Page 9 of Goldilocks
Punching back, playing up a fight? That didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. He wasn’t hot-headed like Mary. Sam would rather let it lie and not waste his time on a pointless fight. Because that’s exactly what a showdown with Fionn would be: a complete waste of Sam’s time.
“He’s not worth the energy, Mary,” Sam insisted.
A mocking voice parroted his words. Sam didn’t so much as glance in their direction, whilst Mary wouldn’t look away. He knew without looking that Fionn was grinning at Mary, delighted with the attention.
“What’s his problem?” Eric asked.
Sam tore his gaze from Mary to see that she wasn’t the only one staring at the table. Eric’s green eyes were fixed on them too, and he looked far from happy. The shape of his twisted mouth shook a memory loose in Sam’s head. Once, when he was ten and his dad had been driving him to school, a bird had flown across the road, struck the windscreen and died on impact. Oisín had groaned out a curse that was so packed with hurt it didn’t even sound like a bad word to Sam’s ears, but instead a mourning prayer. Oisín made Sam wait in the car as he picked up the dead bird from the road and moved it into the bushes. His mouth was all twisted up.
Eric’s mouth twisted into the same shape.
“He’s an idiot,” Sam told him. “And not worth thetime or energy.” He fixed his gaze on Mary as he said it. “So leave it be. Please.”
Mary tore her gaze from Fionn’s table. “He’s a stupid dick face whose entire personality is based on his daddy’s bank account,” she told Eric. “You know the type. We get them every summer at home.”
“I know the type,” Eric agreed. He looked at the table for a long time before turning back to Sam. “Do you know what you’d like to eat? Pick whatever you like. It’s on me. I also got you this, uh, a few bits and pieces.” Eric reached under the table and offered a bag to Sam.
Sam glanced inside, and his breath caught. A treasure trove of painting materials filled the brown paper bag to the brim. Three different sets of acrylic tubes, two sketchbooks, two packs of pencils. “Oh, wow.” Sam turned over one of the acrylic sets and saw full tubes of burnt ombre, red, orange and yellow. Even a specific gold that he’d only need to add to in order to get the shade right. A flood of warmth erased the irritation that had been inside him since that morning. “This is great, thank you.”
Eric’s mouth softened, a smile lifting the corners.
Mary peered into the bag, and she snorted. “Look at that. You found the key to Sam’s heart. I told him he should have done an art course, not a general education course, and he always brushes me off, saying he’s not all that interested in it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam brushed her off. “It’s just a hobby.” But a feeling of genuine warmth rosied his opinion of Eric. Sam didn’t fancy himself as someone whose good opinion could be bought, but nobody had ever tested that belief with golden paint before.
“Have you seen the boat yet? Sam painted it.”
Eric’s smile faded. “I haven’t seen it.”
Sam noticed but didn’t question the uncomfortable expression that passed over Eric’s face and moved his attention to the menu, pulling it toward himself. P-A-N-I-T?
Paint?
I-C-E-E-E-C?
What was that supposed to be?
Was everyone using curly fonts just to get on Sam’s nerves? If not for Eric and his paints, he’d have gotten irritated all over again.
“What are you getting?” Sam asked them, brushing the issue aside.
“The chicken panini,” Mary said.
Oh. Panini. Not paint.
“I’ll get that too,” Sam said.
Eric jumped up to order before Sam could offer, and Sam eyed his back as he rejoined the line. His hands were jittery, palms flattening his jeans over and over and over. It drew the sleeve of his jacket up and exposed a thin vine encircling his wrist. Mary’s head jerked to the side, alerting Sam to incoming danger just as two hands encompassed his shoulders. Sam stiffened. Calloused hands accustomed to pulling rope and handling equipment rested on Sam. These hands jittered too, a delicate tremble Sam felt through the fabric of his fleece.
“What was it you called me?” Fionn asked. “An idiot? But isn’t that you?”
Mary was on her feet. Her arm blurred as she threw her coffee in Fionn’s face. A hot splatter hit Sam’s cheek. Fionn reeled back with a cry of outrage. “That’s hot! You little psycho—”
Sam twisted in time to see it: Fionn, his lips parted in disbelief as he peeled his wet collar from his neck. His face lifted, blue eyes bright with anger. Mary’s arm blurred again. Fionn’s entire head jerked to the side as Mary’s slap caught him on the cheek with a loud, wetsmack. Sam winced.
Fionn retreated a step. “Ow! The hell, you bitch—”
Mary advanced and, with an audience made of the entire cafe, delivered another slap to the other cheek. “Leave my brother alone, you fucking bully,” Mary snarled viciously. Sam stifled a groan. He was only her brother in moments like this; any other time, he was an annoying cousin.