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TURNING POINTS
One day, Jack, my friend Stan, Stan’s girlfriend, and I went to the edge of the village to the Royal Oak pub. There were billiard tables, and anyone with hands and feet was eager to play. At first, we sat in a small booth, drinking and chatting. Stan was the typical braggart—he knew everything and had been everywhere. We debated the Eagles and music in general, since Jack played drums and loved arguing with Stan about which album came out when, and who sold the most records. I was talking with Judith, a petite, dark-haired Irish girl. She was friendly, and we quickly found common ground. After a while, Stan and Judith left, leaving me alone with Jack. Finally, it would be just the two of us with no interruptions, I hoped. I was looking forward to having a drink together and talking about us.
But Jack was restless the entire time. He went to play one game of billiards, then another, and then another, barely coming back to our table except to grab a drink when his throat went dry. I sat patiently, telling myself it would end soon and he would come back. I was excited to see him. Hour after hour passed, and Jack kept playing. I could no longer bear it. I felt like a lonely fence post tucked away in a corner. All the other guys who came with their girlfriends talked to them, sat with them, brought them drinks, and cuddled them. Jack only had eyes for the billiard table. Then he came over and started to cuddle me. I thought, “Finally,” and moved over so he would have a place to sit. He leaned in to kiss me.
“Teri, could you lend me two pounds? I need it for one last game. I’m out of money, and I have a chance to win the whole match. Please, please,” he said without hesitation.
My blood ran cold. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I knew he loved billiards and that he was a champion at it. But this was provocation. I sat motionless, refusing to give him my money. He curled up and begged, giving me his most pitiful looks. He promised it was the last game and that we would go home right after.
“No! We’re leaving now!” I stamped my foot.
But he was undeterred. He cuddled me again and promised me the world.
I was furious. I slammed a coin on the table and got up to leave. I heard him calling after me.
“Teri! Teri! Don’t be silly, come back!”
That was the last thing I heard.
For the next hour, I wandered angrily around the pub, walked along the road to the forest in complete darkness, cursing him. I cried out of despair. He kept calling my phone, but I was so upset that I didn’t answer once.
“Kiss my ass,” I screamed into the night.
Once I’d vented enough, I returned to the pub, thinking I had punished him properly. But to my shock, all the cars were gone—including his. The pub was closed. I stood there alone, my mouth agape in horror.
I immediately tried calling his number... beep beep... no answer. Panic set in. Had he really left me here? What a bastard! I cursed him under my breath and felt like screaming.
Then my phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered uncertainly.
“What’s going on?” Jack’s confused voice broke the silence.
“What’s going on? You left me here by the pub! That’s what’s going on!” I blurted out, desperate.
“You’re being ridiculous. I was driving back to Bagenalstown thinking you’d gone home on foot,” he said, worried.
At that moment, I felt embarrassed by my hasty reaction. He had come back for me; he hadn’t left me. And here I was, making a scene! I sighed and immediately forgave him all the wrongs of the night. All I wanted now was to see him and hold him again. Without him, I felt utterly lost.
Jack never showed much emotion. Whenever he drove, I found myself quietly watching him from the passenger seat. Though he must have known my eyes were fixed on him, he never so much as cracked a smile or lifted an eyebrow. His face was a mask of stone—unyielding, unreadable—as if feelings were foreign to him, locked away behind an impenetrable wall. I often wondered if he was carved from cold marble rather than flesh and blood.
One evening, as we were driving back from a disco in Carlow, a growing frustration simmered inside me, fueled by his relentless calm and implacable self-control. I felt like a child trapped beside a statue. In a desperate bid for any kind of reaction, I began to act silly—asking pointless questions, babbling nonsense, trying to spark a flicker of life in his unchanging expression. But Jack remained silent, the quiet between us stretching thick and suffocating.
Finally, unable to contain myself, I reached out and grabbed the gearshift, hoping to catch his attention. At that exact moment, he slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to an abrupt halt in the middle of the deserted road. For the first time, I saw something crack in his stoic facade—his eyes widened, fixed ahead, shock rippling across his face.
“What the hell are you doing? Do you want to kill us, you idiot?!” His voice erupted, sharp and raw, echoing through the confined space of the car. I shrank back into the corner, trembling, the sudden explosion of anger swallowing me whole.
His words silenced me completely. I sat frozen, stunned, my mind replaying the moment over and over. Had I truly crossed a line so unforgivable? Yet, amid the fear and confusion, a strange thought flickered inside me: at least now I knew. Jack felt something. Beneath that cold exterior, buried deep beneath the stone, there were real emotions after all.
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