There was no sky today, only a rough woollen blanket of mottled grey that concealed the sun and darkened the afternoon. The usual virescent hues of the countryside were muted to dullness, the wind driving in dark rainclouds that turned and twisted menacingly above Carraroe.

Brandon fastened the waterproof jacket he had slipped on when leaving home. His mother had handed him a few bags of homemade potato crisps and he had been all too willing to take them to his best friend Ben’s house a few blocks away, despite the bad weather and the knowledge that his friend was away in Dublin for the week. Asking his sister to take over the counter at their family restaurant, he had set out for his destination, his mind tingling with nervous excitement.

The wind was blowing leaves and dust by the time he rang the doorbell. It was a small, single-storied, Tudor-style house with ivy-covered walls and box windows. Ben’s parents had educated careers, unlike Brandon’s parents who had been running the restaurant forever. Not only were the two families close and tight-knit but Dr Thomas and Emily Barrett were also one of the most humble and hospitable couples around, choosing to live a simple life even though they could afford something bigger and better. They also had a flat in London, where Ben had started university.

The door scraped open to a tall, female figure in a white frock. Brandon had known that pale, freckled face as long as he had known Ben and his family. She was pretty, with short brown hair and a motherly smile. However, her height and strong build belied the fact that she was just shy of thirty.

“Brandy.” Her face curled into a broad smile as she stepped aside to let him enter.

“Hi, Elsa,” he returned her smile and looked down at the bags in his hands. “Mam sent these.”

“Oh, come in, lad.” With a tilt of her head, she motioned him to enter. Brandon stepped inside the narrow foyer illuminated by a filament bulb chandelier. “I love your new hairstyle. Very grownup.”

“Thanks,” he laughed, shutting the door. It was often hard to tell Elsa’s position in the household. Thomas and Emily had taken her in as a young girl years ago, financially helping her family and even giving her a college education later. Over the years, she had become a seamless part of the household and a member of the family, friend, cook, housekeeper all rolled into one. With Ben’s parents travelling most of the time, the Barrett family would be lost without her.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

“No, don’t be troubling yourself.” He hung his jacket behind the door and followed Elsa inside the house. “I won’t be too long.”

“Still managing the chip counter, huh?” she laughed. “I’d thought the five of you would be walking in the air in these six months.”

Brandon only laughed in response. All he, Ben, and their three other bandmates had to show for the last six months was a single. A hit single that had gone to number one the very day it was released. The song was everywhere, the video was on every TV channel, and they were apparently the next big pop act of Ireland. Yes, they had made some money, earned quite a bit of fame, supported some of the biggest pop groups in Ireland and Britain, seen their faces and names on every channel and every newspaper, and eventually tired of hearing their own voices on the radio. But they were still young lads of eighteen or nineteen, trying to keep their lives normal amid the sudden flurry of unexpected success.

“When’s the album coming out?” she asked as he handed her the crisps. Carlton Café was famous for its chips. People from distant parts of Ireland and Britain would drop in to eat and take home the delicious potato flakes. If anything, then his success and fame had only helped his family business.

“It’s in post-production,” he said. “Will be out in a month.”

His eyes darted down the corridor to the left, his pulse quickening inexplicably. “Izzi’s in.” Brandon jumped at Elsa’s voice. “Go on. She’ll be happy to see you,” she smiled.

With a shy nod, Brandon turned to walk down the corridor, running a quick hand through his dark brown, curly hair. The door did not look locked. It never was. He knocked, waiting for an answer. None came.

“Izzi?” He parted the door and found no one in. Frowning, he looked around in confusion, sighting the study with the door ajar. Elsa had gone back to the kitchen so he decided to take a look. He peeked inside the study through the gap in the door but could see nothing in the low light.

And then he heard sounds inside.

“Izzi?” He gently pushed the door, letting his head in. There was a crash, like something toppling over, and then a groan. He stepped inside to find a pile of books littered on the floor and a raven-haired teenage girl surrounded by the mess.

Isabel Rosalia Standish. Ben’s younger sister. The most beautiful girl in the whole town. The love of his life. Of course, he had never said that out loud. Not to her. Not to anybody. For god’s sake, he was still a teenager. It was too soon.

Yet, he could never help the furious beating of his heart, or the flush of joy in his veins every time he saw her.

“Are you okay?” He tried to not laugh as he stepped inside the room. Isabel was almost buried under a heap of thick books that had fallen over from the table next to where she had been sitting on the floor. She nodded, moved her long hair out of her face, and dragged herself into a seated position.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said without looking up. Brandon crouched beside her, helping her collect the books and put them back on the table. Ben’s father was a psychiatrist and his mother was a psychotherapist. It was not unusual to find books scattered all around the house. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Why would anything be wrong?”

“The weather isn’t exactly favourable.”

 “Mam sent some crisps for you.” 

“Did you make them?” Isabel asked, rising to her feet. Brandon rose behind her, smiling at the difference in their heights. They both were short; he was five feet and nine inches while she was barely five feet. But next to him, Isabel looked even shorter. After his mother, she was the shortest woman he’d met so far.

“No, Dad did,” he answered with a smile, watching her put a book under her arm and stash the rest away in their proper places. “You love them anyway.”

Isabel turned, her dark, luminous gaze meeting his hazel-green eyes. It was impassive, as though she had stopped feeling all emotions. The dark circles had faded slightly but they still gave her a sunken, hollowed-out look.

“Come on,” she beckoned, walking out of the room. Brandon followed, turning off the light. Her room was right next to that of Ben’s. It was decked in pink, had fairy lights around the windows, and potted flowers on the parapet. There were books in the small cabinet next to her bed and a computer on the desk. As small as the room was, it was spotless and neat. No shoes on the floor, no clothes on the bed…

And definitely no mirrors. Not even in the bathroom adjoining her bedroom.

“Would you like some tea?” she offered, putting the book on the night table. Brandon made sure to leave the door open, like he always did whenever he was alone with her in a room.

“Elsa asked but I’m good.” His eyes travelled to her lean legs clothed in a pair of black, skinny pyjama bottoms as she kicked off her slippers, climbed onto the bed, and tapped the space next to her. Brandon walked over and sat beside her, unable to take his eyes off her small, sweet face. Her rosy, dewy skin contrasted her dark hair and darker orbs with long, wispy lashes. Her nose was blunt, but that could do nothing to diminish her beauty. In contrast to the blonde Irish girls around, she was different. It was why she stood out everywhere.

That was the only reason she stood out, Brandon wanted to believe.

“You did not drop into the restaurant today,” he said. “Mam was kinda worried.”

“I wanted to be home.” Her voice was soft, almost whispery. “I was sitting by the window, reading. I’m sorry, I should have called.”

“How’s school?”

“Okay.”

“Have you made any new friend?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never had any friend.”

Brandon’s brow scrunched into a frown.  “So you mean I’m not your friend? None of us are?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Isabel’s voice was flat. “After what my own parents did to me—”

“Shh,” he intervened, touching her hand. When she looked at him, he shook his head.

“Please,” he sighed. “Don’t make yourself relive the horror.”

She put her hand on his, entwining fingers with him. The silk felt smooth against his palm, but he wanted to feel the softness of her skin, not some damn piece of cloth. He took her hand, slowly beginning to peel away the fabric. She tried to pull away, but he held tight.

“You’re hiding from me?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve seen it before.”

“You don’t have to keep seeing it all the time.” She tugged her hand again but he was not letting go. “Please.”

“I want to.” He pulled the glove off her left hand, revealing a deep scar running down the wrist. He flinched. It still looked raw, after over six months. If the scar on her skin was still that vivid, he wondered what the scars on her mind were like.

“Does it hurt?” he asked. She had stopped resisting and her gaze was downcast.

“Sometimes. Doesn’t matter, though.” When she looked up again, her eyes seemed sadder. “I did it, remember?”

Brandon sighed again, his grip slackening, allowing Isabel to withdraw her hand. Instead of putting on the glove again, she tugged the long sleeve of her tunic until it covered her wrist. Then she gathered her hands in her lap.

On an impulse, he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She sighed, staring at the closed window. It had started to rain.

“You know,” she spoke, still staring out of the window. “I had thought you’d go away from me after this.” She glanced down at her wrist. “Thought everyone would go away.”

She turned her head to stare at him, her eyes searching his. “That everyone would think I’m a bad person. Like my parents did.”

Brandon could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. He never ceased to wonder how a girl that young could have lived a life that seemed straight out of a true crime show. It was one thing to see things on the telly or in the newspaper but another thing to swallow the hard truth that the angel of a girl in front of him had experienced years of hell at the hands of her own depraved parents.

The thought made him shudder. She had always been a quiet, measured person, and her air of enigma often left people wondering what she was hiding. They found out a little too late.

“We know you.” He tried to smile but was unable to. “We’ll love you no matter what.”

“You haven’t heard the things they say about me at school.”

Yes, he had, and they made his blood boil. Her life in shambles. Her body scarred and spirit crushed. Her sordid history out in public. Sligo was supposed to be her refuge, where no one knew her, where she could start on a clean slate. But all people had done so far was call her names behind her back, because she did not fit in.

He held her hand again, kissing the scar, the contact prickling her skin. “We know what drove you to this,” he said, trying to keep emotion out of his voice. “We know everything. And we still love you just as much. Maybe more now.”

Shaking off the memories, he forced a smile. “Have you heard about the concert at Hawks Well Theatre?” Brandon asked, changing the subject. She nodded. “Do you want to participate? They’re auditioning now.”

“I haven’t sung in a long time,” she said. “Songs don’t come easy anymore.”

“You can audition at least. It might help you get back into music.” He moved closer to her, touched her cheek with two fingers. “It will also distract you.”

“There are many good singers in the town to light up the concert. I’m not needed.”

“Just one song? Please?” he insisted. “Remember when you sang I Will Always Love You? I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Wouldn’t you love to do that again?”

“I would,” she sighed. “I just don’t know how. Everything is hard for me these days.”

“I know. I’m not forcing you. But if you want to do it, I’ll be there to help you.”

Lightning tore through the sky, followed by a deep rumble. Isabel shifted on the bed until their legs were touching. Brandon consulted his watch. It was getting late. “I better get moving,” he said. “Mam will be waiting.”

“It’s raining,” she noted, glancing at the window.

“Don’t worry. I have a rain jacket.” He rose from the bed. “When’s Emily coming home?”

“She is probably on her way. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“No, that’s fine,” he chuckled, discreetly adjusting his pants. “The English and their politeness. I used to think Emily was bad enough but you’re no better than her.”

“I wasn’t being polite,” she stated. “I would like it if you stayed for dinner but it’s rough out and your parents will worry.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked. She shrugged.

“I’ll drop in if I feel like.”

“Okay, so I’ll… push off.” He stepped away. “You take care, alright?”

She nodded. “Thank your mother for the crisps.”

“I will,” he smiled, his eyes darting at her lips. He quickly turned around. “Goodnight, Izzi.”

“Brandy,” she called out just as he had stepped outside the room. He turned, staring at her.

“You really don’t hate me?” she asked. Brandon’s heart ached at those words. Hate her? She was the first girl he had fallen in love with. He knew where those words were coming from, but then…

He re-entered the room and walked up to her. Then he leaned and pressed a kiss to her lips. Her eyes slid close and her breath hitched as their lips seemed to meld.

“I love you,” he whispered. It was the first time he said that to her, to any girl ever, even though it had been on the tip of his tongue for months. And it did not just sound right. It felt right.

“Brandy—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, loathe to ruin the moment. Then he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.