Page 23 of Tiny Fractures

He attempts to remove the spot, and I instinctively move toward him. I wet my hand under the still-running faucet and touch my fingers to his cheek to wipe off the smudge. His eyes stay focused on me, though I don’t dare take my gaze off my hand. The warmth of his soft skin spreads from my fingertips all the way down my arm. I once again notice his full lips. I wonder what it would feel like to kiss those lips, what he would taste like.

I’m pulled back into reality when Vada clears her throat behind me, and Ronan’s eyes snap from mine to Vada.

“What are you two doing?” Vada’s voice is pitchy and excited.

I yank my hand away from Ronan’s face, clamping it to my side. Telltale heat rises in my face; I feel caught doing something I shouldn’t.

“Cat was helping me get some grease off,” Ronan says, not a hint of embarrassment or unease in his voice. He looks back at me. “Did you get it?” His eyes smile at me, and he runs his left thumb over the wet spot I left on his high cheekbone.

My anxiety eases. I nod and take a step back. “Yep, all clean.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking me in with his eyes for a long moment before he resumes scrubbing his hands.

“Alright, let’s head out,” Steve orders from behind Vada, who grabs my hand and pulls me down the hallway with her.

“I’ll see you later,” Ronan says, low enough that only I can hear it.

I smile at him, giving him a nod.

***

The movie is entertaining enough—lots of action, just a bit of romance—and the two hours pass quickly. I’m not a big fan of popcorn, so I’m positively ravenous by the time the lights come back on and am overjoyed when Zack suggests grabbing a bite to eat.

“You guys feel like Murphy’s? Ran and Shane are working tonight,” Steve says, and there’s a general murmur of assent.

Within twenty minutes Vada pulls into the small parking lot of an old, industrial-looking building. Above the double doors, flanked by two large windows, is a shamrock and the name “Murphy’s” in Gaelic. From the outside Murphy’s doesn’t look like much, but once we step through the doors it’s almost as though we step back in time. The floors are a creaky hardwood, worn and soft with the slightest give when we walk, and the whole place smells of mahogany, teakwood, cedar, as well as the deliciously wafting vapors of food and ale. It’s barely seven-thirty on a Sunday evening, and already this place is packed.

Murphy’s is a great place for people watching if you’re into that kind of stuff, because it really doesn’t cater to just one type of customer. There’s a loud group of five or six guys hanging out by the bar, right next to two older gentlemen in suits. Just a little farther into the restaurant, a family of four has squeezed into a booth; the mom bounces a restless toddler on her knee while the dad peruses the menu next to his older child, who’s playing with her dad’s phone.

We’re standing in the entrance, looking for an open table, when Shane spots us from behind the bar counter. He smiles and strides toward us. He’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with “Murphy’s” printed in small letters on his chest. A small green apron is secured around his waist and his undercut strawberry blond hair is pulled back into a small bun. The reddish scruff on his chin and cheeks makes it clear he hasn’t bothered to shave in a few days, and even though I know his parents disapprove of this look as “unprofessional,” I have to admit that Shane pulls it off nicely. His whole vibe fits Murphy’s perfectly.

“Hey guys!” he calls out, his hand raised in a greeting. “I didn’t know you were going to show up here tonight.”

“We went to a movie and then thought we should grab a bite to eat. Obviously, there’s no place better than Murphy’s, especially with you and Ran working tonight,” Zack explains, his arm draped over Summer’s shoulder.

Shane stands with his hands on his hips looking first at us and then around the crowded room. “Well said, mate,” he says in a fake Irish accent, then motions for us to follow him to a booth just past the bar area. “It’s kind of a tight squeeze; for some reason we’re packed tonight. If something else opens up, feel free to grab it.”

Shane’s right. The only tables available accommodate no more than two people. Vada and Summer slide into the booth, followed by Steve and Zack. At the booth next to ours, Shane seeks permission to grab one of their unused extra chairs, then moves it, offering me a seat.

“Where’s my brother?” Steve asks, poking his head around the room.

“Taking his break.” Shane nods toward a door behind the bar. “I’ll send him your way when he’s back. He’ll be so stoked to wait on you guys.” Shane laughs mischievously, and the guys chuckle. “What do you all want to drink?”

Shane listens as Summer, Vada, Zack, and Steve inform him of their beverage choices.

“How about you?” Shane asks me.

“Uh… I have no idea,” I say, because I really don’t. It’s not that I’ve never had a drink. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just that I never really knew exactly what I was drinking. I was always too trusting, too infatuated, too giddy and stupid to say, “No, thank you,” even once I learned what I do when the booze takes effect, when I get tipsy, when I lose my inhibitions.

“What do you like?” Shane asks.

I shrug. “I’ll just take a water.”

Shane chuckles and winks at me. “I’ll surprise you.”

He returns mere minutes later, a round tray skillfully balanced atop his right hand holding five glasses of water and five more glasses containing liquids of varying shades and hues, as well as a tiny shot glass with some brownish liquor.

“Pale Ale for Zack.” Shane slides the pint of beer toward Zack, followed by a glass of water. “Guinness for Steve. Malibu Pineapples with extra cherries for Summer and Vada, and—my favorite—an L.A. water for Cat. Cheers!” He lifts the small shot glass off the tray and drinks whatever liquor was inside it without making even the slightest face.

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