Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘Hi,’ you say, walking up the path to me, hands deep in your pockets. You survey the rockery. ‘Looks good.’

‘Thanks. Dammit,’ I say suddenly, seeing my cousin Kevin turn the corner into the street, casually strolling, looking left and right as he searches for my house. ‘I’m not here,’ I say, dropping everything and darting towards the house.

‘What?’

‘I’m not here,’ I repeat, pointing at Kevin, then pulling the front door to. I leave it open a crack, I want to hear what he has to say.

Kevin strolls up the driveway. ‘Hello,’ he says to you and Fionn, who is placing paving stones in the wheelbarrow very carefully, despite his apparent intention to smash them.

‘Hi there,’ you say. You sound more DJ-like when I can’t see you, as if you have a ‘phone voice’ reserved for strangers. I side step to the window and peek up over the windowsill to watch. Kevin looks priestly, poker-straight back, brown cords, a raincoat. Everything is precise, neat, earthy tones. I can picture him in sandals in the summertime.

‘Jasmine’s not in,’ you say.

‘Oh.’ Kevin looks up at the house and I duck. ‘That’s a shame. Are you sure? It looks like … well, the door is open.’

For a moment I’m afraid that he’s going to come looking for me, like when we were kids and I absolutely did not want Kevin to come find me. That game when whoever finds you has to join you and hide with you, and you both wait for the rest of them to find you. Kevin always had a knack of finding me first, pushing his body up against mine, cramming into the tight space with me so that I could feel his breath on my neck, and feel his heart beating on my skin. Even as a child he made me uncomfortable.

You are quiet. I’m surprised you can’t come up with a lie – not that I have any proof of you being a liar, but I think so little of you at times that this is something I’d assumed you’d be a natural at. It is Fionn who comes to my rescue.

‘She left it open for us. We’re her gardeners,’ he says, and the lack of emotion, the lack of caring, makes him entirely believable. You look at him with what seems to be admiration.

‘Oh dear. Okay, I’ll try her mobile again then,’ Kevin says, starting to back away. ‘In case I don’t get her, will you tell her Kevin called by? Kevin,’ he repeats.

‘Kevin, right,’ you say, clearly uncomfortable to be in this position.

‘Sure, Kieran,’ Fionn says, taking off down the path with the wheelbarrow.

‘It’s Kevin,’ he says good-naturedly but a little concerned.

‘Got it,’ you say, and Kevin slowly wanders back wherever he came from, continuously looking over his shoulder at the house to make sure I don’t jump out. Even when he has disappeared from sight, I don’t feel safe.

‘He’s gone,’ you say, and you knock on the door.

I open the door slowly, and slip in beside you, hoping you will screen me from view in case he returns.

‘Thanks.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘God, no. Wants to be.’

‘And you don’t.’

‘No.’

‘Seems like a nice guy.’

I need to hit this little candid chat on the head straight away. I do not want to talk about my lovelife or lack thereof with you.

‘He’s my cousin,’ I blurt out, hoping to end the conversation about Kevin.

Your eyes widen. ‘Jesus.’

‘He was adopted.’

‘Oh.’

‘Still,’ I say in my defence. It is and always will be disgusting to me.

Silence.

‘I’ve a cousin: Eileen,’ you say suddenly. ‘Had the biggest pair of tits, even as kids. All I remember when I think of her are …’ You hold your spread hands out over your pecs and clasp great big jugs of air. ‘I always had a crush on her. Crumb Tits, we always called her, because everything used to fall right there, you know. Like a shelf?’

We are both looking at Fionn as you talk, not at each other. Our backs are to the wall of my house, facing out.

‘She’s had a few kids now. They’re more down here these days …’ You drop your hands so those imaginary boobs fall around your waistline. ‘But if she told me she was adopted tomorrow … I would, you know?’

‘Matt,’ I sigh.

I look at you and see you have that mischievous look on your face. I shake my head. Whether your story is true or not, you are deliberately winding me up. I don’t bite.

‘Your sister, she—’

‘Has Down syndrome,’ I pre-empt you, crossing my arms, ready for the fight. Always ready: What did you say about my sister? The cause of most of my adolescent fights. Some things never change.

You seem taken aback by me and I loosen my posture a little.

‘I was going to say, your sister is a big fan of music.’

I narrow my eyes at you suspiciously and conclude that you seem genuine. ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Yes. She is.’

‘She probably knows more than me.’

‘That’s a no-brainer.’

You smile. ‘I’ve organised something for her next week. A tour of the station. Do you think she’d be interested? I thought she might be – I’ve done it for people before, but never anyone like her who I think would really appreciate it, get the full benefit. What do you reckon?’

I stare at you in shock, manage a quick nod.

‘Good. I hope it’s okay to ask, but I just want to know what’s the correct way to go about it? Do I drive her there, or do you want to drive her? Or will she make her own way?’

I continue to stare at you in surprise. I don’t recognise you. That you’ve organised a tour for her and that you are thoughtful enough to worry about the logistics is beyond my comprehension. ‘You’ve organised a tour for her?’

You look confused. ‘I said I would. Is that okay? Should I cancel?’

‘No, no,’ I say quickly. ‘She’ll be so happy.’ I struggle to find the next words. ‘She gets the bus by herself,’ I say, defensive again. ‘She’s perfectly capable of that, you know.’

‘Good.’ Your eyes examine me; I hate this.

‘But I could bring her,’ I say. ‘If that’s okay.’

‘Of course.’ You smile. ‘You’re a protective big sister.’

‘Little,’ I say.

You frown.

‘She’s older than me.’

A penny seems to drop. You have that look of realisation. But it’s sarcastic. ‘That would make sense. She’s more mature.’

A smile tickles at the corners of my mouth but I refuse to let it happen. I look away to Fionn. You follow my stare.

We watch Fionn picking up the mallet.

‘Are you seriously okay with him doing that?’ you ask.

‘Are you okay with it?’

‘They’re not my stones.’

‘A piece could fly into his eye,’ I say.

Silence.

‘Could slice his arm. Hit an artery.’

You take off after him across the road.

I don’t know what you say to your son but you haven’t handled it well. Before you even finish your sentence, Fionn is smashing up pieces of my expensive Indian sandstone on your garden table. You jump back so that the pieces don’t hit you. It’s as if you’re not there to him.

For twenty minutes he smashes everything up into tiny pieces, his cheeks flushed from the exertion, his face screwed up in anger. Your daughter, the blondie who dances everywhere instead of walking, is watching him from inside the jeep, the closest you will allow her to go, and you are at the front door, arms folded, standing upright, watching with less embarrassment and more concern as he batters my expensive stones. When he’s finished, he surveys his work, his arms loose and gangly and free of tension. Then he looks up and around, suddenly aware of his surroundings and the people watching him, as if he’s coming out of a coma. He tenses up again, the hood goes back up, the turtle disappearing into its shell. He drops the mallet into the wheelbarrow and he pushes it across the road to me.