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PLUCKING UP COURAGE

Lizzie

JANUARY 14, 2003

“W ELL, IF IT ISN’T THE FAMOUS FIVE ASSEMBLED IN MY KITCHEN, ” S INEAD CALLED OUT in a cheerful tone when she sauntered into the kitchen on Friday evening. “Not that I don’t love all your bright, little faces, but isn’t there another mother’s kitchen you would like to descend on for a change?”

We all stared blankly at her.

“No? Okay then.” Setting a couple of carrier bags full of groceries on the counter, she turned her attention to the kitchen table. “Do we have to have the talk, people?”

“No, we don’t,” Hugh groaned, burying his face in my neck.

“Tables are for glasses not for asses, Gibs, love” came Sinead’s first instruction, followed swiftly by, “Dear daughter of mine, please refrain from licking spilled honey from the tablecloth—and no, that doesn’t mean you can stick your finger in the jar, either, my feral, little offspring.”

“Will do, Sinead.” Hopping down from the table, Thor sauntered toward where Sinead was standing and unashamedly began to raid her shopping bags for snacks. Meanwhile, Patrick, the sneak, was already righting his wrong by hiding his drumsticks under the table.

“Why thank you, Patrick, pet,” Sinead said approvingly. “In future, though, please refrain from using my solid oak table as a soundboard for your rhythm sticks.”

“My apologies, Sinead,” Patrick replied, red-faced, while Claire grumbled something about a five-second rule.

Turning her attention to the opposite side of the table, her warm, brown eyes locked on mine and her brow arched.

“Lizzie, sweetheart, while I’m sure my hormone-ridden, teenage son has a comfortable lap, what’s left of my good nerves will be much more comfortable with your backside on a chair.”

“Sorry, Sinead,” I muttered, quickly sliding onto the seat next to Hugh, while he grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“So what’s the plan of action for tonight, kids?” Using her hip to butt Thor out of her way, Sinead set to work on putting the shopping away, expertly snatching packets of crips and chocolate bars out of his greedy, little hands as she moved. “Anything exciting planned?”

The others quickly descended into a conversation with Sinead Biggs, while I remained quiet, observing my surroundings.

Smothering my frustration at his presence with personal aggression, I discretely settled my hands on my lap under the table and used my long nails to scratch at an itch I was sure I could never fully sate.

Feeling restless, I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted the familiar tang of copper.

Relief flooded me.

It was almost euphoric.

Because the pain weakened my mind’s grasp on its rage.

It was how I had learned to function.

To bury it all down.

It was at that moment that a larger hand came to rest on top of mine.

My boyfriend’s touch was gentle but unyielding, and when he parted my hands, separating my nails from the flesh they were tearing, I could do nothing but let him.

Taking one of my hands in his, Hugh entwined our fingers and settled our joined hands on his lap.

Heart racing, I held my breath for a long beat, both reveling in the sensation of having his skin on mine and dreading his reaction to my mistake.

When I plucked up the courage to look at him, his attention was cast downward, to his lap. A deep frown was set on his face as he methodically studied every spare inch of skin on my hand.

My eyes drank in the sight of him and made the rest of the world seem to fade and quieten. His tanned fingers, so much longer than mine, trailed over my flesh, sending sparks of life back into my body. His thumb traced over each one of my knuckles before moving to the inside of my wrist.

Startled, I moved to pull my hand away, but he was unyielding. Turning my hand over, Hugh continued his mission of killing me with his touch, thumb tracing the jagged edges of every self-borne scar I had inflicted on my flesh. He didn’t falter and he didn’t recoil. He touched my skin with a reverence that could never be matched. Not in a hundred thousand lifetimes.

That’s how I knew that I would never get over this boy.

For the rest of this life and whatever followed—be it heaven, hell, purgatory, or a thousand reincarnated lifetimes—my heart would eternally beat for Hugh Biggs.

That was also how I found the strength to be here, in his home, enduring the discomforting company of a boy who made both my skin crawl and the voices in my head grow louder.

I was doing this for Hugh .