Page 30 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

Padraig O’Connell.

Plain Jaine Jones didn’t fit in with the beautiful people—the unattractive, skinny girl with the glasses and braces that kept to herself.

Most of them probably wondered why Cherry and Sasha befriended me. Most likely thought it was out of sympathy. They’ve assured me that wasn’t the case, but if Ace and Padraig can so easily pull the wool over my eyes, maybe that’s what they’ve been doing all this time too.

I’m not crying because of what people think of me. I’m way too thick-skinned for that. I’m crying because I expected more from him. I told him about my past. About Ace and me. I also told him I loved him.

Because I did. Because I do. Because, like Ace, I always will.

I wipe away more tears, but they’re quickly replaced.

The first time in my life my heart got broken was when Ace kissed Emilia after almost kissing me the very same day. The second time was when he started ignoring me because he had started fucking her. I swore I wouldn’t let it happen again, but here I am, a fool for a third time.

Third time is meant to be lucky. If this is luck, I’d much rather be unlucky for the rest of my life.

Was this because I wouldn’t sleep with him? If it was then I guess it’s better to find out now that he’s a player and that I meant nothing. He wouldn’t have slept with someone else if he truly cared about me.

Maybe it was only ever a game to him. Or maybe it was out of sympathy. Maybe he just wanted to prove to everyone that he could put a smile on the face of the ugly duckling charity case to make her feel better about herself. To convince her that she wasn’t such a loser after all. Or maybe the aim was to turn her into the laughing stock on campus that she is right now.

I’ve been lying here staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the stuff we had planned to do together. Stuff that we now never will.

When he asked to stay friends, I couldn’t say no. Because I love him. Because I already miss him. Because despite the fact that we’re over, I don’t want to let him go.

How pathetic am I?

Little did I know that from that moment on, I would start to look forward to his messages and his phone calls more than anything else. That his lighting up my phone screen a million times a day would light up my life just as much.

Little did I know that, in the end, I would need to speak to Padraig O’Connell every day as much as I needed air to breathe.

That he would become my life raft. My sounding board. My confidant.

Until he wasn’t.

The Meeting Rooms, New York

Eoin relented in the end, but it was on the strict basis that Dec be allowed to wait outside the entire time. I wanted to argue that I’m sure Dec had far better things to do with his evening than babysit me, but I knew there was no point.

I’m filled with trepidation.

Not at reacquainting myself with the people from my past. It’s because, all day long, my gut has been telling me that something’s going to go down tonight, and it’s seldom wrong. I allow Dec to escort me to the entrance as agreed before making my way inside.

I spoke to Fletch earlier. He explained that he’d extended the invitation to include some of his other peer groups as several of our crowd couldn’t make it, Cherry and Sasha being two.

The positive is that if I do decide to leave sooner rather than later, it’s unlikely I’ll be missed, which is good given my gut is already telling me to turn around. Irish apparently didn’t even bother to RSVP, and he won’t just turn up unannounced.

The familiar venue affords the same pomp and circumstance it always does, with everything looking like it’s been touched by Midas in advance. I barely get a chance to glance around the ostentatious environment before I hear a familiar laughing voice.

“Well, if it isn’t Jaine Jones.”

I spin around to take in a smiling Fletch. He looks exactly the same, his shaggy blonde hair tied back at the nape of his neck. To fit in with our over-the-top surroundings, he’s wearing a black suit on his tall, lean frame, a crisp white open-necked shirt finishing off his professional image.

I always liked Fletch. Most of the nineteen-year-old boys I knew back then only had one thing on their minds. He was one of the few that could hold an adult conversation that didn’t include the words ‘fucking’ or ‘blow job.’

Then again, I was with Irish, so it was most likely out of respect for his friend more than anything else.

“Well, if it isn’t Cody Fletcher,” I respond, matching his smile.

He gives me the once over as I stand in a black evening gown. It’s not in a leering way, so I don’t take any offense. My smile widens when he lets out a complimentary low whistle.

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