People stare when we walk down St. Patrick’s Street. They always do.

Some lad up ahead nudges his mate, whispering something behind his hand. A woman by the window of McDonald’s gives us a once-over, her eyes lingering on me. I don’t blame her.

I look like I crawled out of a gutter. Hood up, hands shoved in my pockets, jaw bruised to fuck. My right eye’s still a bit swollen from the other night—Dad or the fight? Doesn’t matter. My knuckles are busted too, but that could be from anything. Could be from punching the wall when the high wasn’t enough, could be from slamming the car door too hard at work.

And then there’s her.

Like some cruel cosmic joke, she’s next to me, perfect. The sun catches in her hair, makes it glow. She’s got that clean, fresh-out-the-shower look, lip gloss on, schoolbag slung over one shoulder. She’s smiling at something—probably the old man outside the newsagents, the one who always sells the Evening Echo.

But I know her tells. The way her fingers are twisting her ring, the way her nails press into her palm.

She’s aware of the eyes.

And why wouldn’t she be? Miss fucking Cork, the golden girl, the one who did beauty pageants as a kid and still looks like she belongs in a magazine. Everyone’s little sweetheart. The teachers love her, the girls want to be her, the lads want to say they’ve had her.

And then there’s me. The junkie. The troublemaker. The fucking stray dog she lets follow her around.

A car horn blares somewhere down the street. I flinch, barely. She doesn’t. Just tugs me a little closer, her fingers brushing against mine, barely there.

The staring doesn’t stop.

They don’t get it. They never will.

She could have anyone. She should have anyone. Someone clean-cut, from a nice house, who doesn’t show up to school with cuts on his face and powder under his nails.

Instead, she’s got me.

She wanted me.