Tuesday, October 28th 2014

Jack's phone buzzed as he lay on his bed, absently flicking a sliotar from one hand to the other. The group chat with Mark, Wham Bar, and Begs was popping off. He tapped in, already half-expecting some shite talk, but his stomach dropped the second he saw the screenshot.

Begs: Jacko, lad...
Wham Bar: Fucking hell, she moves fast.
Wham Bar: She was literally with you last month.
Wham Bar: Sluh.
Mark: She's defo doing that to make you jealous, lad.
Begs: Classic Róisín move, in fairness.

Jack stared at the screenshot. It was from Róisín's Instagram story—her, grinning in the passenger seat of some lad's car, his hand casually resting on her thigh like it had always belonged there.

Something about it made Jack uneasy, but he wasn't sure what or why. It wasn't like he wanted her back. He had barely wanted her when he had her. That had never been the problem.

Mark: You alright, lad?

Jack hesitated, then typed back.

Jack: Yeah, I don't really care tbh.

The conversation shifted almost immediately, the lads moving on to some other topic, but Jack kept staring at the picture. Maybe it was the fact that she had moved on so easily. Maybe it was that she could move on so easily. He threw his phone down onto the bed, suddenly restless. He needed to get out of his own head.

The flat was quiet. Ciarán and Millie were both out, probably together. It was weird. He had wanted this escape, craved it for years. But now that he had it, he didn't know what to do with it. His phone buzzed again, and this time, it was his mother.

'Did you see Róisín's post?'

Of course she had seen it. Of course she had an opinion. He didn't even bother opening the message. He knew exactly what it would say. Something about how Róisín was a lovely girl. From a good family. That she had thought they were serious. That Jack should be careful—Dublin was full of bad influences.

Jack's phone buzzed again. Paul O'Connor sent you a friend request.

Jack stared at it for a second, then clicked into the profile. It was definitely him—the lad from the George. The one who had been wearing an orange circle. The one who had looked at Jack like he was interested.

Jack's stomach twisted, but not in the way he thought it should. Before he could overthink it, another notification popped up.

Paul: Hey, are you going to Savannah's party on Friday?

Jack's heart thumped once, hard. He hovered over the keyboard for a few moments, his fingers twitching. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he replied.

Jack: Yeah, I think so.

It was a lie. But now, it wasn't.