Page 160 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

The lights dim slightly, and my heart plummets at what I’m about to witness.

I can’t do this.

You can, Jessie. And you will. It’s just another one of those short straws you keep right on pulling in life.

“Shouldn’t you?” I motion my head to where the O’Connells are seated, but she shakes hers to decline and simply smiles once more.

I glance at her hand. She’s not wearing her engagement ring. Maybe I should take back what I said. Maybe she is bad after all. A smiling assassin who wants to torture me by having me watch the whole thing up close and personal. Then just so we’re all clear on who won, have him propose to her right in front of me.

I watch as he stands from the Duster table. I know they’ll all be there, but I don’t make eye contact with any of them. Not even dear old Fergal. I don’t want to see their sympathetic looks when I’m already struggling holding it together.

The Dylan of old would never have had the confidence to do what he’s about to. To speak in front of so many of Manhattan’s influential people.

A group of complete strangers.

But that’s exactly what he’s going to do. In the end, he didn’t change. He didn’t have to. He just needed to embrace both sides of himself and, in turn, reach his full potential.

And he has. In every single way.

The now confident Duster phoenix is about to publicly rise from the ashes he’s been content hiding under all this time.

He stands, and his very own captive audience falls into a hush.

“So, I met a girl.”

There’s a ripple of laughter at his opening line which is spoken in that beautiful New York accent of his. The one that’s blessed with just the perfect amount of Irish lilt.

The cheeky smirk he gives in response reminds me so much of Paddy.

“And this girl. Well, she’s so vibrant and alive she lights up any room. She’s so beautiful all others pale in comparison.”

The room fills with soft ‘awws’ mainly from women, of course, as Dylan wears his heart on his sleeve as he talks about Grace.

His Disney princess. His cliché blonde. The love of his life.

Tears fill my eyes.

“This girl makes me laugh. This girl makes me cry. This girl makes me want to be the best person I can be. A stronger person. A braver person. A better person. And I know I can be all of those things. But it’s not because she expects it of me. Because I know she loves me just as I am.”

How many times has Grace told him she loves him? How many times has he told her he loves her? Because they’ve obviously spoken the words aloud. Words he’s now, as a result, confident uttering on her behalf.

“I want to be all of those things for her. Because when I’m with her, I feel like I can achieve anything. Be anything. Do anything. That I can take on everything and conquer the world.”

My chest tightens. Each spoken word of adoration for her is like a rusty nail through my already broken heart. I’m conscious more silent tears are welling in my eyes. But I can’t stop them forming. I’ve never been as strong as the rest of my family, likely because I spent so many years not living the life I was born into.

Maybe I need to find someone who can make me stronger. Make me braver. Make me better.

Because, right now, I’m not feeling any of those things.

I hoped that could have been him. That we could have grown together day by day.Because whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

But it’s not.

He’s not mine. He’s never been mine. He will never be mine.

He walks towards Grace, who’s still standing beside me. I’m conscious Bee has moved as her hand is now rubbing up and down my arm. She’s trying to comfort me.

But nothing can comfort me. Witnessing this. Watching the man I love declare his love for someone else in front of the rest of the world.

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