Page 6 of Heart Strings
“Are you sure you don’t want me as your plus-one? I’m an amazing dancer. We can make Aidan so jealous.”
“I’ll be too busy with maid of honor duties and family stuff all night, anyway. I wouldn’t want to leave you by yourself the whole time. Thanks, though.” I stand, grab my tray. “Hey, want to go to the Hare’s Breath tonight? Blow off some steam? I don’t know who’s playing, but they always have a band on Fridays.”
He crinkles his nose. “Not my scene.”
I end upgoing to the Hare’s Breath alone…if one can say that about a pub packed with hundreds of people and my own memories. Lark and Callum have been busy with work and wedding planning, so when I invited them to accompany me to the pub, Lark said they needed a quiet date night to reconnect before the festivities. But I still rushed to the bridal salon to grab her dress and veil before they closed today.
Cheerful lacquered yellow paint and green trim cover the pub’s exterior, and mums fill the window boxes. A crowd spills out of the glass vestibule already stuffed with gourds and pumpkins, topped with garlands of autumn foliage. The only other time I’ve seen it this crowded was during World Cup finals.
The Hare’s Breath has the best music in the city. I’ll be damned if I let a six-month relationship with some dimpled, mandolin-playing fuckboy ruin it for me forever. I just make a point to avoid the cozy wooden snug where we had our first kiss.
I elbow my way to the bar, practically diving on a freshly vacated stool. A little Guinness toucan decorates the end of thebar, the finish on its beak worn away by hundreds of thousands of pats. I give it one more pat. Although I’m even more exhausted than usual lately, my soul needs some decent live music tonight. Call it self-care.
The guy beside me offers to buy my drink, but I decline. Flirting is the last thing I want tonight. One or two drinks to unwind and I’ll go home, shower, pass out, and do the whole thing again tomorrow.
Hooray.
When the patrons erupt in shouts and whistles, I follow their attention to the small stage, tucked in the corner.
Oh. Fuck. Off.
Chapter 3
Aidan
The Hare’s Breathis, by far, the smallest venue I’ve played in two years. In fact, there’s hardly a stage at all, just a platform elevated a couple steps up in a corner, but that’s part of the appeal. During the right songs, it’s like the crowd and I are one. Experiencing the elation and heartbreak of each lyric together. I’ve played across Europe, but there’s nothing like a pub gig in Ireland.
Garlands of orange and yellow leaves drape around the vintage Guinness ads and Jameson signs lining the wooden walls, and the pub’s carved logo of a Celtic rabbit hangs above the bar. Memories also reverberate throughout the cozy space.
Tonight, I’m wearing my own clothes. My stylist would probably turn up her nose at the well-worn Rory Gallagher tee, but Fionn reminded me that only a pretentious prick would show up in a hometown pub in designer gear. I’d almost forgotten how flashy my wardrobe is now.
Fionn waves to me from a corner snug and tilts his head toward the two women next to him. They’re pretty, and he looksextremely proud of himself. That particular snug is the last place I want to sit. Still, I ought to say hello before he makes arses out of us both.
“Grab me one, please?” I ask Saoirse as I pass her on her way to the bar.
Her long black hair swings as she nods and disappears into the thick crowd. She played the fiddle on the “Come Here to Me” EP and onHeaven-Bound. Despite my shameless begging, she refuses to abandon her florist business to accompany me on tour.
Tonight is an impromptu show, but thanks to the wonder of a couple social media posts from fans who spotted me, the audience has already ballooned to three times its original size. I’ve never seen the Hare’s Breath so busy, and Saoirse and I played it weekly for years.
Bodies are packed in, making it difficult to shuffle to the corner snug. Most nights, peat still burns in the fireplace, but it’s not needed tonight. The earthy aroma lingers anyway and mingles with the faint scent of beer.
“I’ve listened toHeaven-Bounda hundred times,” one of the women says when I arrive at the snug. “When’s the next album out? Does it have a name yet?”
“We won’t tell,” her friend adds, voice silky with suggestion. “Promise.”
Usually, I’d flirt right back. Maybe even spend the night with one, to help stave off the loneliness of touring off and on for the past year and a half. But being back in this city—in this particular wood-paneled snug in this ale-soaked pub—has me out of sorts. Too many memories linger here. The first time I kissed Cielo. Her cheering for me as I performed. Our heateddiscussions about what makes a film a “Christmas movie” (I say a single scene set during the holiday qualifies; Lo said more than 30 percent needs to be Christmas-centric), acceptable popcorn toppings (I’m a butter purist; she drowned the kernels in caramel and chocolate), or which Radiohead album is superior (obviously it’sOK Computer,but Lo made a compelling argument forIn Rainbows).
“I’m afraid I can’t share anything yet,” I reply. There isn’t much to say about my upcoming album. Everything I’ve written in the last year has felt too shallow. The label wanted me to pivot to a more poppy sound if the best I can give them is mediocre material.
“Thanks for coming out,” I tell the women. “Enjoy the show.”
They share a disappointed glance as Fionn jumps in.
“We’re brothers. Full brothers. Not step or half.”
“That’s nice.” They already look bored. I push through the crowd toward the tiny stage where Saoirse is waiting and Fionn follows.
“Jaysus, the way they were looking at you, I thought they’d both go back to your hotel,” Fionn says, sounding torn between resentment and awe.
