A Crack in Everything (Cracks Book 1)

  Cheap, dirty, and grey.

  And we didn’t have gardens.

  Hell, I had to go so far as creating my own on this dank, rust-infested roof to sate my need to be around nature. To see green things and colour. And there was the constant fight against mould and various other hazards of living in a badly constructed building.

  “But this is what you get when you’re at the bottom,” Conor pointed out. “You have to work your way up. Nobody gets given anything for free in life.”

  “That’s not true. The rich get everything for free, and they’re the ones who need it least,” Dylan countered. “With their tax cuts and expense accounts, and complimentary tickets to go see Bon Jovi play some ridiculously giant arena.”

  “Okay, you have a point,” Conor acceded.

  “And they don’t appreciate any of it,” Dylan grunted. “I tell you what, if I ever make any kind of money, I’ll be grateful for every penny, and I won’t keep it all to myself like a selfish bastard either.”

  “People always say that,” Sam said. “But then they win the lotto, and poof, they think they’re Mariah and could give a shit about the people who were there for them before the money came along. You see stories about it in magazines all the time.”

  “Well, I won’t be like that. Just you wait.”

  I eyed him, feeling speculative. “How can you be so sure you’ll make it rich? More people fail than succeed.”

  And more specifically, how did he plan on doing it? I swear I could sit for hours asking him questions, picking his captivatingly interesting brain.

  Dylan shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’m just determined.”

  “And if you succeed, will you be happy then? Or will you be like your dad, worrying that the sun is shining too brightly, or that the moon might fall from the sky?” I asked in challenge.

  Dylan seemed surprised that I was able to quote him so exactly. But when he spoke, I listened, soaked up every word. He studied me for a long time, and I couldn’t tell if he was irritated by my question or if it gained me a new level of respect from him.

  I decided it was the latter when his expression warmed as he replied, “Honestly? I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

  A short silence fell, and I stared at Dylan. I couldn’t tell how long I was locked in his gaze when Sam spoke. “Okay, let’s talk about something a little cheerier, eh? Name three of your favourite things. Ev, you go first.”

  I grinned at Sam. I loved how he always found a way to brighten the mood. “Hmm, let me see,” I said, pondering it as I scratched my chin. I lifted a finger. “Little old dogs with fat bellies who waddle when they walk up to you on the street.” I lifted a second finger. “Babies laughing at their own farts.” I lifted a third. “And the smell of jasmine first thing in the morning.”

  “Babies laugh at their own farts?” Conor asked, perplexed.

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s both hilarious and adorable.”

  “My little brother Mark used to do it all the time,” said Sam. “Okay, Conor, it’s your turn now. Go!”

  Conor scoffed. “That’s easy. My three favourite things are meat feast pizzas, the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, and the way Yvonne looks when she smiles at me.” He appeared a little embarrassed by the last bit.

  I shook my head at him. “I can’t believe you’re still crushing on my aunt.”

  “After he saw her in her PJs last week his crush reached stratospheric levels,” Dylan told us.

  “You’re one to talk,” Sam commented. “I bet one of your favourite things is the way Ev looks when she smiles at you.”

  Dylan cast me a glance, and I flushed when he replied, “It might be.”

  “Sigh. He’s so romantic. Isn’t he romantic, Ev?”

  “My God, Sam. You already sigh way too much, you don’t need to introduce the actual word into your repertoire,” I complained, trying not to blush.

  “Oh hush, you love everything in my repertoire.”

  I rolled my eyes. He was right. I did. There was something in my DNA that programmed me to adore him, even when he was irritating the crap out of me. I was still thinking about my best friend when Dylan spoke, but instead of addressing all of us, he directed his words to me.

  “My other two favourite things are how your eyes look like sapphires in the sunlight, and the way you laugh when someone says something really funny.”

  I looked at him then, and my heart caught in my throat. There was no inhibition in his eyes, no hesitation in talking to me so intimately with Conor and Sam beside us. My entire body grew hot as I looked away shyly, wishing we were alone, wishing I could kiss him.

  “Anybody got a fan? ’Cause I’m swooning my arse off over here,” Sam thrilled, fanning himself with his hand. “They should hire you out for hen parties. Who needs a stripper when they could have you serenading them with flowery love talk?”

  Yes, who indeed.

  Something unfurled inside me, a fleshy, curly, tangled thing. It twined itself around my heart, my lungs and other organs, twisting tight until I felt like I couldn’t breathe too well.

  And it sucked, because he’d never stay here. With me. Dylan was meant for more than this tiny city on the edge of a little island surrounded by the sea.

  And just like a rock hurtling off that very edge, I fell for him hard.

  Chapter 8

  I couldn’t look at Dylan, not until I made sense of all these feelings.

  Thankfully, Sam came to my rescue again when he suggested we go downstairs to make a start on those Desperate Housewives episodes. I quickly gathered my things, and we went to the flat. Dylan walked close beside me, his fingertips brushing mine when he bent to whisper in my ear, “Are you all right?”

  I nodded fervently. “Absolutely fine.”

  “You’re very quiet.”

  I flicked my gaze to his for a brief second. “Got a lot to think about.”

  We reached the flat, and I let everyone in. Yvonne would be at work until the early hours, so I wasn’t worried about her walking in on us. I let Sam fire up the DVD player as I went into the bathroom to scrub the soil from my fingers.

  “You’ve always got dirt under your nails.”

  Dylan gave me a fright when he spoke. He stood in the doorway, watching me.

  “Yvonne says I’m constantly busy tending to some plant or other. Dirty fingernails are an occupational hazard.” I tried to sound casual while his words echoed off the walls of my skull.

  My other two favourite things are how your eyes look like sapphires in the sunlight, and the way you laugh when someone says something really funny.

  Seriously, was he trying to steal my heart and run away with it? Sell it for the money to start a life away from the Villas?

  “That wasn’t a criticism. It suits you. You always smell like green things. Leaves and wet earth.”

  “Bet that’s another of your favourite things,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  I let out a frustrated groan as I dried off my hands. “Seriously, you need to stop being so nice to me.”

  He tilted his head. “Would you prefer me to be mean?”

  “Yes,” I exclaimed. “If you’re so dead set on leaving after you finish school, then I would absolutely prefer you to be mean.” A pause as my voice became a whisper. “It’ll save me the broken heart.”

  I tried to walk by him then, but he grabbed my wrist. With his other hand, he tilted my chin up, forcing my gaze to his. He didn’t breathe a word, just continued to study me with his microscopic eyes. A long, long few moments passed, and I was surprised Sam didn’t come to check we hadn’t fallen through the plughole.

  When Dylan finally spoke, his words created a yearning ache in my gut. “There’s a simple solution for that, you know.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Come with me.”

  For the tiniest second, my heart stopped beating. I shook my head and walked away from him, dismiss
ing the idea. He followed me to the kitchen. Conor and Sam sat in the living room, watching us walk by.

  “I can’t do that. I have to stay for Gran.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Your gran wouldn’t want you to waste your life in this place. I know she wouldn’t.”

  I barked a laugh. “You spent one evening with her and now you know her so well?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s easy to see the good in people, just as it can be easy to see the bad.”

  “Well, I don’t consider a life here a waste like you do.”

  As soon as the words were out, I knew they were a lie. Dylan’s speech from earlier was still burning through me. It sparked a fire, a dissatisfaction with the shitty lot we’d been handed. I hated it. I didn’t want to feel dissatisfied. I wanted to feel happy, content . . . positive. That was the person I’d always been.

  Dylan O’Dea was changing me in all sorts of ways, he was showing me new ways to think, and as futile as it might be, I fought against it tooth and nail.

  “You’re wrong. It is a waste,” he said, voice firm. He so thoroughly believed in his own propaganda, it was maddening.

  My lips formed a thin line. “Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one.”

  With that, I grabbed the stash of junk food Sam and I had set aside and walked out into the living room. I dumped the bag of crisps and chocolates down on the coffee table, then grumpily told Sam to hit play.

  He raised both eyebrows and uttered a quiet, “Oookay then,” before he tapped the button on the remote.

  To my annoyance, Dylan didn’t give me a wide berth. Instead he came and sat right next to me, folded his arms, and stared at the TV screen. I knew he’d probably prefer to be watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel, instead of some trashy U.S. comedy-drama. A little of my irritation faded when he watched it anyway without complaint.

  And that’s what true friends did. But I had to pause at that thought, because before now, I hadn’t thought of Dylan as my friend. But he’d become one, and one so important to me. We weren’t even boyfriend and girlfriend, and he wanted me to leave with him. Did he really want that?

  I didn’t say a word for almost four episodes, and Sam kept casting curious glances my way. I wasn’t the sort of person to have spats or be angry in general. It took an awful lot to piss me off, but the way Dylan thought I should just leave my gran so I could swan off and live an exciting life was infuriating.

  I wasn’t my mam.

  I wouldn’t be selfish like her and run away from my responsibilities.

  I was going to let Yvonne have her chance. Good, kind, selfless Yvonne, who took me in when my mam would’ve handed me off to social services to live in some group home. She deserved to fulfil her dreams.

  And I, well, I could be happy here. Once Dylan’s opinions faded and became no more than a distant, forgotten memory, I was sure I’d be happy.

  I’d focus on what I had and be content, rather than yearning for things in other places.

  “Well, I think I’m ready to hit the hay,” Sam said with a yawn. “No more housewife shenanigans for me tonight.”

  “Yeah, I better get home, too,” Conor added. “School tomorrow, and all that.”

  I walked them to the door, giving Sam our customary hug goodbye and shooting Conor a brief parting smile. I expected Dylan to leave with them, but he hung back. He looked like he had a lot on his mind.

  “Can we talk?”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Us.”

  I cocked a brow. “Is there an us?”

  “There is for me,” he replied gravely.

  I blew out a breath and closed the door, then walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “I’ll make tea then.”

  “I don’t want tea.”

  I glanced at him, frustrated. “Goodness, Dylan, you don’t have to drink it. It’s only tea. You can sit and stare at the cup for all I care.”

  “Okay,” he said and pulled out a chair.

  I turned around, fiddling with mugs and spoons and hoping he’d talk so I wouldn’t have to. He didn’t, so I let out a weary sigh as I turned to face him, grasping the edge of the countertop.

  “I was happy with my life before you came along.”

  His expression was stoic. “People who think they’re happy aren’t thinking hard enough.”

  “So, you’re saying I was blissfully ignorant?” I questioned as my brows drew together.

  “No. I’m saying you were too accepting. You should strive for more than what you can get for free, Evelyn.”

  “What if the free things make me happy?” I went on, heart racing. Something about how he sat there, so serious and troubled, made me want to close the distance between us and show him that happiness could be easy when you let it.

  “It matters to me. I want more for you.”

  I shook my head, exasperated. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” He paused, turmoil in his expression. A long silence elapsed, and a kaleidoscope of thoughts passed over his face, like cars going different directions on a motorway. “Because I can only see my dreams clearly when I look through you first.”

  My insides blared on loudspeaker, while my voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand.”

  Dylan gave a sad laugh. “I just feel like any achievements are pointless unless I have you by my side.”

  In a heartbeat, I saw an entire life, a timeline of seventy or more years, with the only constant being Dylan’s hand in mine. It was a cool idea, to have someone to share your years with, no matter where your path took you.

  But what if our paths weren’t one, but two?

  What if I was following the yellow brick road, while he was embarking on a journey into the deep dark woods?

  All these thoughts created an urgency in me. I wanted to capture this moment, drink it down like sacred water you could only ever taste once.

  My body moved faster than my thoughts. I crossed the room, pulled Dylan from his seat, threw my arms around him, and kissed him like my life depended on it.

  When we broke apart for air, he stared down at me, eyes glistening. “What was that for?”

  “For being you,” I whispered. “Even if you do make me want to pull my hair out sometimes.”

  I started to push him in the direction of my bedroom, but he grasped my elbows, breathing hard. “Wait, wait.”

  “For once in your life, Dylan, stop overthinking.” I went up on my tiptoes to kiss him again. His lips welcomed mine for a brief second before he let go of me completely and backed away. He walked out into the living room, mumbling swearwords as he paced.

  I frowned.

  Didn’t he want me?

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, quiet.

  Dylan stood very still, his eyes on mine before he closed them. When he spoke, it all came out in a rush. “I want you, Evelyn. I want you badly. I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined it, but I’m not . . .” A growl. “Bloody hell.”

  I frowned, worried now. “You’re not what?”

  He grunted his frustration as he levelled his eyes on mine. “I’ve never done this before, okay?”

  I stared at him, agape. It was the last thing I expected. I mean, a boy who looked like Dylan being a virgin was definitely rare, but then again, he wasn’t your typical teenage boy. He was busy pondering the meaning of life, while other boys were out smoking joints and getting handjobs from girls in back alleyways.

  My heart clenched as I looked at him, and I didn’t think he could claim much more of my silly, sentimental organ, but he did.

  Maybe he claimed all of it.

  A flush coloured my cheeks when I replied, “Well, that makes two of us, because I’ve never been with anyone either.”

  He opened his eyes. “You haven’t?”

  I gave a soft laugh. “No need to sound so surprised.”

  He grimaced. “That’s not what I meant. You’re just so beautiful, and this p
lace—”

  “You’re beautiful, too,” I countered.

  His frown formed a deep line between his eyebrows. “Men aren’t beautiful, Ev.”

  “Yes, they are,” I whispered and stepped forward. I took each of his hands in mine and gave a squeeze. “You are.”

  His eyes flickered between mine as he brought his hands up to cup my face. His voice was a whisper, “Who made you?”

  I didn’t have answer to that question. None of us really knew who made us, but whoever made him broke the mould.

  He brought his lips to mine, kissing me carefully, gently, like I was a fragile thing that might break under too much pressure. Then his tongue slipped inside my mouth, massaging in a tender dance. I moaned, and he pushed me forward until my back hit a wall. A whump of air escaped me, but I relished the way his hands moved from my face and down my neck, over my shoulders, then down again to wrap tight around my waist.

  We walked backward, never breaking the kiss, until we reached my bedroom.

  Dylan pulled away to suck in a gasp of air as he urgently questioned, “Yvonne?”

  “At work until late.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. C’mere.”

  He came, and I kissed him more confidently than before. I felt like I knew what I was doing now. I knew his mouth. I knew he liked it when I moved my tongue along his, and when I nibbled and sucked on his bottom lip.

  He lowered me onto my bed and tingles skittered along my spine at the look he gave me. It was very . . . lusty, but also full of tenderness. I lay with my head against the pillow. Breath heaving as I stared at him, I pulled my top up over my head. Dylan’s gaze lowered from mine as he took in the sight of me in my bra. He mumbled something I couldn’t quiet hear then came forward and gripped my hips.

  He pulled me until I was flat on my back, my thighs on either side of his torso. Biting his lip, his eyes wandered over me once more. His brow was furrowed when he murmured, “Let me . . . try something.”

  “O-okay,” I stuttered and watched as he unbuttoned my jeans.

  Dylan O’Dea was unbuttoning my jeans.

  Half of me couldn’t believe this was happening, while the other half was very, very aware that it was.