Kitten (Brian&Leah,1)

13. His Place

O'Brien's footsteps sound behind me. He reaches me and stands next to me on the pier, with his eyes focused on the horizon. Gone are his smartass remarks and jokes; we just take everything in and listen to the few birds chirping.

Then O'Brien shrugs off his leather jacket and spreads it on the wooden boards of the pier. "Sit," he says. "We're gonna eat. I'm starving."

I sit next to him and accept the ham and cheese sandwich. "Thank you," I say, and O'Brien sighs and looks away.

My eyebrows bunch up. "What?"

He takes a bite and chews, ignoring my question. Then he mumbles, "Eat first."

I finish everything in no time, even the cupcake. O'Brien avoids looking at me, and the aura around us is lit with awkwardness. To my horror, I realize I prefer O'Brien's stupid jokes and our banter to this eerie, almost ominous silence.

Relief washes over me when O'Brien speaks. "So," he clears his throat and faces me, "I need to tell you something because I'd rather you learned it from me and not your mother."

"What's it?"

"I'm not blind, and I notice shit. I know it's rough for the two of you, Kitten. Mac and many of my friends were in a similar situation years ago. So, I talked to my dad and asked him to hire your mother at the garage to answer phone calls, organize his paperwork, and stuff like that. Dad's business is new, so he could only give her part-time, but it'd cover food and rent."

If I looked at myself right now, I'd find a hopeful gleam in my gaze. This job, this offer, whatever I can call it — is the best my mom's ever had. It isn't cleaning toilets at the gas station or being someone's maid. She'd be in a warm garage next to our house, saving gas money and maybe even learning something new.

"I don't know why she refused to take it."

O'Brien's words shatter my hopes into tiny pieces. I stare at him and tears well up in my eyes. "Refused?"

He nods and bites his lip as if he's restraining himself from saying something else.

"But she's...we're...why?" I mumble, staring at my reflection in the water. A single teardrop rolls down my cold cheek, and I wipe it hastily, hoping O'Brien didn't notice.

He's not the guy to be vulnerable with, but I don't have anyone to comfort me if I cry. Mom's too busy pitying herself and complaining about her bad luck and the situation she doesn't want to change — not even when the opportunity has literally knocked on our door.

I think about the never-ending cycle of my mom's grim mood, her anger, and our empty fridge, and more tears fall. This time, I'm incapable of stopping them. I cover my face with my palms and sob, too miserable to be concerned about O'Brien's reaction to my outburst and the way he'd mock me.

"Fuck," he mutters. I feel his heavy arm around my shoulders and inhale the already familiar scent of leather with faint traces of cigarette smoke. O'Brien pulls me to him. My back leans against his hard chest, and his strong arms encase me, keeping me warm.

He removes my hands from my face and dries my tears with his fingertips. The calloused pads stay on my skin long enough for me to get used to the feeling. It's foreign and feels forbidden, and somehow, I find myself closing my eyes and leaning into his touch.

O'Brien's palm cups the side of my face. "Don't cry, Kitten," he whispers. "I'm shit at this, and if you don't stop with the waterworks, I might say something that'll make you blush and want to jump in the lake. But don't, okay? The motherfucker's deep. I nearly drowned there when I was a kid. Thank God for my big bro and his built-in danger radar."