Christmas In The City

by Shen, L. J.

  “Yes.”

  “Doing some sightseeing? Everything will be closed.”

  “No,” he said easily. He leaned his elbow on the bar, like he was settling in for a while, and continued his perusal of me. “I’m flying home.”

  Now I squinted at him, because his words made no sense. “How are you going to manage that?”

  His smile returned and he said gently, “Well, see now, there are these contraptions called airplanes. And when—”

  “No.” I laughed, shaking my head at his teasing. And then I continued shaking my head at the strangeness of this situation—sitting in a bar, on Christmas Eve, being teased by a Luke Cage look-alike. Maybe I’m in one of my dreams? DON’T WAKE UP!

  “I mean, there are no flights in or out of Dublin on Christmas day,” I explained, turning to face him more completely. “There never have been. I hope someone hasn’t sold you a bridge in Brooklyn.”

  “Ah. I see.” Now he blinked, his eyes cutting away and turning inward. “I-uh-well . . .” the mystery man’s head moved back and forth, like he was thinking things over, debating what to say. “I am flying out tomorrow, but not from Dublin Airport.” Abruptly, he frowned, and seemed to give himself a little shake before lifting his eyes to mine again.

  He watched me, and I watched him, and my stomach gave a little flutter. His eyes were very distracting, so I could be forgiven for speaking without checking with my brain when I blurted, “Like a bird.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You. You’re a bird, flying with no plane.” For reasons unknown, I waved my hand in front of us and then, because some very intelligent part of me was now paying attention, I stopped myself from speaking further by gulping my Guinness. While I gulped, I searched for a harmless topic to discuss, half expecting him to excuse himself and leave me to my bird-accusations.

  But he didn’t move. When I set my beer down—now half gone—I glanced at him. Again he was watching me, his eyes still warm and interested.

  Huh.

  “Do you—” he started.

  “And how have—” I began.

  We both stopped at the same time, sharing a small smile and a chuckle. My goodness, he really was excessively handsome, especially when he chuckled. His smile plus the low, deep timbre of the sound had that flutter in my stomach growing more pronounced.

  He gestured to me and said, “Please. You first.”

  “I was just going to ask, how have you liked your stay?”

  “Dublin’s a great city, but this wasn’t my first visit.” He scratched his chin. “I have some friends here, so I travel back and forth a lot.”

  “A jet setter then.”

  His smile deepened, persisted, and my breath caught just above my rib cage.

  Yeah. This is definitely a dream.

  “I get around. I’m Broderick, by the way.” He held out his hand, his gaze seeming to grow more searching, like the revelation of his name might mean something to me.

  My gaze dropped to his hand and I looked at it for a moment, then finally shook with him. “A fancy name for a fancy lad,” I said, unable to ignore the warm slide of his palm against mine, and how warm and solid he felt. “I’m Ophelia. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “A pretty name for a pretty voice.” He continued holding my hand, not shaking it, but not letting it go either. “And it’s nice to meet you, too.”

  “You liked the song?”

  “It gave me chills.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, the smile dropping from his face, replaced with a rough kind of sincerity that gave me a shiver.

  I looked away, flushing slightly, and he immediately released my hand, allowing me to turn back to the bar. I wasn’t used to compliments, not from strangers, and most definitely not from random, jet-setting, sophisticated men. Then again, I rarely stuck around long enough after performing a song for people to tell me whether they liked it.

  “Do you sing professionally?”

  “It’s just a hobby.”

  “A hobby.” He sounded disbelieving.

  I wiped my thumb through the condensation at the base of my pint and blurted, “No. Actually, more like a compulsion.”

  “A compulsion to sing?” Now he sounded intrigued.

  “If I don’t—” I lifted my hands, motioning to my chest. “I can’t seem to breathe, and it weighs on me, like wearing a hundred coats. It’s a heaviness, a burden, but also like a blockage. I get all backed up.” I paused to laugh, wrinkling my nose at myself and all this oversharing. Maybe it was the Guinness. “Sorry.” I peered at him. “That sounds disgusting.”

  “No, I get it.” He leaned closer, his expression intent and earnest, both easing and arresting a knot in my chest. “I don’t sing but I love music. I love listening to it, being around it. It feeds my soul.”

  Again, we shared a stare, and a moment of quiet passed. Where had this man come from? He talked like he was in a movie. I’d never met anyone like him before. Maybe it was an American thing. He expressed himself so openly, without any self-consciousness or self-deprecation. And the way he looked at me, like he knew me, or was waiting for me to recognize him, it was all very . . . unnerving.

  “Anyway,” he went on when I didn’t speak, leaning away now as though coming back to himself. “I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed your song and I think you’re very talented.”

  I blew out a breath. “That’s very kind of you but there are plenty singers out there with much better voices than me.” Ugh, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just take the compliment?

  “It’s not just about your voice,” Broderick countered. “The greatest singers aren’t always the best artists. The world is full of singers, but true artists are few and far between. The ability to connect with an audience, convey emotion, make the world feel the words—and more than just the meaning behind them, but live the experience—that’s what sets them apart. When you sang, I felt your loss. I felt the magnitude of it from twenty feet away. It moved me.”

  His gaze dropped and he placed his feet on the ground like he planned to stand and walk away. A jolt of panic—that this man who seemed to truly understand how I felt about music might just disappear—sent a flare of heat climbing up my neck to my chin and cheeks and nose.

  Before I quite understood the intent of my instincts, I stood first, jumping to my feet and stammering, “Thank you. It’s good to hear I’m doing something right. Here, as a thank you, let me buy you a drink.” Feeling oddly breathless, I lifted my finger in the air, attempting to get the attention of the bartender. I didn’t have money to be spending on drinks at pubs, but this was the first time in a long time that reality had come close to being as enjoyable as one of my daydreams. I desperately wanted the moment to last.

  “If anyone should be buying someone a drink, it should be me.” Broderick covered my upraised hand and smoothly lowered it to the bar, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Normally, I’d get freaked out if a stranger initiated touch so quickly, but Broderick was strikingly genuine. I got zero creepy vibes.

  Bringing my attention back to him, his fingers slid away. “But it’s late, and I imagine you have someplace to be.”

  I sat back on the stool, content for now that he didn’t seem inclined to imminently depart. My relief had me speaking without thinking. “Actually, no. I have no place to be.”

  He frowned at that, a flicker of confusion—or maybe concern?—behind his gaze. “Really? Nowhere to be on Christmas Eve?”

  A light laugh slipped past my lips and I shrugged, picking up a cardboard coaster, fiddling with the edges, and feeling suddenly self-conscious. And silly. Maybe I should’ve let him leave. What are you doing? Go home. Get some sleep. This is a dream, and dreams never last.

  A few seconds ticked past while I wracked my brain for some topic that would get us back on track.

  But then, Broderick asked, “Do you ever perform on stage?”

  I shook my head, relieved for the subject change. “Dark little pub
s are about as far as my confidence will allow when it comes to performing.” I peeked at him again, and then rolled my eyes at myself and explained, “I have stage fright.”

  He didn’t seem surprised to hear this, taking it in stride. “I’ve known a few people with stage fright. It can be overcome if you work on it.”

  “Maybe,” I replied, unsettled by his scrutiny as I took another sip from my pint. I wasn’t used to talking about my singing like it was something I could actually do instead of cleaning hotel rooms for a living. It made me feel both weirdly scared and excited.

  And yet, I didn’t want to allow myself to get my hopes up. Sure, I daydreamed, but there was still a logical part of me that knew that’s all it was. A dream. It would never be real.

  I stared at the bottles on the shelves behind the bar and sensed Broderick studying my profile. Something about his attention now made the hairs on my neck stand on end. The earlier faint flutter in my stomach became a buzz. It seemed like a long time since anyone really looked at me.

  “So, what do you call that type of song anyway?” he asked, once more breaking the quiet with his easy manner.

  “It’s a traditional Irish ballad. My gran taught me lots of them. She used to sing, too, before she passed. If you think I’m good you should’ve heard her. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when she sang.” I wanted to look at him again, so I did.

  “I wish I could’ve heard her,” he said, sounding and looking sincere.

  I nodded, swallowing thickly.

  Broderick’s eyebrows drew together. I could tell he perceived there was something off with me. “I can leave if I’m bothering you,” he said. “Sometimes I just get so excited when I hear new music—”

  “No, stay,” I interrupted. “It’s not you. My gran only passed away a few months ago, so I still get a little emotional when I talk about her.”

  “Oh, oh.” He frowned, his handsome eyes turning sad. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ophelia.”

  I liked the way he said my name, the way his accent sounded out the syllables. I felt him looking at me again, but I tried my best not to make eye contact because there was something really empathetic about him. He had those soulful brown eyes that could just look at you a certain way and pull all your suppressed feelings to the surface. Then before you knew it you were crying your eyes out in front of a stranger.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Gran raised me, so I just miss her a lot.” He didn’t speak, but instead reached out and put his hand on mine again. Like before, it felt so natural and genuine, it didn’t even occur to me to withdraw. “Gran used to make Christmas special,” I went on. “Now I feel so lost without her. I feel like everyone has somewhere to go except me.”

  “That’s not true. There are others with no place to go.”

  I knew he meant himself, so I asked, “What about your friends? They didn’t invite you over?”

  “They did.” His smile made another appearance. “But I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with strangers at their family Christmas. I couldn’t even get a reservation at a nice restaurant because I left it until the last minute. And even if I had gotten one, I would’ve been the sad dude in the corner dining alone.”

  I laughed quietly. “Okay, so I’m not the only one. But it still sucks to be alone.”

  Broderick nudged me with his elbow, lifting an eyebrow. “Hey. I’m not the ghost of Christmas past. You’re not alone.”

  Feeling my smile persist, some reflex had me nudging him back. “Well then, neither are you.”

  2

  Broderick

  “Here it is.” Ophelia moved her arm in a sweeping motion. “This is Saint Stephen's Green. Unfortunately, it’s closed. I forgot they lock the park up at night.”

  I looked through the gates at the bushes and grassy lawn—or what I could see of it—and the gravel path. “Wow.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s green.”

  “Very.”

  “Even in the dark, in the middle of winter, it’s green.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Impressive.” I inspected Ophelia’s profile, adding, “And aptly named,” completely deadpan. She fought a smile. She’d been fighting smiles during most of our adventure this evening and she hadn’t laughed since we’d left the pub.

  Finishing her pint with the world’s smallest sips, she’d offered to take me on a tour of her city after I admitted that I’d never gone sightseeing during any of my visits. I know, lame.

  Presently, it was cold and dark. I was legit a complete stranger to her and we were arguably the only sober people on the streets of Dublin except for the guitarist busking across the road from the park. Whoever it was, they were good. She didn’t seem at all put off by the fact that I was a stranger, but she hadn’t allowed herself a full smile either.

  Interesting. I wondered if she was nervous.

  This woman with sad eyes had a grin that reminded me of sunlight peeking through rain clouds, and a laugh just as melodic and alluring as her singing voice. I was not deterred. I would ease her fears. Oh yes, I would make her laugh. Before the night was over, I would have her gasping for air, even if I had to resort to stories about my Aunt Clara’s potato salad.

  “I applaud the name, Saint Stephen’s Green.” I turned to face her. “And, come to think of it, I like it when places are named literally, reflecting the location.”

  She quirked an eyebrow, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Why?”

  “Then there are no surprises. Take Central Park in New York. No surprises there. You know what to expect and it delivers on both its centralness and its parkness.”

  A small smile hooked her mouth to the side, and I looked at her lips. They were nice lips, pink, full, a little pouty, and white puffs of air paired with her words as she spoke, “Yes. Sometimes the name can promise one thing, but reality is very different.”

  “Like where? Give me an example.”

  “Like . . .” she glanced over my shoulder as she thought about it, which meant I could study her pretty face. Intelligent eyes beneath dark lashes, oval face, pink cheeks, tendrils of blonde, curly hair peeking out from beneath her knit hat and framing her face. Yep. No denying it. She’s extremely pretty.

  I’d noticed in the pub, she was the kind of pretty that was impossible to ignore. But the richness and emotive quality to her voice, and the palpable sadness she carried, had eclipsed any thoughts of her attractiveness at the time.

  “Like Brussels.” She focused on me again, lifting her shoulders, bringing me back to the present. “Where are the brussels sprouts? If you go to a place called Brussels, I would think it should be covered in brussels sprouts. Right?”

  What a goof.

  “Have you been to Brussels?” I wasn’t going to fight my smile, it felt too good and her accent was fucking adorable. ‘Think’ was ‘tink’ and I wanted her to hear her ‘toughts’ all night.

  Ophelia turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “No. But I’ve seen pictures, and nary a brussels sprout in sight. False advertising if you ask me.”

  Grinning at her goofiness, I decided once and for all she had no idea who I was. Or, if she did know, she didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time I spent any time with someone who didn’t know me as Broderick Addams, record producer to rock stars and pop royalty rather than just Broderick, some dude.

  It was nice to be just some dude again. Really nice.

  “Anyways.” Ophelia turned slowly, her steps unhurried as she walked along the periphery of the park, inviting me to join with the tilt of her head. “I know where I’m taking you next, but we don’t have much time.”

  Catching up to her, I let my arm brush against her shoulder. Her shoulder then brushed against my arm, and this was my version of acting irresponsibly. Other than our initial handshake, every touch thereafter had been way out of my norm. I wasn’t big on initiating contact, especially not with women—any woman—I’d just met. Growing up in Mississippi, I’d lost my acc
ent, but I’d never lost my awareness of where I’d come from and what I looked like.

  The world saw me as a big, scary black man. Meanwhile, here I am, shopping on Pottery Barn for faux fur bathrobes and table linens. There were few things I enjoyed more in life than a beautifully set table. Add candles and a centerpiece and I was in heaven. I will sit at a table and eat shitty food if there’s a silver napkin ring, no lie. Don’t get me started on Martha Stewart Living, domestic porn at its finest.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, not moving away from the subtle warmth of her body. In fact, I swayed closer, my arm brushing her shoulder again. I should’ve stepped away. I would, but not yet.

  “You’ll find out when we get there.” She pulled her hand from her pocket, hesitated for a second, and then slipped her fingers into the bend of my elbow.

  Ophelia wore no gloves. She was probably cold. I didn’t want her to be cold. I covered her hand with mine. Hey, hey, hey, don’t give me that look. Just being a gentleman here.

  Right.

  Like every touch before, it unsettled. Yet, it also seemed perfectly natural. A lovely woman with the singing voice of a siren and a goofy sense of humor and a fucking adorable accent wanted to hold my arm and walk closer on a cold, clear night in a beautiful, ancient city? Twist my arm.

  I wanted to hear her talk again, so I asked, “You’re from Dublin originally?”

  “That’s right,” she said, and it sounded like, Dat’s right, where the word right had a bit more air behind it than how we Americans say the word, a cool lilt to the ‘t.’

  “Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?”

  “Let’s see. . .” She placed her index finger on her chin, her lips twisting. “Maybe not live, but I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

  “Fiji? What’s in Fiji?”

  “Gorgeous sandy beaches, warm weather, scuba diving—not that I know how—piña coladas, a hammock.” Her eyes lost focus while she told me her list, and then she laughed lightly. “I’d have to take a bath in suntan lotion, though. Otherwise I’d burn to a crisp.” The words were self-deprecating. “Yeah,” she added quietly, “maybe not Fiji.”