Saturday, December 20th 2014

Jack hadn't even known she was in Dublin until she called him, her voice bright and expectant.

'I thought I'd surprise you,' she said, 'a little Christmas shopping, just the two of us.'

He should have made an excuse—said he was studying, busy, anything—but instead, he found himself trudging up Grafton Street an hour later, weaving through the crowds of last-minute shoppers to meet her outside M&S.

And now, here they were, sitting in the café upstairs, sipping overpriced coffees, Christmas music droning softly over the speakers.

His mother looked entirely at home among the well-dressed pensioners and women in cashmere scarves, stirring her cappuccino with delicate precision. She was in her element, really—the hum of Dublin at Christmas, the busy shops, the crisp December air that put colour in her cheeks.

Jack, on the other hand, felt like his skin was too tight.

'Oh, wouldn't this be lovely on the tree?' she said, pulling a delicate glass bauble painted with a tiny cottage covered in snow out from one of the many shopping bags she carried with her.

Jack shrugged, already exhausted an hour in. 'Yeah.'

She sighed dramatically. 'You're hard work today, a mhac. So...' she said, setting down her spoon, 'tell me everything. How's college? How's your house?'

Jack shrugged. 'Grand.'

'Made many friends yet?' He hesitated. She didn't wait for an answer. You don't come home much anymore.' She said it casually, but the weight behind it was anything but.

Jack exhaled, staring down into his mocha. He knew where this was going. 'I've been busy,' he muttered.

'With what?' she pressed. 'You've barely been home since October. And don't say assignments, Jack. You've always been a last-minute merchant when it comes to schoolwork.'

Jack didn't respond, he just gave a shrug.

She leaned in slightly, dropping her voice just a little. 'In January, you'll be home more though, won't you?' His stomach clenched. 'With the referendum ramping up, I'll be needing you to canvas. We'll have meetings every week in the hall, and we need young people going door-to-door. People listen to young voices, Jack. You'll be a great help.'

Jack's grip on his cup tightened.

She said it like it was already decided. Like he had no say in it. Like of course he'd come home and knock on doors with her, convincing the people of Spiddal to vote No.

His chest felt tight.

He nodded stiffly. 'Yeah,' he mumbled. 'Of course.'

She smiled, satisfied, reaching for her coffee again.

Jack forced himself to take a sip of his own, trying to push down the nausea rising in his throat.

She moved on easily, chatting about people from home, the neighbours, Christmas dinner plans. He barely heard a word. He was too busy trying to swallow the sick feeling crawling up his spine.

And then—

Jack's stomach flipped.

Paul.

He was maybe ten feet away, standing near the queue, glancing around as if looking for someone.

Jack's pulse stuttered. For a horrible second, he thought Paul had seen him.

He hadn't—not yet. But it was only a matter of time. If Paul spotted him, he'd come over. He'd say something. He'd—

Jack shot to his feet. 'Toilet,' he muttered, grabbing his phone and bolting. He didn't check to see if his mother was watching him. Didn't check to see if Paul had noticed him leave. He just moved.

He locked himself in a stall, gripping the edge of the sink, forcing himself to breathe.

When he finally emerged ten minutes later, Paul was gone.

His mother, however, was watching him suspiciously as he slid back into his seat, 'Everything alright? I have some Imodium if you need them?'

'I'm fine,' Jack muttered, forcing a sip of coffee.

She studied him for a moment but let it drop.

Instead, she smiled. 'I was thinking,' she said lightly. 'Since I'm here, I might as well come see where you're living.'

Jack's stomach dropped again.

'No.'

She blinked at him, startled by the sharpness of his response. 'No?' she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

'I—' Jack swallowed, scrambling. 'It's a mess.'

She scoffed. 'Jack, I raised you. Do you think I haven't seen a messy house before?'

'No,' he said again, firmer this time. 'I just don't want you seeing it.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'What are you hiding?'

'Nothing,' Jack snapped.

She tilted her head, scrutinising him like a puzzle she couldn't quite solve.

Then—realisation.

'Oh,' she said, sitting back slightly, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. 'It's a girl, isn't it? You have a crush on your housemate?'

Jack's eyebrow cocked. 'What?'

'You don't want me seeing your house because you're afraid I'll meet her,' she continued, smug now, nodding to herself. 'That's it, isn't it? I know you more than you realise, a mhac. I am your mother!'

Jack's throat closed.

Would that be easier? Letting her believe that? Letting her think he was hiding some girl instead of the truth?

His mind flashed—Millie, furious, holding up that photo.

Would you vote against us, Jack?

The memory felt like a punch to the gut. Jack shook his head, exhaling sharply.

'No,' he said, voice hard. 'There's no girl. But you're still not coming.'

His mother frowned, clearly thrown by his tone.

'Jack, honestly—'

'No, Mam,' he snapped. 'You're not coming to my house. End of.'

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, giving him an unreadable look.

'Alright,' she said finally. But her voice was different now. Quieter.

Suspicious.

Jack could feel the shift between them. He had won, but at what cost? For the rest of their coffee, she was quieter, less chatty, watching him closely.

And Jack knew—knew—that she wasn't letting this go.

That this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.