by L.H. Cosway
“I’m Evelyn. I live upstairs,” I replied and shook with him. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, Evelyn. I recognise your face. Aren’t you Yvonne Flynn’s young one?”
“No, I’m her niece. Lily’s my mam, but I live with Yvonne now.”
“Right, yes,” said Tommy, smacking his forehead like he should’ve known. “Well, come in and sit down. Dylan rarely brings friends over. The only ones I ever see are Conor and that Amy girl.”
I sat on the small couch, sliding my bag off my shoulder and onto the floor. Dylan’s dad studied me a moment, like something just occurred to him.
“My goodness, do you know what? I think I was the one who drove your mother to the hospital when she went into labour,” he exclaimed. “I used to drive a taxi, but I gave that up a few years back. It’s too dangerous nowadays. Any kind of nutcase could climb into the back of my car.”
“There’s always been nutcases, Dad. It’s hardly a new thing,” Dylan said, his posture tense, eyes flicking between his dad and me like he was waiting for judgement. I, on the other hand, was far too preoccupied with what he said about my mam. “You drove my mam to the hospital?”
I knew very little about my birth, mostly because Mam didn’t talk about stuff like that. All I knew was she got pregnant from having sex with some random boy when she’d barely turned fifteen.
“Yes, your aunt and granny weren’t around, so she called for a taxi to take her to the Rotunda. Poor thing was terrified. I called my Maureen, God rest her soul, to come and help calm her down on the drive. She left Dylan at the neighbour’s and stayed with your mam throughout her labour, only leaving when your aunt and granny showed up.”
Wow. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard this before. Maureen, Dylan’s mam, must’ve been a nice lady to stay and comfort a young pregnant teen while she gave birth. Was that why I felt a connection to Dylan? Or was it simply because he was so different from other boys, an enigma?
“I never knew that,” I breathed, emotion fisting my heart. I’d always been so dismissive of Mam and her selfish decision to leave, but maybe I needed to think of things from her perspective. She was two years younger than I am now when she had me. With no job or education, no prospects, she must’ve been terrified. I made a mental note to ask Gran some more about the pregnancy the next time I visited her at the home.
“Well, some people don’t like to talk about these things,” said Tommy, a touch of sympathy to his voice. “When Maureen went into labour with Dylan, I wanted to vomit I was so nervous. Childbirth can be a terrifying thing. In my mother’s day, most women suffered several miscarriages, or even stillbirths over the course of their lives. It was just the way of things, what with there being such poor healthcare and a lack of contraception. We can thank the Catholic church for that,” he added with a hint of derision.
“Dad,” Dylan said, a warning. I thought he might be worried I’d be offended.
“What? I’m sure Evelyn is aware of the church’s history in this country, swiping babies from young mothers and selling them off to the highest bidder. It was disgraceful the way some of those nuns treated the women in their care. I mean, they were more or less imprisoned for the simple act of having a child out of wedlock. Lily Flynn was lucky she didn’t fall into the same trap with young Evelyn here. The Magdalene laundries were still active up until the mid-nineties, you know.”
“Dad, please,” Dylan gritted, but Tommy just kept going.
“And do you know why they were named after Mary Magdalene?” he scoffed. “Because she was a reformed prostitute. As though falling pregnant at a young age is akin to prostitution. And of course, that’s what they were doing, reforming these girls, not stealing their babies to make a quick buck and getting free labour in the process.”
“Okay,” Dylan announced, standing abruptly. He came and took my hand in his, and the familiar touch surprised me. “We’re going to my room to do homework.” I grabbed my bag before I was dragged away.
“Right, sure, I’ll make dinner in a bit,” his dad replied, like there was nothing wrong. And there wasn’t. However, it did make me feel vaguely ill to think of some alternate reality where my mam was sent to a workhouse. I let Dylan lead me down the hallway.
His room was tiny, and like the rest of the flat there was very little space. He had a single bed against the wall, a small window, some shelves, and a wardrobe. “I like your dad,” I said as I sat down on his bed. It felt weirdly intimate, but there was literally nowhere else to sit. “Really, I do. You don’t need to worry about him offending me or anything.”
Dylan exhaled a breath as he grabbed some textbooks from the shelf. “You don’t have to pretend. I know he’s not exactly normal.”
“Who’s normal? We all have little eccentricities in the privacy of our own homes.”
“Right, I’m sure you’re such a freak,” Dylan huffed grumpily. I couldn’t believe he was being so crabby about this. We all got a little embarrassed by our family members every once in a while. It was a part of life.
“I was just saying, there’s no need to be annoyed at your dad. He’s interesting.”
“Glad you enjoyed the freak show,” he replied scornfully.
“Dylan,” I said, my voice firm.
He glanced at me, face hard. “What?”
“You’re being an arsehole, so I think I’m going to leave now.”
I stood and grabbed my bag, throwing it over my shoulder. Dylan’s expression hardened further, a conflict in his gaze. However, the stubborn set of his jaw told me he wasn’t someone who backed down in arguments very often.
“Go then,” he grumped and focused his attention on flicking through his textbook.
I narrowed my gaze, turned on my heel and went. Even though he’d been feigning preoccupation with the book, I sensed him watch me leave. Not long ago, I hadn’t really known who Dylan O’Dea was. In my flat, he’d been careful, strong, protective. In the stairwell, he’d been engaging, gallant, and astute. Now? Now he was being childish and difficult. Which was kinda funny, really. He rarely brought people over, yet he brought me inside his home only to turn around and act like an arse.
All I knew was, if he wanted to continue being friends, he better be the one to apologise.
Chapter 4
It was one of those mild, sunny September mornings. My favourite. I loved autumn most of all, because even though the leaves fell from the trees, their pretty colours lit up the streets surrounding the Villas. They covered all the depressing grey concrete with browns and yellows and dusky reds.
Mrs O’Flaherty and Seamus were already on the roof when I arrived at my allotment. Mrs O’Flaherty favoured growing vegetables, while I was much more interested in flowers. In fact, my echinacea were currently in full bloom, the purple petals standing to attention under the morning sun.
I planned to clip them today and take some to my gran when I visited her at the home this evening. Grandma Flynn was the one who first introduced me to gardening, and though she was too infirm to garden herself, she loved it when I brought her the flowers I’d grown.
“Morning, Seamus, morning, Mrs O’Flaherty,” I greeted as I went to ready my tools and put on my gardening gloves.
“Good morning, Evelyn,” Mrs O’Flaherty replied, while Seamus shyly bobbed his head. He wasn’t much of a talker, more of a silent, watchful type, with perennially rosy cheeks. He was about my age, and he attended an all-boys school, which probably explained his inability to talk to me. He wasn’t used to being around girls.
“Those cherry tomatoes are looking good,” I commented, and Mrs O’Flaherty seemed pleased with the compliment.
“I’m very happy with how they turned out, though most of the praise should go to Seamus. He did the lion’s share of the work.”
I glanced at Seamus and smiled. “Well done, we’ll make a farmer out of you yet.”
“Fat chance of that,” Mrs O’Flaherty scoffed. “My son’s having him take law at Trinity n
ext year.”
“If I manage to get in,” Seamus added quietly.
“Trinity, eh?” I commented. “Fancy.”
“There are grants I can apply for,” he explained, as though worried I’d presume he was rich or something. He might not have lived in the flats, but his grandma liked to talk, so I knew he wasn’t wealthy. His dad was an English teacher and his mam a special needs care worker.
“Oh, right,” I said. I had no intention of applying to college myself. I wanted to get a job, like Yvonne, and pay my way. If I could get work on a flower farm, it’d be ideal.
“I’m thinking of growing some rhubarb this year,” Mrs O’Flaherty went on, and I grimaced. I hated rhubarb, not just as a vegetable, but as a plant, too. It was an invasive species, and once grown, had a habit of spreading like wildfire, leaving no room for anything else. We’d once gone on a school trip to Achill Island, and the place was literally overrun with the stuff.
“Well, just make sure you keep it to one section of the allotment. I don’t want to deal with an invasion.”
“I love a bit of rhubarb crumble in the autumn,” Mrs O’Flaherty said, wistfully.
I didn’t comment because I honestly thought it was unpalatable. You had to use so much sugar to make it taste nice. You might as well eat a flipping strawberry instead.
“Need any help?” came a familiar voice, and I glanced up.
Dylan stood a few feet away, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. The golden tones in his hair twinkled under the sun. I was more than a little surprised to see him, especially considering it had been a week since I’d stormed out of his flat. We hadn’t talked at all since then, so his appearance made me feel a touch awkward. I was also miffed that Conor never bothered to show, even with the prospect of bumping into Yvonne to lure him.
“Uh, yes, sure. Let me go grab you a pair of gloves,” I replied casually. I wouldn’t let him know that each day he didn’t try to make amends burned a new hole in my chest. It was unnerving how much I thought about him, given how little time we’d been acquainted.
“You’re Tommy O’Dea’s young lad, aren’t you?” Mrs O’Flaherty asked, glancing at Dylan from under her sun hat.
“That’s right,” Dylan replied.
“How is he these days? Still not gone back to driving his taxi yet?”
“No, not yet.” Dylan’s posture stiffened.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Some people just aren’t great at sticking with jobs, but do give him my best,” she went on, a touch of haughtiness to her tone.
“I will.” Dylan spoke quietly, firmly.
I cut Mrs O’Flaherty a sharp look, mostly because I took issue with people who hadn’t worked a day in their lives condescendingly asking after other people’s employment status. She had one son, Seamus’s father, and she’d been a lady of leisure ever since he fled the nest a good twenty-five years ago, living off her late husband’s pension. Also, because she talked so much, I knew her other grandson, Seamus’s brother, was a twenty-three-year-old layabout with a bad marijuana habit, who spent most of his time in his bedroom playing the drums.
“Speaking of which,” I said to Seamus, “how’s your brother doing?”
Mrs O’Flaherty visibly stilled, her lips flattening into a thin line of displeasure as she dug her trowel into some soil.
Seamus let out a heavy sigh. “Still smoking weed. Still as lazy as ever.”
I eyed Mrs O’ Flaherty pointedly in quiet defence of Dylan, letting her know he wasn’t the only one with weak spots. I wasn’t sure why I did it, because it wasn’t like Dylan and I were buddies. In fact, I wasn’t sure if we were on speaking terms yet. I just didn’t like people looking down on others, no matter the situation. I guess I knew what it felt like. Gossip abounded after Mam left me with Yvonne so she could swan off to London.
I walked to the other end of the allotment, and Dylan followed behind.
“Sorry about her,” I said once we were out of earshot. “She can be a bit of a snob sometimes.”
Dylan shrugged. “No worries.”
“Though why anyone who lives in the Villas thinks they have a right to snobbery is beyond me,” I went on, and Dylan showed the barest hint of a smile before clearing his throat.
“So, uh, I wanted to apologise for last week. You were right. I was an arsehole, and I’m sorry for that.”
“Here, put these on. They might be a bit of a tight fit, but they’re all I have right now,” I said, uncomfortable with apologies.
Dylan appeared perplexed at my offering of girl-sized gloves. “That’s okay. I’ll bring my own next time. So, is my apology accepted or . . .?”
I shrugged. “You probably don’t need them anyway. I’m clipping these echinacea flowers this morning. And yes, apology accepted.”
“Good,” Dylan murmured, his gaze sharpening on the small mole just under my jaw. “Because I’ve missed you.”
A rush of air claimed my lungs at his statement. I tried to play it cool, while on the inside my heart raced. “You hardly know me.”
“That’s not true. I’ve known you for years.”
I didn’t know what to make of that, though in a way he was right. We’d been aware of each other’s existence for years, but we’d never actually exchanged words. I eyed him for a second. “You’re very honest.”
“To a fault sometimes.”
“I don’t see how honesty can ever be a fault, not in the grand scheme of things.”
“Oh, believe me, it can. Kind of like how I depress people with my doom and gloom, I also drive people away with my honesty. Most of us just want pleasant lies.”
“Hmm,” I said, pondering it. “You have a point. I’d much rather be told my arse looks good in jeans than fat.”
Dylan absentmindedly took the clippers from me and carefully snipped a flower. “I never understood why women consider a fat arse a bad thing.”
I grinned at that and Dylan brought the flower to his nose to breathe in. I’d almost forgotten about his preternatural sense of smell. “Sweet,” he murmured, and I suppressed a swell of attraction at the way he inhaled so intently.
“Echinacea has a lot of medicinal properties. You can dry it and turn it into a tea, or you can simply eat them like this,” I said, pulling off a petal and sticking it in my mouth. “Although, personally, I think the flowers are too pretty not to put in a vase and admire, at least for a little while.”
Dylan watched me curiously while I chewed the petal, his eyebrows rising ever so slightly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little odd?”
“This coming from the king of gloom.”
“That must be why I don’t scare you. Your oddness counteracts my gloominess.”
“Speaking of odd, have you ever heard of miracle berries?”
Dylan let out a chuckle. “You see. You are odd, Evelyn Flynn. If I’m the king of gloom, you’re the queen of randomness.”
I smiled at that. He really was incredibly gorgeous, especially when he chuckled. He said he’d missed me. Dylan O’Dea had missed me. Berries. I was talking about berries.
“No seriously, I just read about them the other day. They’re this small red fruit from Africa, and after you eat them they make sour foods taste sweet.”
“So, I could eat a lemon and it’d taste like an orange?”
“Exactly. I’ve been dying to find some to see if they work, but I don’t think you can buy them here.”
Dylan chuckled again before he clipped a few more flowers. I admired the way the muscles in his arms moved as he did so.
“Other girls your age dream about getting the latest shade of lipstick, or tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert. You dream about finding miracle berries for sale at the local supermarket.”
I gave him a light shove and defended, “I just want to get my hands on those elusive fruits, okay?” Dylan shook his head, and I bit my lip as I studied him. “By the way, how’s your dad been?”
His brows started to furrow. “He’
s fine. Why?”
“I was just thinking about what he said about feeling unwell. You shouldn’t be so dismissive. He could actually be sick, you know.”
Dylan’s expression turned weary. “He’s not sick. Well, not physically anyway. My dad’s got depression, it makes him sort of fixate on things.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t apologise. He’s always been prone to bouts of sadness, but after Mam passed away it got worse. Like, if there are kids hanging around outside the flat, he’ll immediately think they’re up to no good, trying to rob the place or something. Give him a situation and he’ll always think the worst.”
“That must be hard to live with sometimes,” I said, feeling sad for him. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have your parent constantly worrying. Yvonne and I were pretty similar in the sense that we always tried to look on the bright side. It was why living together was so easy.
Dylan nodded and went quiet then, just looking at me. I tucked some hair behind my ear, self-conscious as I asked, “What?”
He made a low hum and his eyes traced my features. “Just mentally berating myself for not befriending you sooner.”
His statement made my cheeks heat, and my chest fluttered at the way he looked at me, so focused, so sincere.
“Is that what you’re doing? Befriending me?”
His expression turned thoughtful, those handsome brows of his drawing together. “I think so.”
We worked in quiet for a minute as I let that sink in. I was incredibly flattered that he wanted to know me. It wasn’t often that you met someone and just clicked with them like I had with Dylan. I was also relieved that he seemed to accept there was no judgement on my part regarding his dad. I had enjoyed meeting him, and even though I felt sad for them both in different ways, I was fairly certain Dylan hadn’t felt as though I’d judged him. How could I? I knew what it was like to lose someone I loved. Or be abandoned. At least Dylan’s mam hadn’t left him by choice.