by Casey Hays
Honestly, I have to get out of here. Her commentary on my potential love life has me thinking again. Lately, I don’t like the avenue of thinking my brain likes to travel.
As soon as I leave the room, I spot Kane making his way back from the bar. I dodge him, pressing myself up against the backside of the DJ booth. He slides by, a couple of drinks and a container of popcorn in his hands, and I sink lower against the booth.
Am I really hiding from Kane? This is seriously ridiculous.
I squeeze around a dancing couple who have become one creature in the shadowy light. They don’t even detect my presence because they’re lost in some ethereal dimension. Alone in a sea of couples. My heart palpitates in tune with the music. Is this what we looked like, Kane and I? His arms linked at my waist? My emotions written on every inch of my body, vulnerable and insecure, intimate and raw in the midst of a crowd of strangers? Oh, I hope not.
I take a detour to the restrooms. They sit at the end of a long hallway behind the DJ booth. Boys to the left, girls to the right. The hallway is guarded by a pair of swinging doors like the kind you see in an old-time saloon. The word ESTROOM is etched in bright red letters across the faded yellow wood. Why no one has ever bothered to reprint the R in all these years is beyond me. It’s a splash of red paint, people.
In the ladies room, I select a stall and slump onto the lid of the toilet, drawing my knees to my chest. I bask in the moment of just being with myself. In the quiet, we have a real heart-to-heart with each other.
Mistake number one: I shouldn’t have danced with Kane. But see, that’s the puzzle. We’ve been friends since we were kids. A dance is safe.
Yes, a dance is safe… until it prompts a kiss.
I cringe. I’ve never needed Kane to be more than my friend; I don’t want more from him. I don’t. Right?
Wrong.
Perched on the top of this toilet, I take a hard look at myself. I’m tripped up by a feeling I want to deny. This urge to lay my heart right up next to his—let him have a bigger slice of it. My preconceived notion of our friendship kicks at me like a child throwing a tantrum. I don’t know whether to spank it or give it what it wants.
I drop my feet to the floor and stand. I need to refocus. It’s the only way to keep myself centered. So in my mind’s eye, I draw up the boy I’ve known since kindergarten. My friend. He’s always owned those alluring green eyes and smelled like woodsy vanilla. So what if his silky hair is softer than I remember. It’s still the same sleek, raven color now that it was then. Nothing new.
So.
I won’t let it affect me.
At the sink, I slide off my ring to wash my hands. The warped mirror has a blue tint that makes my face appear ghostly and reflects the empty room behind me with its cracked walls and dingy tiles. I run a finger through a loop of my hair and tug on my skirt, assessing myself.
“Okay.” My mirror image speaks back to me, and I nod with confidence. “It’s all good now.”
I grab my ring from the edge of the sink, shove out the door, and bump smack into a girl with blue hair and way too much black eyeliner. She scowls.
“Watch it!”
What I watch is my ring fly free from my grip and soar into the air. It lands with a thud on the red carpet before bouncing right through the slats of the return air vent across from the ladies’ room door. Believe me, something like this could not happen twice.
“Crap!” The bathroom door kicks shut behind me. I sink to my knees and peer into the vent. “No, no, no.”
Minus the dingy lightbulb, the hall is dark, especially with the blood red carpet. I can see nothing in the pitch black behind the vent cover, and I claw at the screws that hold it, working my fingernails into the crossed indentions. It’s useless. Panic and desperation pair up to beat against me. This isn’t happening!
“Stupid,” I whisper. Why didn’t I put my ring on before I left the bathroom? I smash my face up against the slats, desperate to catch a glimpse of it.
In case you can’t tell, this isn’t just any ring; it’s one of the last gifts from my dad. And this might sound crazy, but he promised me it had special powers that would protect me. I kind of took that to heart after his death. And I know: magic rings are for fairy tales. You don’t have to tell me how ludicrous it sounds. But I like the idea of it.
I shuffle to my feet. The music pounds in the distance, and my heart thuds in unison. The blue-haired girl shuffles out.
“Excuse me,” I lift a hopeful finger to ask a very stupid question. “You wouldn’t happen to have a flashlight, would you? Maybe just one of those little ones on a key ring?”
Annoyed, she flashes me a dirty look… and the finger… and stalks off.
“Well, thanks anyway,” I mutter. I clench my fists and curse through my teeth. “Damn, damn, damn!”
I examine the vent. The bottom portion has a wider space between slats. If I could get my fingers in, I might be able to feel along the edge, and…
…and I’m stuck.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Nope. I’m stuck.
I tug once. Something pops, and pain like fire sears me.
“Ow, ow, ouch!” I hiss through my teeth. Ugh! This is turning into the worst night of my life.
I tug again, but the pain is too much, pins and needles running up my forearm. I take in a gulp of air and dig into my pocket for my cell phone. I’ll just call Devan.
My phone is dead.
“Noooo….”
Panic surges. This really isn’t the distraction I was asking for.
Five
It takes a bit of an effort to keep myself calm, and my heartbeat belies even that. The yellow, swinging doors taunt me like the golden gates of heaven. But the long, dark, and narrow hallway remains completely empty of traffic. Apparently, the blue-haired girl was the last person in the club who had to pee. Yep. That’s about how my luck usually goes.
I focus on the vent and mentally slow my beating heart. Panicking won’t free me, so I need to think. If my fingers went in, they have to come out. It’s science.
I hold my breath and press a cheek against the floor—the dirty who-knows-what-has-touched-it floor—and angle my eye, hoping for some miracle. I should have gone for help instead of literally taking matters into my own hands. Seriously, some random guy in this club more than likely has a screwdriver in his truck. And yet… here I sit. I’m an idiot.
One of my fingers starts to swell; I feel it. I have to do something. Sitting, I brace my feet against the dirty wall, take a couple deep breaths, and yank.
“Ahhhh…”
My fingers break free, but I leave a good amount of skin behind. To top it off, I tumble backwards, virtually head over heels in my skirt, and slam right into the ladies’ room door. And you know what? I don’t even care. My ring finger throbs, clearly sprained or worse. I’m afraid to look. I just lay here, sprawled on the dirty floor on my back, and breathe deep for a good few seconds.
“Are you all right down there?”
The voice seems far away at first. I pop open an eye and stare upward through a tiny, defensive slit. Someone hovers over me.
“D’you need help?”
It’s a lilting Irish voice that comes to my rescue, and I squint up at its owner. He kneels next to me, his hand suddenly molding around my knee. I can’t make him out; the dimness of the hallway turns him into a mere shadow. He smells like mint. I scuttle to a sitting position, favoring my left hand, and tug down my skirt.
“Are you all right?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
I mouth the word. I don’t even know if he hears it, but I don’t care. I feel the tears building, my throat tightening as they gather. A couple of girls glide into the hall, gawking on their way to the restroom. I scooch over to give them room to pass. Yeah, now everyone has to pee. Perfect.
“Well, you’re alive at the very least.” I hone in on the Irish-voiced boy, barely making out the expression on his face. He tips an amus
ed glance at me. “I thought you were sleeping. Didn’t want to wake ye at first.”
Despite the pain, this makes me laugh. I drag myself to my feet, my left hand pinned to my chest. My shadow joins his on the wall. “Not asleep. Just… stupid.”
“I see.” He gestures toward my hand. “May I?”
I’m suspicious for a whole second before I hold it out. I don’t know why I’m trusting him, except that I can’t bear another minute of the agony by myself. If he wants a share in it, he can be my guest.
He shifts, tilting his head and moving my hand into the light to examine my finger, real concern embedded in his features. I examine him—everything from the angle of his jawline to the thick wisps of reddish-blond hair at his forehead. He plants his gaze on me, and my heart actually misses a beat. I take a real hard look at this stranger as the low light hits his face. A few slight freckles skip across his nose—not too many, just the right amount to make him cute. He’s the pool player from earlier. He gently taps my ring finger.
“This one is dislocated.”
Dislocated. I linger on his pronunciation of this word. He accentuates all the syllables in all the wrong places, and it sounds wonderful. And then… Snap!
“Ahhh!” I pull my hand away, tears smarting. “What the hell?”
“Sorry.” He flicks his tongue, wetting his lips. “Try to bend your fingers?”
Slowly, I bend them as best as I can with the swelling. It does feel volumes better.
“Wow. Thank you.” I curl my fingers a few more times. Two are scraped up good and bleeding a little. “You could have warned me.”
“No. That never works.” He nods once. “You’ll want to put some ice on it. The sooner the better. Just… wait here a minute.”
He disappears into the men’s room and returns with a paper towel. He applies it to the scrapes.
“Put some pressure.”
“Okay.” My voice is breathy, and by the smile that creeps onto his lips, he hears it. Even with the muffled music floating into the hallway. But I can’t help it. I’m mesmerized by the sounds coming from his mouth. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Oh, no.” He laughs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I guess you don’t remember me?”
“You mean, from the pool room?” With my question, the familiarity about him caresses me again. “I saw you earlier.”
“Right.” His full lips tip up on one side. “Jude, isn’t it? Jude Gallagher?”
I straighten. “How did you—”
He grins.
“I was only your next door neighbor for four years.” He thumbs at his chest. “Rylin McDowell.”
“Rylin?”
My surprise raises my voice a whole octave, but upon closer scrutiny, I see him inside this older boy. His grin deepens until it lights up his whole face despite the dark.
“Now you’ve got it.”
“Oh, wow. Yeah.” I scratch my head, suddenly picturing Mr. Tomlinson’s gnomes all over Rylin’s yard. “You moved back to Ireland, right?”
“Right after grade six,” he nods.
Sixth grade. A barrage of memories comes tumbling over me. The two girls exit, and we move aside. One smiles at me; the other tosses Rylin a hungry look. He nods politely and props himself against the wall, joining his shadow. Another girl slips past us on her way into the bathroom.
“So… this is a pretty embarrassing way to meet again.” I tighten my fingers around the paper towel, heat rising in my cheeks.
“Yeah.” He drops his eyes to the floor, tips them back up again. “What happened?”
“Oh… I was… just looking for something…” My voice trails, and I turn away as another wave of embarrassment floods over me at the image of my short-skirted self spread out all over the floor. He nods, not prying, so I keep talking. “Well, you look… different.” I laugh nervously. “All grown up. And your accent is a little stronger.”
“Yeah. Livin’ in the motherland for five years brings back a lot of things.”
“So, what are you doing back in Carson City?”
“Visiting me aunt for the summer. Me brother and I, that is. You remember Rael?”
“Yeah. Of course. How is he?”
“Good. He was here earlier, but he left.”
I nod. “And Ireland? How is it?”
“Irish,” he shrugs.
I laugh, but it comes off like a nervous little school girl’s giggle. Totally embarrassing. I have no idea where that came from. I cover my reaction by lifting the paper towel to check my wound.
“Actually,” he continues, bending a foot up to rest it against the wall. “It’s been interesting. My father is trainin’ me up to be master of the estate. Castle Dóiteáin.”
When I raise a curious brow, he shrugs again.
“Means fire in old Irish,” he explains, seemingly embarrassed. “We name our lands.”
“Yeah, my dad was Irish,” I nod. “He told me some of the history.” I lick my lower lip. “So a castle, huh? Does that make you a prince?”
He laughs. “Something like that.”
Silence.
“Well…” He pulls himself upright. “It was good seeing you.”
“Yeah. You too.”
A half smile pulls at the corner of his lips, then fades.
“Jude?”
At the end of the hall, Kane’s tall, shadowy frame fills the entrance, flanked on either side by the swinging doors. I tense.
Mind you, I haven’t seen Rylin in years, but when Kane steps into the hallway, my insides turn against me, accusing me of keeping some big secret. Another guy enters and skirts around Kane on his way to the restroom. I focus on his movements, biding my time.
“I thought you left.” Kane tips his chin toward us. I can’t see his face at first, which might be a good thing.
“Yeah, well…” My voice trails.
“And who’s this?”
He moves toward me, and his eyes narrow as he takes in Rylin.
“It’s Rylin McDowell.” I poke a casual thumb at him. “You remember Rylin, don’t you Kane? He lived next door to me when we were kids.”
Something flits through Kane’s eyes, so nearly imperceptible that I’m not sure how to even express what I see. But to my relief, he smiles after a second.
“Yeah, Rylin. It’s been a while.”
“That it has.” Rylin takes Kane’s offered hand, while I stand awkwardly between them, feeling very much like a cheating girlfriend. How ridiculous, huh? “How’ve you been?”
“Good. You?”
“Good as well.” Rylin’s eyes dance back and forth between Kane and me. Music hums over us; laughter rings out from beyond the hallway. After a second, he clasps his hands together. “Well, I’ll be off. It was good seeing you both.”
“Yeah. You too.” Kane deliberately drops an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. I smile through gritted teeth.
“Jude.” Rylin gives me a small nod. “Be careful of danger in dark hallways. And get some ice on that hand.”
I blush right on the spot. That accent might be the death of me. “Right.”
Another awkward second, and he disappears through the swinging doors. Kane cocks his head.
“You’ve been in here with him this whole time? And what’s he talking about?” He pulls back, notices the paper towel turned dark with my blood. He tugs my hands up into the light and examines them. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” Exasperated, I step back. “And—I wasn’t with him the whole time.”
He keeps hold of my hands, and his eyes deepen, the green literally darkening in his sockets. I swear it does. Seriously? He’s mad now? I pull away, but I see then; he isn’t mad. He looks… you know what? I can’t even describe it, and that scares me a little. Enough to strip my throat completely dry.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
In response, he takes my arm and turns me away from the entrance and toward the back wall.
“Where’s your ring?�
�
Stunned, I stare up at him, right into those emerald greens that are disguised in the shadows.
“Where is it?” he repeats. Panic laces his voice. I point.
“It’s in the vent.”
“The vent?” He releases me and squats. “Why?”
I sigh. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Okay. I see it.”
“You see it?” Highly doubtful. I lean over his back. “Do you have a flashlight?”
Ignoring me, he fumbles with the vent cover.
“Yeah,” I wave a hand. “I tried that. We’re gonna need a—”
It pops free. Without a word, Kane stands and slides my ring into place on my right middle finger.
“There,” he sighs.
I stare at the hole in the wall, the vent cover tossed aside, screws lying in a neat pile.
“How did you get that off?”
“Well, I’d tell you, but—”
“Kane.”
He produces a small pocketknife and dips his chin.
“Oh.” I glance at the vent hole again. “You’re fast.”
“Not really.” He keeps his expression neutral and pockets his knife. I squint.
“You noticed my ring was missing?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “So?”
“In the dark. And you found it… in the dark.”
Kane knows how important my ring is to me, but just now, he rescued it as if his life depended on it. It’s just… it’s odd.
He crosses his arms over his chest, shifts on his feet, all his weight to the left, then the right, then the left again. I’ve seen it a million times. His trademark move when he feels uncomfortable, and a reminder that he’s not always so cool and collected. I cross my arms, staring up at him.
After a minute, he sighs. “I notice things about you, okay? It’s just… it’s what I do. Get used to it.”
I frown. “No offense, but that sounds stalker-ish.”
“That isn’t even a word,” he smiles. I don’t budge, not one tiny lift of a lip. “This is the part where you say, ‘It is now.’ Remember?”
His smile fades; we stare at each other, not talking. The music hums over us, and I study him—every tiny move—like a detective. The motion of his neck muscles when he swallows, the length of his lashes when he blinks, the rise and fall of his chest. All of him is suddenly alive and vibrant—even in the dimness. It’s so weird.