Those constant telephone calls with Robbie proved the lifeline that saved me from sinking into my deep, ever-darkening moods. It heartened me to hear his bright voice on the other end of the line. Like the sun on your face; therapeutic for the spirit and made me warm and contented.

Relations with Nicky returned to normal; Nicky's not one to stay mad at anyone for long. I liked that about her. Forgiveness is a damn sight easier to preach than to put into practice.

I wished I had the stones to talk to either of them about the torment in my head, if only just to explain my general moodiness. They often asked if everything was all right with me, and I'd deflect their concerns with a joke, or a ready smile. At times, the smile was too ready, which gave the game away. But we had a well-established policy of non-interference, so they refused to press the matter.

My parents were a different proposition. They poked and prodded. Arguments flared, resulting in me sequestering myself in my bedroom for all but dinner time. So when I asked if Robbie could stay over, they happily agreed. Even my dad, who considered his house his sanctuary. He was not overly keen on having relatives over at Christmas. I guess I inherited my fixation on privacy and personal space from him.

My mum had one stipulation. "Tidy your room first."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's a pig-sty." You'd never suspect it but my mum's parents hailed from the country. They grew up on a farm before they moved to Dublin. Yet their daughter had no conception of how a pig-sty looked.

"I keep my stuff organized."

"Oh, your precious video and C.D. Collection." All arranged in neat lines, favourites to the fore. "Every time I set foot in there, I'm breaking my neck over jumpers on the ground. And your bed is never made."

"Duvets aren't supposed to be tucked in under the mattress. And I never throw my clothes on the floor."

"I've told you a million times, your brother's bed is not where you leave your things. It looks like a stall at a jumble sale." I get my penchant for resorting to similes to emphasize a point from my mother.

I met Robbie in the city at one, under Eason's clock. He spotted me through the crowd and greeted me with a smile as broad as O'Connell street itself. From there, we made our way to Abbey street to wait for the bus.

Ahead of us in the queue a couple of girls, about our age, kept checking over their shoulders, glancing in our direction, and talking to each other in a low, conspiratorial tone.

The bus arrived, and we clambered upstairs. The two girls had already claimed the back-row for themselves. They smiled at Robbie as he shuffled down the aisle. The brunette pushed over beside her companion, leaving the rest of the long seat free.

Robbie chose a double-seat three rows ahead. I couldn't figure for why.

The bus engine spluttered into life.

The girls made no attempt at discretion. "It's him." "No way." "I'm telling ya."

Robbie gazed out the window.

"Hey, mister." She had to repeat it twice before he looked around. "You're him, aren't ya?"

"Nah, I'm Robbie."

"You were in that film—you played the fella's son. Freddy. The speccy kid."

"He was a smart-arse in that an' all," her friend said.

Robbie scratched his head.

The two girls stood up and filed into the seat behind us. The brunette tapped Robbie on the shoulder. "Where's your glasses?"

"At home with my cups."

I sniggered.

The brunette looked at him, boldly. "You're gorgeous, you are." A pang of envy pricked me. I got twitchy even thinking about talking to somebody I liked, let alone complimenting them.

That's what I told myself. I wouldn't allow myself to consider any other reason for the sudden appearance of the green-eyed monster.

"You an actor an' all?" the redhead asked me. "Yeah, but I don't get paid," I said. "Better get a different job then."

"Your hair's the business," the brunette said, hand reaching to Robbie's head, "can I touch it?" By which point her slender fingers and long painted nails were skimming his coiffure like a stone over water. After unleashing the kind of oooh normally reserved for pictures of cute babies, the brunette's friend couldn't wait to have her turn.

Robbie stared vacantly ahead, face full of exhausted indignation.

Having violated his personal boundaries, the girls now had an endless supply of questions lined up for Robbie, which he answered with the enthusiasm of a kid getting dragged to the dentists.

When we got to my house, my mum lay in wait. I suspected she might initiate an inquiry of her own and had already forewarned Robbie. If she had queries, she kept them internalised. She was friendly and welcoming, and not in the least intrusive. Well, she questioned him a bit about school but compared to her usual cross-examination that was akin to getting off on a murder charge with a caution.

I had a foot on the bottom step when my mum asked where I was headed. "Upstairs. To grab a movie to watch."

"Can't you get one from the sitting room? You know your father's a light sleeper." She turned to Robbie and said, by way of explanation, "He works nights."

"There's only dad's old shite movies in there."

"Stop that language. Besides, Robbie might like them. He appreciates classic films."

"That's cool Mrs Murphy. I don't mind what I watch." Robbie, playing suck-up, a side of him I'd never witnessed before.

My mother toddled off, contented, leaving us to explore my father's video collection, housed in a wooden cabinet beneath the old television in the sitting room.

"Easily know you two are related," Robbie said as we hunched down together before the line of videotapes.

"Yeah, suppose I get my love of films from him. First movie he ever bought was One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I must've only been about ten. Is it any wonder I turned out half-mad?"

"I meant your mum. You look the spits of her—the eyes, the smile." I was unsure how to take that.

"Fifty per cent of our genetic makeup comes from our parents."

"Makes you think."

"What?"

"Well," Robbie said, musingly, "Half our parents' genetics is from our grandparents. Half of theirs is our great-grandparents. And so on. Right the way back through the generations."

"So?"

"You hear that phrase, strive to be your own man. But are we our own person, or are we just millions of parts of all our ancestors combined? Everything is mapped out for us. How tall we'll be, what colour hair we'll have. They reckon the older you get, you turn into your parents, but you're already half them to begin with."

"No way,"—tapping my temple— "What goes on up here is one hundred per cent pure me."

"You figure you're unique?"

"That's what my fingerprints say."

We watched a movie while my mum prepared dinner.

When my dad arrived in, wearing his uniform, his eyes flicked to the TV screen. He smiled. "Point Blank—Lee Marvin's flipping brilliant in that." He turned to Robbie. "Aaron tells us you're an actor."

"Ah, you know, I've had a few minor roles."

"I tell you who I love, Sidney Poitier." My jaw dropped. "In the Heat of the Night. What a fantastic film." He then proceeded to deliver the famous 'They call me Mister Tibbs' line in a horrible approximation of Poitier's accent. "Morgan Freeman. He's great in every role he plays." I looked up at the ceiling, hoping it might collapse before he started professing his adoration for Danny Glover. Robbie maintained a polite smile throughout, proving he was a far better actor than he allowed himself credit for.

It must have dawned on my father what he was doing because he suddenly became flustered. "Well, eh, I best... I have to shave. Nice to meet you, Robert."

"You, too, Mister Murphy." I thought I detected a trace of sarcasm there.

My mother had her head over the large pot, inspecting the steaming stew.

"Can we eat upstairs?" I shouted across the room.

She glanced around. "We have a guest. And guests eat at the table. With the family."

Dinner proved to be less of a disaster than I'd anticipated it would. My dad didn't feel inspired to expound on his admiration for African-American actors. And the meal was delicious. I noticed my mum used seasoning to add to the stock—which she never usually did—and the meat was lamb, instead of the regular beef. Robbie complimented her on her cooking, which drew a blush.

My mother had gone to bed by the time I put the video on. I was relieved because it meant I could switch the living-room light off. Now, I'm not one to cry at movies. Forrest Gump, Stand by Me, and The Shawshank Redemption—all the classic tearjerkers—I watched them all without getting the watery eye. But Edward Scissorhands, each viewing elicits a visceral emotional reaction. That misunderstood, badly-scarred outsider resonated deeply with me.

My emotions remained in check until we reached the part where the community ostracises poor Ed and turns him into an outcast.

As soon as I noticed the lump choking my airway, I pushed my chair back against the wall using my feet. Elbow on the armrest, I partially shielded my face with my left hand and hoped that Robbie wouldn't make a comment that'd require a response.

I battled to hold the tears at bay as they gathered in a pool in my eyes and vainly tried to staunch the silent flow with my sleeve.

Even though I dared not so much as a glance sideways, I sensed Robbie's gaze on me. But he never said a word, remaining quiet until the movie ended and we were ready to crash.

Robbie looked at the myriad of Johnny Depp posters covering the cream woodchip papered wall by my bed with a non-judgemental expression. His eyes darted over to the contents of my bookshelf. "Neat collection," he said, standing there in his underwear, folding his jeans neatly. "Dorian Gray—I love that book."

One of my favourites. "It's not bad," I said, self-consciously sliding out of my tracksuit bottoms whilst sitting perched at the foot of my bed.

"Caused quite the scandal at the time of its publication."

I slid under the security of the duvet. "That's the Victorians for you—they covered up piano legs to preserve their purity."

Robbie smiled, lying on his side, his hand propping up his head. "That's a myth, but imagine what they would've made of Naked Lunch?"

"They'd have burnt Burroughs at the stake." My cheeks flamed with the realisation I had inadvertently admitted to at least a partial knowledge of the material.

"Society has an extensive history of persecuting those that fall inside the parameters of what they consider normal."

"Look what they did to poor Eddy Scissorhands."

"You're really into that movie, aren't you?"

"It makes me cry," I said, looking away.

"I know."

I was going to say don't tell anyone, but I trusted Robbie implicitly, more even than I trusted myself. Before my brain could invent reasons not to, I opened the nightstand door.

"I've been writing stuff," I said, holding the red hard-backed notebook in my hand. "Poems and... I dunno... if you'd want to—"

"Love to," Robbie said, stretching out his arm.

I was giving him something sacred. A part of me. The real me.

An imaginary weight lifted off my shoulders as I released the notebook from my clutch.

"The early ones are kinda juvenile." But he was already ahead of me. He had opened the book midway through.

I tried not to look at him as he read my words. Words sprung from a place deep inside me. Uncensored thoughts that had seeped from my brain in those midnight hours before sleep arrived to wash away the day's pain.

I looked at the top of his skull as he pored over the words, wondering what ideas were percolating beneath that flesh and bone.

I felt bare as a body on a coroner's table, ready for dissection.

Scrutinised.

"These aren't half-bad," he said, looking up from the page. "I especially liked, The Garden,"—his eyebrow arched—"Whole lot of subtext... Deep. It got me, that one."

Our gaze met and mingled. Something tacit passed between us, a shared emotion, too private to yet reveal itself.

I broke away. "That's my personal favourite," thinking back to that night I'd read Naked Lunch.

"There's something I'm curious to know." Oh no, here it comes, I thought, steeling myself for the question I was simultaneously dreading, yet secretly hoping he'd ask. "What's up with your handwriting?"

"Huh?"

"You veer from neat cursive, almost feminine, style to a wild madman scrawl. You write when you're drunk?"

I chuckled. "I once handed in a short story—that ended up ballooning into a novella—for a school assignment. My writing was so wonky the English teacher was convinced it'd been written by a schizophrenic."

"Oh... I scribble a bit myself," he said. "I'll have to show you sometime."

So much I wished to say, but I settled for, "I'd like that."

We fell silent, and you could hear the light breeze blowing through the leaves of the apple tree outside my bedroom window.

We talked about our favourite writers until tiredness got the better of us.