Page 3 of Since We're Here
Patrick McNulty is Reese’s fiancé’s best friend and former professional soccer teammate. He was a goalkeeper, apparently, not that it’s important what position he played. Reese promised he’d help me but, save a curt answer from my first email in January, he hasn’t responded.
“I’m meeting an old friend.”
“An old friend?” Noreen raises her eyebrows. “Here in Dingle? Who?”
“I mean, it’s a friend of a friend. I need to look up their name.” I glance at the door to try to dismiss her before she can ask any follow-up questions.
“Lovely,” she says, but looks confused. “Anyway, I bought you some bread and butter so you don’t starve. If you need coffee in the morning, Dingle Brew is just a few doors down.” She turns to leave, then looks back at me. “If you’re up for it, come on down to O’Brien’s. Tourists aren’t around yet, so it’s not so crowded. You could get a pint and listen to some live music.”
“Thanks. That, uh, sounds great.” I nod and she drops the keys on the coffee table before disappearing down the stairs.
“Okay,” I say to the empty apartment when the door clicks shut. Apartment, flat, whatever. I collapse on the couch, jacket still on, and lean forward, elbows on my knees.
What do I do now?Go to sleep? Get that drink? Cry into a pillow?
I fish out my phone and slide it next to the keys. The sturdy, thick wooden coffee table is really nice—a nonsymmetrical oval shape with dark swirls of wood under the finished surface. I glance around the room. The kitchen wall showcases three artsy sheep photos. They all have varied solid color backgrounds, like the old elementary school pictures I have a stack of somewhere. One sheep is against a gray background, posing with its head tilted. Another is a sideview of a sheep looking over its shoulder—yup that’s possible—against a bright green background. The third is against blue and is a sheep butt. Seriously. The butt of a sheep.
Above the couch behind me, there’s a striking photograph of an entire flock of sheep blocking a narrow road between two rolling hills. Looks dangerous.
A sheep-themed flat?Not sure the description I read offered that detail, but it’s charming.
I drag my suitcase down the hall to the bigger of the two bedrooms. I pause in the doorway. Unsurprisingly, there’s a large, framed watercolor of a sheep above the bed. I snort.
The bed has a proper fluffy duvet, and I consider diving into the soft comforter and dealing with everything else tomorrow. But I’m not going to sleep at seven o’clock in the evening on my first night in Ireland. Besides, I can hear the music from the pub drifting up through the floorboards. This room must be directly on top of the bar.
I unzip my suitcase and strip off the clothes and boots I traveled in, choosing another short dress (this one with long sleeves, at least) and my favorite gray thigh-high boots. Much warmer. After running a brush through my too-long, tangled hair and slapping on some fresh eyeliner and a generous amount of blush, I don’t look awful.
I shove the keys to the flat—there’s a sheep keychain that saysI KNOW YOU HERD MEso I’m sure not to lose it—my wallet, and my phone in a small purse and practically bound down the stairs with a second wind, finally not weighed down by luggage. Or my jacket, given the pub is literally a twenty-second walk away.
I hesitate for just a second under the bright red awning, O’Brien’s written in swooping Celtic letters on the matching red building. I’m freezing my ass off, not to mention my legs, and cheeks (both sets), and neck, and entire body.
Jumping nerves flit around in my belly like tiny green grasshoppers. I’m starving, but I could’ve eaten buttered bread upstairs. And honestly, I’m so exhausted, I probably should’ve cranked up my white noise app and collapsed on that cozy bed.
“Alright, love?” An older gentleman is standing behind me. “Go on. I’m freezing my arse out here.”
“Same. Sorry.” I pull the heavy wooden door open, and my senses are overwhelmed by the scene in front of me.
To the right of the door there’s a band playing upbeat Irish folk music on a small stage. A man with a fiddle, another with a guitar, an accordion player, and a woman with a flute are bouncing up and down as they play. Luckily, the music drowns out the small talk the older man is trying to make with me, and after a few seconds, he gives up and heads to the bar.
Round tables are scattered throughout the room, filled with people drinking and talking. Where should I sit? What am I doing here? Where is Noreen?
But then I meet the gaze of the bartender.
And he is smoking hot.
Tall, broad shoulders, thick dark hair a striking contrast to his pale skin, a shadow of a beard, and intense eyes which lock on mine like a vice. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that’s tight around his thick biceps, O’Brien’s in large white writing across the front. Heat floods my cheeks and I know I should look away, but just cannot.
With no acknowledgment, the bartender turns his attention to the older man in front of him, the one who practically pushed me through the doorway. The doorway, where I’m still standing, probably looking like a lost puppy.
A newly familiar voice shouts my name.
Noreen waves me over to where she’s sitting with a pair of guys. She gestures to the empty chair across from her, and I head her way, relief washing over me.
“You made it!” Noreen smiles broadly. “Sit! I got you a pint, just in case.”
“Thank you. I think I fell asleep on my feet for a second by the door.” It had nothing to do with the incredibly hot bartender, who I sneak another look at now. I was hoping he’d be staring longingly at me, but he’s doing his job serving drinks. I slideinto the seat and take a deep swig of the amber beer. The liquid warms me from my mouth to my belly and I sigh contentedly.
“I’m Gray,” one guy says. He has red hair and green eyes, but only briefly glances at me, then returns his gaze to Noreen, linking his hand with hers on the table.
