Page 7 of The Thief
"Right. That's why you're staring at the door like a lovesick teenager?"
I grab a rag and start wiping down glasses that don't need cleaning. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Murphy chuckles, but he doesn't push it. One of the things I like about him is he knows when to leave well enough alone.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of pints and small talk. Tommy drinks himself into his usual stupor. Mrs. Kelly nurses her gin and stares at nothing. Mickey complains about his wife, his kids, and the price of everything while steadily working through a pile of crisps.
Normal night at Murphy's. Nothing special.
So why can't I stop thinking about dark eyes and expensive jackets? Why do I keep glancing at the door, half expecting it to open again?
Because I'm an idiot, that's why. Eighteen years in Belfast, and I've never been stupid over a man. Dad always said that was my strength: I could see through the charm and the bullshit to what men really wanted.
"You've got good instincts, mo stór," he'd tell me. "Trust them. They'll keep you safe when I can't."
Well, he can't keep me safe anymore. Can't warn me about dangerous men with Dublin accents and expensive clothes. Can't remind me that some people are trouble you don't need.
At half eleven, I start calling last orders. The regulars know the drill and finish up, settle tabs, and stumble home to whatever passes for their lives outside these walls. By midnight, it's just me and Murphy, counting the till and wiping down tables.
"Good night," Murphy says, pocketing his share of the takings. "You did well with that Dublin lad."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't give him an inch. Smart girl. Men like that, they're trouble you don't need."
Men like what? I want to ask, but Murphy's already heading for the door, keys jangling in his hand.
"Lock up when you're done, love. See you tomorrow."
And then I'm alone with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes, wondering what Murphy saw that I missed. Wondering why a simple conversation with a stranger has left me feeling like I've dodged a bullet I didn't know was coming.
I finish cleaning up and head upstairs to my flat: one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a sitting room that doubles as everything else. It's not much, but it's mine; the only thing in this world that belongs to me and me alone.
The photo on my bedside table shows Dad and me at the Giant's Causeway when I was sixteen. He's got his arm around my shoulders, both of us grinning at the camera like we haven't got a care in the world. It was taken six months before Chicago. Six months before everything went to hell.
"I love you more than life itself, mo stór," he'd said that day. "Remember that when the world gets dark."
The world's been nothing but dark since he died. But I remember. I remember every word he ever said to me, every lesson he taught me, every moment he made me feel like the most important person in the universe.
I make tea and sit by the window, looking out at Belfast sleeping under orange streetlights. Somewhere out there, Vittoria's probably lying awake thinking about wedding dresses and stranger husbands. Somewhere else, Freddie's doing whatever brought him to this godforsaken city.
And I'm here, same as always. Same as I'll be tomorrow and the day after that. Watching other people's lives change while mine stays exactly the same.
Maybe that's for the best. Change has never brought me anything good. Dad's dead, Mam's gone, and now Vittoria's leaving too. Everyone I've ever cared about disappears eventually.
Better to keep to myself. Better to stay behind the bar, pulling pints and minding my own business. Better to ignore dark-eyed strangers who smile like they know secrets you don't.
Even if ignoring them is the hardest thing I've ever done.
I finish my tea and head to bed, but sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see expensive jackets and dangerous smiles. Hear a Dublin accent asking questions I don't want to answer.
Trouble, Murphy called him. And Murphy's never wrong about these things.
So why does trouble look so bloody appealing?
Dad's voice whispers in my head: "Some things are worth the risk, mo stór. Just make sure you know what you're risking before you take the leap."
I pull the covers over my head and try to forget Dublin accents and dark eyes. Try to forget the way my heart stuttered when he smiled.
