‘Aye.’ He nods. ‘Teach me something Australian.’
I’m finished with his buttons. He sits forward so I can pull his shirt off. ‘Strewth,’ I say, as he lies back down.
‘Strewth?’ His eyebrows go up.
I lay my hands against his skin. ‘As in, strewth, the boy is beautiful.’
Dillon’s fingers reach up to the back of my neck. He pulls my lips down to meet his, muttering against them, ‘Strewth, the girl is purrfeshn.’
I sit up. ‘The girl is what?’
He sighs with impatience. ‘A pain in the ass.’ We’re both laughing as he pulls me back down to his lips.
‘Dillon?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I don’t want to be anonymous.’
He rolls over. ‘Me neither,’ he mutters into my shoulder.
‘You don’t?’
‘I want to know ya.’
‘I want to know you too.’ I pause, happy. And then, ‘But there’s no hope for us, is there?’
‘No.’
‘Your honesty sucks.’
Dillon sighs and rolls onto his back. ‘But it’s true. I’m a lost cause, traipsing about …’
‘We could traipse about together?’
‘No. I’d never do that to ya. Never.’
‘Do what to me?’
‘Take ya away from yer home, yer family. It’s important, that stuff.’
The passion in his voice surprises me.
‘Can you tell me what you were looking for? In Hong Kong? I mean you don’t have to say it, if you don’t want to …’
‘My da.’
‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘He won’t tell me—or can’t. I don’t know.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Aye.’
‘But you think he’s in Hong Kong? Again, avoid the question if you prefer …’
‘No. It’s fine. Look, my da’s got his faults, he doesn’t care about the law as much as the next fella. Last I heard he was running some shonky operation out of Hong Kong. But I couldn’t find him. Might have moved on …’
So his dad is the criminal, not him.
‘That’s terrible, not knowing where he is.’
‘I’m sure he’s all right, it’s just with my Ma gone, it’d be nice, ya know? Just to see him once in a while.’
Absent fathers, dead mothers. Another reason we understand each other.
‘So where’s home then?’
Dillon shifts. He seems awkward in his skin all of a sudden. ‘I’ve got stuff with my aunt and uncle. It’s supposed to be home but …’ He’s struggling to answer. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s okay—you’re in-between,’ I say. ‘Ten years from now you’ll have that wife and six kids. Paying the mortgage, mowing the lawn …’
‘Mowing! What do ya think the kids are for?’ We both laugh.
Dillon turns to look at me. ‘Why did ya want to be anonymous, Lol?’
I meet his gaze. ‘I didn’t want you to know I’m invisible.’
Dillon leans forward, traces the line of my lips with his fingertip. ‘You’re not invisible, you’re all I see.’
His words sweep over me like a tide of peace. Right now I’m not invisible, I’m Olive.
The early morning sun wakes me. Somehow I’m in Dillon’s shirt and he’s buck naked with the quilt around his hips and the sun gleaming off his back. He looks so peaceful I move closer and kiss his shoulder. He groans and pulls me to him.
‘Cuppa tea, love?’ I ask.
‘Later,’ he says, rousing and rolling on top of me.
Dillon is gone when I wake. I sit up, panic stricken. How could he?
But he’s not far, he’s perched on a tree stump watching me, smoking a cigarette.
‘Do you have to do that? It’s truly disgusting.’
‘It’s disgusting to watch you?’
‘Not that. The cigarette.’
‘I smoke one a day.’
‘One too many.’
‘I’ll cut it back to none if ya marry me.’
‘I thought you couldn’t lie.’
‘Exactly.’
I roll my eyes at him and start to get dressed. I can’t let him mess with my heart. He’s wedged himself firmly in there in less than thirty-six hours. It kills me to say goodbye to him today. But what should I do? He’s told me he doesn’t want me traipsing about with him. He’s told me he’s no one’s boyfriend.
Dillon ambles over and I pass him his shirt. He watches me as he does up the buttons. ‘Last night … It was grand.’
I have to look away. ‘Sure,’ I say, pretending to look for my shoes. Is that all he has to say? Last night was everything to me. To just walk away today feels like I’m snapping off a piece of my heart and throwing it to the sharks. I don’t know how to recover from this. I don’t know how to say goodbye.
Dillon gathers together the quilts and pillows and we trek back to the hotel without a word. He hands them over to a bell boy. ‘Think these are yours.’
The bell boy looks bewildered. It’s exactly the thing that would have had us both laughing yesterday. But not today.
‘Can I walk ya home?’ Dillon asks me.
‘Do you have time before the plane leaves?’
He glances at his phone. ‘Aye.’
We walk the streets, our footsteps unhurried. We arrive at Muirgheal’s way too soon. I hesitate at the door.
‘Okay. Well. Thanks.’ Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
‘This is you?’
‘Granny Muirgheal’s. Top floor.’
Dillon nods to the Irish bar. ‘We would have met sooner or later if I stayed in New York longer.’
I can’t help it. ‘Can you stay longer?’
‘I’d like to, Lolly, but I’ve got … commitments.’
‘Please don’t call me Lolly,’ I say. My chin drops to my chest. I feel like I’m being ripped apart. ‘My name’s Olive.’
‘I know that,’ he tells me. ‘It’s why I answered yer phone.’ He lifts my chin with the tip of his finger. ‘Yer Olive Banks,’ he tells me, ‘with perfect prickles and a heart of Boston cream pie.’
‘Is that delicious?’ I sniff.
‘Lord! It’s my favourite.’
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying tears don’t come.
Dillon pulls me to him. ‘Hey,’ he says gently.
I look up at him. No words pass between us but I can see everything there. Dillon is honest and loyal and lovely but he’s messed up. He’s not ready for more than this. I knew it when this started, now I need to accept it.
I pull away from him. ‘You’d better go.’
He hesitates. ‘You’ll be all right?’
I put on a dumb brave face. ‘Yeah. Think I’ll go try some of that pie.’
‘Brilliant plan.’ He bends forward, kissing me soft and brief. ‘Bye, love.’ He’s about to leave but then stops. ‘Don’t be offended but I’m not going to look back, all right?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s bad luck to look back when you leave a loved one.’
I smile. ‘Bloody Paddy.’ But I’m thinking: Loved one. Why did he have to say that?
Because he doesn’t lie.
‘I know, I’m a right eegit.’ He grins as he backs away. Then he salutes as he turns on his heel and he’s gone.
I watch him and it’s true. He doesn’t turn around, not once.
I climb the fire escape to Muirgheal’s apartment, stopping repeatedly to wipe my eyes. He was just a boy. This happens to normal visible girls every day. How on earth do they do it?
Seeing Muirgheal as I climb through the window, I can’t hold it in anymore and I start to cry.
She hears me. ‘Oh, Alanna. I’ll wet the tea.’ She turns on the kettle.
‘He’s gone!’ I sob.
Muirgheal holds her arms wide and I go to her. ‘You’ll live, child, you’ll live,’ she mutters as I cry against her.
We sit at the kitchen tabl
e and drink tea. It’s hot and strong and makes me feel a little better. I’m about to get up and take a bath when I hear a rap at the window.
‘Heaven have mercy!’ Muirgheal cries. ‘What’s going on now?’
It’s Dillon, he’s crouched at the window with a bunch of flowers. ‘Deeply sorry, Granny Muirgheal, I didn’t want to wake ya.’
I love that he calls her that name. I love that he’s here. I push my chair back and rush to him. ‘Come in! Come in!’
‘No!’ Dillon and Muirgheal say in unison. I’m confused, but they’re smiling at each other.
‘If this has anything to do with Irish luck …’ I warn them. But of course it does.
‘Go down and come round to the front door, young man,’ Muirgheal says. ‘I’ll have a cup waiting.’
‘Truth be, I’d love to, but I’m already late,’ Dillon says. ‘I just came to give these here to Olive.’
Olive. His accent drawls the O. It sounds beautiful.
‘Peonies.’ Muirgheal approves.
‘They’re so pretty,’ I say, reaching for them.
He doesn’t let them go. ‘Luckiest flower there is.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Of course they are.’
He presses them to my chest, insistent. ‘Dry them for me, love?’
He wants me to keep them.
‘I will,’ I say, holding them at my heart.
‘There’s a poem there too,’ he says, nodding to the card. ‘I know how ya like ’em literary.’
He winks at me and then takes me in his arms and kisses me, properly. It’s smooth and long. I’m left breathless.
‘Lovely to meet you, Granny Muirgheal,’ he says, nodding to her. ‘I’d best be off.’ He kisses me swiftly on the cheek and starts bolting down the fire stairs.
‘Slow down!’ I call after him. ‘You’re going to break your neck!’
‘I’m going to miss my plane,’ he calls back.
I watch him run down the street. His hand is in the air waving—he knows I’m watching—but he doesn’t turn back, because I’m his loved one.
‘Well. I don’t like it but I can see why you fancy him,’ is Muirgheal’s official ruling. ‘What poem is it?’
I open the note. ‘Christina Rossetti’s “Remember”.’
The poem is scrawled in black ink. Dillon’s writing, I think. I want to believe it’s written from heart but he’s probably googled it. Still. It’s beautiful. I feel tears well in my eyes as I reach the end.
He’s underlined the final lines:
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
I let it drop on the table.
Muirgheal picks it up. ‘He’d rather you forget him than be sad.’
‘Yes.’
‘You can trust an Irish lad to break your heart with poetry.’ Muirgheal moves for the kettle. ‘We’ll be needing another pot to be sure.’
CHAPTER
22
‘I was so dumb to let him go,’ I say. ‘I should have shackled myself to him, like a ball-and-chain girlfriend.’
I’m lying on Muirgheal’s foldout couch talking on the phone to Jordan. Muirgheal has gone for her walk with Gene but I’m as lifeless as a cadaver with Dillon gone. It’s hard to do anything except hold the phone to my ear and move my lips. Even crying is too hard.
‘Great idea, guys love needy girls,’ Jordan says.
‘Do they?’
Jordan snorts. ‘No! He’d have gnawed his own leg off to get away.’
‘Gee thanks.’
‘So you think Dillon is your true love then?’ Jordan asks me.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know! I just know he understands me.’
‘But what about Tom?’
‘Tom.’ I sigh, thinking about all the feelings that one phone conversation dredged up. ‘I still adore him. How could I not? We worshipped each other.’
‘Sounds healthy, not.’
‘But we also fought, like, all the time. I never felt good enough for him, you know? I felt this pressure to be normal. I’m not normal.’
‘No. You’re not,’ Jordan says. ‘So it was easier with Dillon?’
‘So easy. But that could just be because he didn’t know I was invisible.’
‘Do you wish you’d said something?’ Jordan asks. ‘You might have been able to find something out.’
I think about the complicated reality. How many hours I would have spent trying to explain it to Dillon. Hoping he wouldn’t run off thinking I was a freak or being scared off by the ‘true love’ catch. No. It definitely wouldn’t have improved things.
‘It was actually nice not thinking about it for a few days.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘But now it’s over and I’m a pathetic lonely ghost living on my grandmother’s couch,’ I moan. ‘I’ll be here forever. I may as well buy myself some support socks and take up knitting.’
‘Hey, knitting is cool.’
That makes me excited. ‘I know, right? I saw the most divine purple wool in a shop over here. I so wanted to nick it but I have no idea what to do with it. Maybe I will anyway …’
‘I’m coming to New York,’ Jordan declares suddenly.
I brighten. ‘You are?’
‘New Year’s Eve, baby! Let’s lock it in. Times Square?’
I slump. ‘That’s weeks away!’
‘Sorry, Ol. It’s just Simon wants—’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Simon, Simon, Simon.’
‘Olive. You’re not being fair.’
‘I’m sick of being fair. Where’s my fair.’
Muirgheal comes in from her walk. She frowns at the unmade couch, pokes the bed with her stick. ‘Why are you still in bed? Get up.’
‘I’m on the phone,’ I say to Muirgheal.
Jordan gets snarky on the end of the line. ‘I don’t know, Olive. Your life sucks. Maybe you should be used to it by now.’
Screw this. I hang up on Jordan and push Muirgheal’s cane away.
‘Hey, careful,’ I say to Muirgheal. ‘You could have poked out my eye!’
‘You may have been blast by the fairy, but I won’t have you moping around here.’
‘Blast by the fairy’ is a euphemism for being depressed. I like it. Depressed is such a depressing word. Imagine if it was something cute like ‘pipsi-lipsy-kitty-pee.’ I wouldn’t feel half as bad if a doctor said to me, ‘I’m afraid you’re suffering from pipsi-lipsy-kitty-pee.’ I’d probably laugh.
So I appreciate the fairy euphemism. It’s also nice to have someone else to blame for this cockamamie malady. It’s a fairy’s fault, not mine.
‘Okay, okay. I’m getting up,’ I grumble.
I make the bed roughly, fold it up, and stack the cushions on so it’s a couch again. Muirgheal is making tea, surprise, surprise, so I get dressed then sit at the table for our second pot of the day. I’m feeling foul from my conversation with Jordan but I’m trying not to take it out on Muirgheal. That’s called self-awareness—Ani would be proud.
‘Will you be coming to the laundromat with me today?’ Muirgheal asks.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss.’
‘Do the messages for me then. We need eggs and cheese. Tea.’
I sigh. ‘Fine.’
Muirgheal takes a sip from her cup. ‘Fresh air will do you good.’
‘I like it in here,’ I say, taking a slurp of my own.
Muirgheal furrows her brow at the sound. She crooks a ringed finger at me. ‘That boy’s been gone more than a week. You can’t mope about forever.’
I let my head drop on the table. ‘But it feels like he’s taken my heart and my stomach and every internal organ I own!’ I moan. ‘I’m just an empty sack of skin. I can’t function as an empty sack of skin,’ I point out.
‘Oh, get off the stage!’ Muirgheal says, all cranky. She doesn’t tolerate my dramatics. ‘Do you think you’re the first person to ever lose a love?’
‘No—but I’m
likely the first invisible person.’
‘Olive, if there were two, there could be three.’
‘So I’ll just hang myself out the window by a fishing hook until someone comes along and takes me?’
Muirgheal frowns. ‘Are you always this cynical? You were a little ray of sunshine when you arrived.’
I take a slug of tea. ‘The sunshine part was the aberration. Sorry to disappoint you but this is the real me.’
‘That cursed boy,’ Muirgheal mutters. ‘Well. I’ve had enough of your moping. Why can’t you see the good in this? Appreciate the time you had with him, instead of crying about it?’
‘What?’ My brain tosses the idea over like a salad.
‘Consider it a blessing,’ she says.
‘But it’s over!’
‘So?’ She holds up her hands. ‘Does everything have to be permanent?’
I’m finding this very strange. Isn’t it right that I’m mourning over losing Dillon? That’s what every romcom has shown me I’m supposed to be doing. Pulling out the ice-cream tub. Wailing over love songs.
‘Do you know how many loves I’ve had, Alanna?’ Muirgheal says. ‘I’m not talking about silly hook-ups with handsome fellas. I’m talking about connections.’
I screw up my nose. ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’
‘Let’s just say, more than one.’
‘Okay …’
‘Each one made my heart bigger and my life more interesting. Just because something isn’t long, doesn’t mean it doesn’t count,’ she says. ‘You should cherish it. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
The corner of my mouth turns up for the first time in days. Muirgheal’s right. I should cherish the time I had with Dillon even if it was short. Ani would say the same, to embrace the love not the regret.
I grin cheekily. ‘You think I should go out and sleep around.’
Her hand goes to her chest. ‘Good heavens no!’
‘Relax, I’m kidding!’
‘Well, at least you’ve got your sense of humour back,’ she grumbles as she pushes herself to her feet.
But I’ve got more than my sense of humour. An idea has started to form in my head. Dillon might not be the one for me, Tom might not be either—but Muirgheal’s right. It’s not the end. I want more of this living. I’ve got fight in me left.
‘Nan? Can I borrow your laptop?’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 15