he moans. Erin rolls her eyes as she grabs him by the sleeve and drags him inside the cinema. 

“Aye, you are,” she huffs. “Next times on you.”

Next time. The words ring in his ears as Erin guides him to their seats and the movie starts. Next time, he’d buy their tickets. He glances down at his popcorn and pops one of the smarties into his mouth. Next time, he’d buy the snacks. His eyes trail from the popcorn to the girl sitting next to him, her face illuminated by the flickering lights of the projector as Bill Paxton appears on screen. Next time . 

It’s still early in the movie, Mark Wahlberg’s character has only just been introduced, when Erin shifts in her seat and he feels her arm brush his. When she doesn’t move, leaving their shoulders touching, he can’t help but glance over. The spot where her arm rests against his feels like it’s glowing. And yet, she’s watching the movie, seemingly completely unaware of him and one hand is sitting neatly in her lap, holding her popcorn, while the other is draped over their shared arm rest, curling over the edge of the cup holder. Her hand is smooth and pale and perfectly shaped. Her nails are filed into neat little ovals and painted with slightly chipped pink polish that she’d had him help her pick out last weekend. He’d had to pretend to have an opinion on the two nearly identical shades of pink, but now it pleased him to see her wear it. He spies ink smudges on her knuckles and he wants to ask what she’s been writing.

Tentatively, he sets his own hand down on the edge of his seat. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen in front of them, but in his head he’s trying to calculate the space between his hand and her’s. The cinema seats are no wider than the seat they share on the bus, but without the bump and jostle of the drive constantly knocking them into each other, there are no accidental touches. If he wants to touch her, he would have to do it on purpose. 

What would it be like to hold Erin’s hand? He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind before. James would bet anything that it’s really nice. 

When Erin’s pinky brushes his, so brief and light, he almost thinks he imagined it. He keeps his face turned away from her as he slowly reaches out with his own pinkie, brushing out across the empty space between their seats. He scooches his hand a little closer, inching it further into the void until it comes into contact with something warm and soft. He knocks the knuckle of his pinkie against the side of her hand– very gently– if he needs to, he can still play dumb and brush the whole thing off. Pretend he didn’t know her hand was there. He holds completely still.

Another brush. He feels something curl delicately around his pinkie. The feeling is so light that James has to resist the urge to turn his head– looking would break the spell. He sits there for a heart pounding moment as he silently turns his hand over. He feels her fingers slip between his. 

Holding Erin’s hand is like holding a butterfly. Or a heart. Something complete, and completely alive. 

He rubs his thumb along the ridges of her fingers, swiping across the back of her hand, rippling over her knuckles. He can feel all the fine bones in her hands, feel the tendons flex under her skin when she squeezes his hand. Her hand is so much smaller than his, he notes. His hand envelops her’s easily and he marvels at the way their fingers knot together so perfectly. Like they were made for holding each other. James wonders how he could have gone this long without holding her hand. 

When the credits roll, he isn’t able to recall a single plot point of the movie they just watched.