by L.H. Cosway
Conor also appeared saddened by this news, but Yvonne didn’t seem to notice. Instead she hit play on the DVD and the opening credits rolled.
“Billy Crystal, now there’s a man with a questionable hairdo, and old Meggie Ryan is still interested,” said Sam to Conor.
Conor shrugged, obviously still not convinced.
“Hush, or they’ll miss the opening scene,” Yvonne scolded, and he shut his mouth.
About thirty minutes into the film, while Meg Ryan was being particularly adorable with her shaggy nineties curls, and everyone was absorbed in the story, I got up to change into some PJs. I didn’t notice Dylan followed me until I turned around and there he was in the doorway.
“Mind if I come in?” he asked, voice quiet.
I lifted a shoulder. “I’ve seen your room. I guess it’s only fair that you see mine.”
Dylan grimaced. “Sorry again, by the way, for being a prick.”
“It’s water under the bridge.”
He stepped inside and sat on my bed, looking around with interest. I went to pull my pyjamas from the dresser. All I could think about was the fact that there was a boy sitting on my bed. A handsome, interesting, and slightly mysterious boy. His gaze traced the few trinkets on my shelf, lingering on the small vase of jasmine on my bedside table.
“Have you decided if you’re going to go yet?”
I frowned at him. “Go where?”
“To New York, with Yvonne.”
I let out a small sigh. “I can’t. Not with my grandma living at the care home. If I went she’d have no one, and Yvonne deserves to finally pursue her dreams. She’s spent the last four years of her life taking care of a teenager who isn’t even hers.”
Dylan studied me, his expression pensive. “So, you’re just going to stay here at the Villas forever?”
I gave a soft chuckle. “You make it sound like a death sentence.”
He was dead serious when he replied, “But it is.”
“Oh, come on, this place might not be the Ritz, but it’s hardly so bad. I’ve got a roof over my head, a garden to care for. Life doesn’t always have to include some big, glamorous dream like it does for Yvonne.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
I looked at him, fresh PJs hanging over my arm and said, “Okay, tell me how I’m wrong.”
He chewed his lip, a deep frown marring his features. “Someone like you shouldn’t stay in a place like this. If you do, you’ll harden. Your attitude will sour. I hate it here. Every day I think about leaving. The only reason I stay is for Dad and to finish school.”
The passionate way he spoke surprised me. I didn’t think Dylan loved living here, no one did, but I hadn’t realised he hated it so much either.
“Someone like me?” I whispered.
His reply was emphatic. “You’re sunshine, Evelyn, and there’s nothing but clouds around here.”
I didn’t know what to say, then Dylan continued, “I mean, do you ever think there’ll come a day when you don’t smell like this place? It seeps into all your clothes, all your stuff. Sometimes, when I meet new people, I worry they’ll know where I come from just because of how I smell. Did you know I work weekends at a fragrance counter in Arnotts? It’s where people with money go to shop, and some days I’m terrified they’re going to figure it out. They’re going to smell this place on me and know exactly where I come from. That I’m not one of them and I never will be.”
I didn’t know about Dylan’s job, but he definitely had the looks to sell cologne to rich people. I still wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I mean, what do you say to a speech like that?
“I just want to feel clean for one day in my life. I can never feel clean here.”
“You are clean, Dylan. You’re just overthinking it. You know, like how you say your dad does sometimes?”
“We both know I’m not. You and Yvonne might only allow positivity in your lives, but there’s gonna come a time when you figure out it’s all bullshit. The world is not a positive place, at least not when St. Mary’s fucking Villas is your home.”
My throat tightened, because now he was being mean. “That’s not true,” I whispered.
“What about your gran then? That’s what we all have to look forward to. Getting old and having to face the indignity of not being able to go to the bathroom on our own.”
“My gran is only fifty-nine,” I told him, angrily. “She has MS. It’s a degenerative illness. That’s why she lives in a care home. Yvonne wanted to care for her here, but it just wasn’t possible as her condition worsened. The lift is always out of order and we’re six stories up. So please, get your facts straight before you talk about other people’s situations.”
Dylan stared at me, shamefaced, then looked down and wearily ran his hands down his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry. When I get started on these rants I just can’t seem to stop sometimes.”
I took a moment to calm down. Dylan hadn’t intended to hurt me. In fact, it was clear he’d needed to vent his frustration. “You have a lot of anger in you.”
His eyes rose to mine and he looked so tired, “I know.”
“You’re too young to be so angry.”
He shook his head. “Anger can get you at any age, Ev, believe me.”
I studied him a moment and wondered if it was because he lost his mam, if that was where his unhappiness stemmed from. Or maybe it was a product of growing up here, where a hundred small injustices built to a giant ball of dissatisfaction.
“So, what will you do after school?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Not sure yet.”
“Really? You talk like you have some grand plan.”
That got the tiniest hint of a smile out of him. “My grand plan is to get out of here. I’ll figure out the rest when the time comes.”
“Well, I think you’ve got worrying down pat. Perhaps you could become a professional misery merchant to people who have too much happiness in their lives. That is, when you’re not hocking overpriced cologne and perfume to men and women who think they can spruce up their lives with a new scent.”
He appeared interested by this last bit. “You think that’s so absurd?”
“Not absurd. I just don’t believe the latest fragrance from Calvin Klein is going to turn men into George Clooney, or women into Eva Longoria for that matter.”
He huffed a breath of frustration. “Another thing we disagree on then.”
I eyed him, incredulous. “You do believe that?” Dylan O’Dea was the last person I thought could be fooled by clever marketing ploys.
When he looked at me, his features transformed, like he was thinking of his absolute favourite place in the world. Or his favourite person. “I think scent can transform anything,” he said, eyes aglow. “Take the Villas for example. If they didn’t smell so bad, they wouldn’t feel half as depressing. If they smelled like a field of wild lavender, or a grove of orange trees, I actually might not mind living here. If you ended up smelling sweaty and dirty after a shower, nobody would wash. Smelling nice makes people feel nice. It makes them feel ready to take on the day. I’ll grant you, no, a fragrance can’t turn a man into George Clooney, but it can make him feel like George Clooney, and that’s why he’s willing to pay so much for it.”
As I listened to him speak, my heart started to beat faster. The way he spoke made me feel a sense of urgency, like I was watching a person race somewhere far beyond the horizon. I could try to follow, but I’d never be fast enough. Maybe that was the allure of Dylan O’Dea. He wasn’t meant for a place like this, and he wouldn’t be here long. I could feel it in my bones.
“I think I see how you got the job at Arnotts now,” I said, my irritation fading as intrigue took its place. This boy revealed something new and interesting every time we spoke, even if his negativity frustrated me.
“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s convincing people that smells are important.”
“Makes sense, what with your nasal superpowers and all,” I s
aid, smiling.
We stared at one another for a moment. Dylan’s gaze traced the waves of my hair that fell over my shoulders, the tight lines of my dress where it hugged my hips then flared out over my thighs. An unknown feeling swept over me, like I was burning up from the inside.
A buzz filled my tiny room and Dylan reached down to pull his phone out. He glanced at the screen then lifted it to answer.
“Dad, hey.”
I watched as his brows formed a straight, furious line. “Right. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When he hung up he looked me dead in the eye, and I felt a chill at his expression. “Someone just spray-painted my fucking front door,” he said, voice near a growl.
Without another word, he stalked out of my room and through the living room, where the others were still watching the movie.
“Hey, where are you going?” Amy asked, perplexed.
Dylan didn’t answer but kept going until the front door slammed shut behind him.
“Someone spray-painted outside his flat,” I explained, before hurrying after him.
Amy swore while Conor got up to follow me. Two minutes later all five of us were at Dylan’s. A coil twisted in my gut when I saw the red letters on his door spelling out two words: dead man. Sam let out a gasp while I was the first to walk inside.
The scene I found struck a pang in my chest. Dylan knelt in front of the armchair where his dad sat, his arms tight around his neck as he hugged him. Tommy was obviously very shaken as Dylan whispered reassurances to try and calm him down.
“Whatever little shits did this deserve locking up,” said Yvonne when she saw the state Tommy was in. She still wore her pyjamas, but she didn’t appear to care right then. She walked over to Dylan and his dad, kneeling, too.
“Tommy, I’m Yvonne Flynn, Evelyn’s aunt. Would you like me to call the Gardaí?”
Dylan’s dad shook his head. “No, please don’t. I don’t want any trouble.”
“They can’t help anyway,” said Dylan. “I’ll sort this. You should all go home.”
“We’re not going home. And you’re not sorting this on your own,” Amy argued.
Something about her tone must’ve set him off, because he turned to her, furious. “If I say I’ll sort it, I’ll fucking sort it.” A pause before his voice grew louder, sterner. “Now you all need to leave.”
“But Dylan, we just want to—”
“I said LEAVE,” he shouted, and I jumped in fright.
“Come on. Dylan’s right,” Yvonne said, the voice of reason. “We should give him and his dad some privacy.”
I didn’t want to go, but I also didn’t want to contend with Dylan’s rage. I think everyone was feeling the same way, because a moment later we were out, heading back to our flat.
“Do you think it was Shane?” I asked Conor as we walked. I could tell he was just as worried about Dylan as I was.
“I have no idea. It could’ve been some of the lads from the McCarthy gang. You know they’ve been trying to recruit him?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I saw the black eye he got for resisting.”
Conor blew out a long breath. “They want him because of his size. They prefer lads like Dylan in their crew because he looks intimating to other gangs. Sometimes I’m glad to be skinny and half blind.”
“You’ll fill out,” Sam said. “And there’s always laser eye surgery. Also, I’m pretty sure this wasn’t Shane. He’s all talk and no teeth.”
“He had some teeth when he was punching my niece in the face,” Yvonne put in. “I’ll be having a word with his mother the next time I see her.”
“His ma’s on crack,” said Amy. “She could give a shit about what her son does.”
Yvonne’s mouth firmed, a small line forming between her eyebrows. “She’ll give a shit when I’m finished with her.”
“Go, Yvonne,” Sam hooted. “You’re our hero. I should get you a Wonder Woman costume for Halloween.”
Conor’s expression turned shy, like he was embarrassed for enjoying the idea of my aunt in costume. I think I was the only one who noticed though.
When we reached the flat, Yvonne pressed play on the movie, but I couldn’t get into it. My mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about Dylan and those horrible words on his door. His anger suddenly made sense. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like having scumbags constantly taunting you, trying to wear you down. Only Dylan didn’t strike me as the type to be worn down, and he seemed determined to drill the message home, whatever that entailed. My stomach felt tight and queasy as I imagined him digging an even bigger hole for himself.
What was he going to do? And more importantly, who exactly was he going to do it to?
Chapter 6
“You cleaned it off, didn’t you?” came a voice over my shoulder.
I was on my way to class when Dylan gently grabbed my elbow, stopping me in place.
“Cleaned what off?” I asked, feigning ignorance as I looked up at him. Of course, I knew exactly what he was asking. Early this morning, I went to his flat and scrubbed the spray paint from his front door. I felt so useless, so unable to help, but I wanted to do something. So, I cleaned his door. It wasn’t a big deal.
“Don’t play coy. I know it was you. My dad saw you.”
I blew out a breath. “Fine, it was me, but I wanted to do it. If it was Shane, then it’s sort of my fault when you think about it.”
“It wasn’t Shane. He doesn’t have the balls.”
I thought on that a second. Maybe he was right. “Sam says he’s all talk and no teeth.”
“Sam talks a lot of sense . . . when the mood takes him.”
I gave a soft laugh. “You’re right about that.”
Dylan smiled at me then looked away as we continued walking. He cleared his throat, a touch of emotion in his voice when he said, “Anyway, thank you for doing it. I would’ve cleaned it myself only I got so angry every time I looked at it. It was difficult not to punch a hole in the door.”
“You probably could. Doors at the Villas are paper thin.” I paused a second before I continued, “So . . . if it wasn’t Shane, then who?”
Dylan’s expression sobered. “You know who, Evelyn.”
I lowered my voice and glanced around. “You’re not going to join them, are you?”
“They’ll have to kill me first,” he replied darkly and a rush of anxiety went through me. It wasn’t like the McCarthys hadn’t killed people. And that was before you factored in all the drug-related deaths from the heroin they peddled.
“Don’t say that,” I whispered, stopping in place.
Dylan came to stand in front of me. He looked down and studied my expression. “Would you miss me if they did?”
“’Course I would.”
My answer caused him some kind of pleasure, because his gaze heated and his features softened. “I better make sure I don’t die then.”
“Yes,” I replied, rolling my eyes because he’d obviously been fishing for a compliment, or some clue as to my feelings. “Please do. Now I’ve got to get to class.”
“Get to class then. And I’ll be sure to keep this body of mine alive for ya,” he said and reached out to squeeze my hand.
I stepped by him and continued down the corridor, my stomach fizzling from his brief touch. I was preoccupied during class, Dylan’s smile in my head, his subtle flirting a thrill in my belly.
The next time I saw him was later that day in the lunchroom. I sat next to Sam and peeled back the cling film on my sandwich, when an almighty ruckus broke out.
All I could hear was, “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” where a crowd had gathered at the other side of the room, but I couldn’t see past all the students.
Sam’s eyes grew big as he shoved back his chair and went to see who was fighting. I followed, mostly to make sure my friend didn’t get caught in the crossfire. I pushed through bodies, all of them chanting, egging on whoever it was.
I froze when I saw Dylan fighting three other boys,
all of them young McCarthy members. One of them, Jackson Keegan, was a known troublemaker. He was always getting suspended for fighting with other students, or trying to intimidate teachers. The sight of Dylan taking him on made my blood run cold, because it was rumoured Jackson had beaten one kid so badly he had to be hospitalised. Dylan was lucky he had brawn on his side.
When I left him earlier, he’d been so light-hearted and flirtatious. It was a shock to see him now, fighting off three boys with only his fists. He threw a punch at one, while another came from behind and kicked him in the shin. I winced and sucked in a breath. Dylan turned, and the boy who’d kicked him struck him again, this time in the chest.
“Hey! Break it up,” the principal’s voice boomed, and the crowd instantly dispersed. Mr Kelly was a formidable man. Over six feet tall with hair clipped short and a perennially stern expression, he wasn’t the sort to be trifled with.
I walked a few yards away and watched as he pointed out Dylan and the others. “You four. My office. NOW.”
A hush fell over the room while they were escorted out. I went to join Sam at our table, though I wasn’t very hungry anymore.
“You think this is what Dylan meant when he said he’d sort it?” Sam asked, his mouth dipping downward. It was a rare occasion when Sam frowned, so I knew the fight had affected him.
“I’m not sure. They might’ve started it. He was probably trying to defend himself,” I replied, anxious.
“I dunno. That boy seems to have a self-destruct button.”
I exhaled heavily, because Sam was right. Dylan didn’t strike me as someone who took self-preservation into consideration, especially when he felt threatened. He dove straight into the fray.
I was lost in thought when Shane walked by our table, his usual sneer in place.
“Can we help you?” Sam asked, a challenge.
“Nope. Just seeing what a pair of fags looks like.”
“Girls aren’t fags, fuckface. They’re lesbos. Get it right,” Sam retorted.