“She is, I suppose. But at Science shit. These parents though aren’t hers. Her parents died before I was born.”

“Your dad’s parents then? You never talk about him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You know he’s dead, yeah?”

Connie inhaled sharply, her mouth hanging open. She stared at me with wide eyes and I shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, offering her a nervous smile. “I—I didn’t know.”

“I know. I kinda figured you didn’t.”

“I—I’m so sorry, you should’ve told me—”

“I don’t talk about it much. Or at all, really. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

Connie shook her head. “I—Sorry, I just—God, I feel like an idiot—”

“You really shouldn’t. Honestly, don’t worry about it.” I shrugged, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t talk about my parents at all. The only way you’d know is if you were super nosey and like, pieced it together or whatever.”

“I didn’t even think twice about the fact that you’re pretty much always home alone…Obviously absent parents never stand out to me the way it would someone else.” A small, apprehensive smile played about Connie’s lips before she looked up at me. “But I am sorry. We don’t have to talk any more about it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” I told her with a shrug. “It’s just that there isn’t really anything to talk about. I didn’t know him. He was into music. Big into music. That’s probably why Claire made sure I like music, too. But that’s it. I don’t really know much else.”

“It’s just…I’ve known you ages, now. And I never realized. I’m so ignorant—”

“You’re not ignorant. Shut up.”

Connie nodded slowly, and we sat in a comfortable silence a moment longer. I had never liked talking about my father. Pity and sympathy were not things I enjoyed being the recipient, or victim, of, and when I was younger, they were all I seemed to get from the people around me. My grandmother brought me to church when I was little, hoping, I suppose, that I would find some kind of solace in the arms of God. Claire wasn’t a particularly religious woman in any way shape or form but she assumed my silence on the matter simply meant I enjoyed tagging along with them, and that was it. I hated going to church but I struggled to effectively communicate my hatred. Sure, I liked the stories, and I had always loved the music. It was just the before and after parts that I found uncomfortable. Churchgoers, my grandparent’s friends, always spoke to me about my father, or tried to, at the least. Again, they assumed my silence was something more than it was. They assumed I never said anything because I was upset. Nobody ever thought that maybe I said nothing because I just had nothing to say.

“Are your grandparents still alive?”

“No, they both died a few years ago. Like I said, Claire’s parents died before I was born, too. She has three brothers but we never really see them. We visit her youngest brother during the summer down in Wexford for two weeks. Her oldest brother is a dick. And the other one married a Protestant back in the Seventies so his dad cut him off. My uncle’s wife came from a family of British soldiers up North, which was too much for them to handle. I don’t even know if she’s heard from him since he left home.”