by L.J. Shen
“My grandson busks on Drury Street. He knew your da well enough. Glen taught him how to play the guitar. I’m sure Mal is full of stories about Glen. Why don’t you talk to him over a few pints, eh? But not too many, unless you want the stories to take unexpected, bizarre turns.” He chuckles, sliding the address across the desk along with a fifty-euro note.
“Thanks, but I can’t take your money.” I grab the address and shove it into my corduroy jeans’ pocket, leaving the note untouched.
“Why?”
“Because you owe me nothing.” I hitch one shoulder up. “And you’ve already done enough.”
He looks up, the tenderness in his eyes leaving me with stupid thoughts—thoughts like I wish he’d adopt me. I wish he’d be my granddad. There’s nothing quite like feeling you don’t belong. Floating rootless on this planet, without anyone to fight for you. Well, there’s Mom, but she has a weird way of showing her love.
“Show me unfailing kindness like the Lord’s kindness as long as I live, so that I may not be killed. Samuel 20:14. We all owe each other a little kindness, Rory. A little kindness goes a long way.”
His teeth are as yellow as the shards of light cutting through the tall church windows. I swallow, not making a move for the money.
“Now, go before my grandson’s finished. Malachy rarely stays in one spot. There’s always a lady friend or two lurking, and they always drag him into hell-knows-where doing God-knows-what.”
I have a pretty good idea as to the what part. Anyway, his playboy grandson’s sex life is not something I want to talk about in a church. Or, you know, ever.
“How will I know who he is? There must be more than one singer on Drury Street.”
“Oh, you’ll know.” He folds the money between his fingers and hands it to me.
I hesitate, but take it. “And if I don’t?” I furrow my brows.
“Just yell his name. He’ll stop everything at once. Malachy never could resist a pretty girl or a stiff drink.”
I already dislike this Malachy guy, but if he can give me closure, I can ignore the fact that he sounds exactly like my father: a flirt, a drunk, and a man who avoids responsibility like it’s the plague.
“Can I take a few pictures of his grave before I go?”
He nods, looking at me with sheer pity, the type that crawls under your skin and takes residence. The type that defines you.
“You will prevail, Aurora.”
Aurora. I never told him my name. Only Rory.
“Aurora?” I lift an eyebrow.
His smile vanishes, and he clears his throat. “Your father told me, remember?”
Yes. Of course. So why does he look so…guilty?
Two things hit me in that moment as I regard Father Doherty:
The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up.
I will meet him again, someday.
Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.
I shoulder past the thick wall of female bodies that crescents the street artist. Drury Street is an explosion of colors, scents, and sights. Red, exposed-brick buildings covered with vibrant graffiti. An Asian market peeking from a corner, a parking garage, a bus stop, and little hipster shops. It looks like a picture, and I can’t help but stop everything and make it one, capturing the beauty of the street with my old camera.
A bus, passing in a blur, slicing through the colors like the stroke of a brush.
Click.
Two suited men walking past FUCK CAPITALISM written on a wall.
Click.
A lone beer bottle lying on the pavement, tucked between junk food wrappers like a sad drunk.
Click, click, click.
When I finally come face to face with the street artist standing on the side of the pavement, his guitar case open and full of rolled-up notes and change, I understand why his grandfather told me I’d recognize him with the self-assurance of an avid believer.
I’ve never seen someone like him before.
He is beautiful, true, but that’s not what stands out to me. He is radiant.
It’s like his presence has a presence. He sucks the air out of everything in his vicinity, making it impossible not to look at him. Malachy is tailor-made for a huge, colossal heartbreak. Everything about him—his tattered jeans, filthy boots, white shirt, and leather jacket that was broken in decades ago—screams trouble. He looks like a seventies heartthrob. An icon. A Terry Richardson muse. Bruce Springsteen pre-fame.
His voice is like honey and warm spices. It lulls me into a place in my mind I’ve never been before, even though it’s far from beautiful. It is gruff, throaty, and smoky. When someone bumps my shoulder to get closer to him, I snap out of my reverie and realize what I’m listening to.
“One” by U2.
The coincidence is strange. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. This is Ireland. U2 is a national treasure.
His eyes are squeezed shut as he sings. It’s like no one exists other than him and his guitar. Something warm rushes through my skin, like a heat wave, and I shudder in delight.
Warmth.
I always thought there was something melancholy about street performers—the way people walk past them, ignoring their music, their art, their passion. But this guy, he’s the one doing the ignoring. The tables have turned. He’s got the crowd eating from the palm of his hand. Every woman here is under a thick, sweet spell. He’s got that Harry Styles quality that makes girls want to bed him and older women want to adopt him. The men are a cross between impatient, annoyed, and jealous. You can see it in the way they tap their feet, check their watches, nudge their wives and girlfriends to move it.
The song ends, and Malachy Doherty cracks his eyes open and stares directly at me, like he knew I’d be here. Like he watched me watching him through closed eyes. Disoriented—and for some reason wanting to do something, anything—I throw a bill into his guitar case and look away, realizing to my horror that I threw the fifty euros his grandpa gave me. Everyone around me murmurs and whistles. They think it was intentional. I can feel my face flaming red. I bet he thinks I want to sleep with him.
Do I? Probably. But should he know that? Hell no.
Too late to take the money back now without looking like a crazy person, though. And between crazy and an easy lay, I think I’ll go with the latter.
Flushed, I back away. Malachy leans forward, grabs my wrist, and tugs at it. Electric heat courses through my veins, like a snakebite. I gasp.
I’m staring down at my shoes, but he crouches and peeks into my face, a brash, lopsided grin playing on his lips.
“Any requests, Baroness Rothschild of good fortune?” he drawls.
Can I get my money back? I need to buy you drinks with it so you can tell me about my father, I try to convey to him with what I’m sure is a sweet-but-seriously-psycho look.
“None that I can think of.” I slant my gaze sideways, playing nonchalant but secretly wanting to die.
Bright side: I’m no longer thinking about my dead father. Silver lining and so forth.
“The Copacabana!” someone suggests.
“Cavan Girl!” another shouts.
“Dick in a Box!”
Malachy looks around and laughs, and the minute his eyes leave my face, the warmth is snatched away. Still, his rolling laughter is like hot wax seeping into my stomach.
He straightens up. “Who’s the rale Bulgarian who suggested that?”
Some guy in a green beret and orange tweed jacket raises his hand and waves his fingers.
“Not Bulgarian, English.” He grins smugly.
“Jesus, much worse,” Malachy deadpans, and everyone around us erupts in more laughter.
I use the opportunity to gentle my pulse back to normal, smiling along. Ha-ha indeed.
Malachy swaggers back to his spot and secures his guitar strap over his shoulder. He has the slender, yet muscular body of someone who works in the field, not in the gym. He points the gu
itar pick at me, and everyone’s heads turn to see who he’s pointing at.
“I’m not keen on girls who don’t know what they want.” He quirks a dark, thick eyebrow. “But I’ve a feeling you’re here to change that.”
He starts playing, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling small and vulnerable and broken, but I allow myself to cave to the sound of him, close my eyes and let go. I can tell this one is an original, because I don’t know the lyrics. It’s too good not to be a hit. He sings it completely differently from the way he did “One.” Like every single word cuts through his flesh. A welt, a scar, a burning thing.
Weakness, hate, desire,
How I’d love to light your soul on fire,
In a room full of pretty lost girls and bad broken boys,
You will find me, dip me in ice, and drown all the white noise,
I want to see the world through your eyes and fall in love,
But most of all, I am frightened you don’t really exist,
Because then my fairytale has no beauty,
Just a sad, lonely beast.
This guy can move me without touching me, and touch me without laying a finger on me. His grandfather was right. He’s trouble.
Everyone is so quiet, I begin to doubt this moment is real. I stop swaying and open my eyes. To my astonishment, I find the entire street staring at him. Even waitresses stand on the thresholds of restaurants and at café doors, admiring his voice.
And Malachy? He is staring at me.
I snag my camera and take a picture of him as he sings.
When he finishes the song, he takes a little bow and waits for the claps and shouts to die down. He wiggles his brows at me with a grin that tells me he’s going to sleep with me, which is stupid, because I’m eighteen, and not the sleeping-around type.
I’ve only slept with one person in my life: Taylor Kirshner, senior year, because we’d dated for a while and both of us didn’t want to leave for college saddled with our awkward virginity.
But I believe Malachy. We will.
I believe him because he is that guy. Someone like my dad must’ve been. A completely unhinged, typhoon-souled, damaged Romeo who would break your bed, heart, and resolve if you let him.
Not maliciously, no. And not because he wants to. He simply cannot help himself. He would wreck everything in his way. This misunderstood, beautiful, brilliant boy who is burdened with gifts he never asked for, but unwrapped nonetheless. His talent, charm, and beauty are a weapon, and right now they’re aimed at me.
I watch as he scoops the money from his guitar case, stuffing it into his pocket. The circle of people around him thins and dies away. Two college-aged girls approach him, tucking their hair behind their ears. He flirts with them shamelessly, shooting me a look every now and again, making sure I’m still standing here.
I’m only here because of my father, I want to clarify. I’ll tell him that as soon as he’s done.
Since Malachy feels comfortable keeping me waiting, I don’t feel guilty taking out my camera again and snapping a picture of him just as he hoists the guitar case over his shoulder, awarding one of the girls with a kiss to the knuckles.
“Flattered, but see, I promised this generous, albeit clingy lass, I’d let her buy me a pint.”
I lower my camera and arch an eyebrow at him. He beams at me as both girls scatter along to a bus stop, giggling breathlessly and swatting one another.
“I think you can afford to buy the generous, albeit clingy lass, a drink, everything considered.” I tuck my camera back into my backpack, throwing the hood of my jacket over my head.
“Only if she sends me a copy of that picture.” He juts his chin to my backpack, flashing me a lazy grin.
“Whatever for?”
He thumbs the strap of his guitar case as he saunters over. Stops when we can breathe each other in. “So I’ll have her address.”
“Who’s being clingy now?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Me.” He grins, the world likely tinted a dramatic shade of mauve through his mesmerizing eyes. “Definitely me. You American?”
I nod. He scans me.
Purple eyes, like his grandfather’s. But different somehow. Clearer, with depths that suck you in if you’re not careful.
I turn around and start walking, knowing he’ll follow me. He does.
“What’s the story?” He shoves his hands into his front pockets.
“Can we sit somewhere?” I ignore his question, looking around us.
I could use a drink and something to eat. I’m guessing any normal guy would have a hundred and three questions about what I want from him, but Mal seems nowhere near the normalcy spectrum. He motions with his head in the opposite direction, and we turn around. Now I’m the one doing the following.
Turning the tables. This street performer is good at that.
“You have a name?” he asks.
I catch his footsteps. Barely.
“Aurora.”
“Aurora! Princess Aurora of…?”
“New Jersey.” I roll my eyes. What a flirt.
“New Jersey. Of course. Known for its processed meat, goldfinch, and Jon Bon Jovi, although I won’t hold the latter against you.”
“That’s incredibly considerate.”
“What can I say? I’m a charitable soul, too. Mind you, everything I know about New Jersey I learned from a little show called Jersey Shore. Mam is a goner for the one who’s got enough gel on his hair to fill up a pool.”
“Pauly D.” I nod, smiling.
Suddenly, I feel hot. I need to get out of my army jacket. Maybe even my hoodie. De-onionize. Peel off my layers of clothing.
“That’s the one.” He snaps his fingers. “Although, I’m sure you and your family are nothing like him and his orange mates.”
I chew the side of my thumbnail. “Actually, my mom is pretty much the queen of those people. She’s twenty-five percent fake tan, twenty-five percent hairspray, and forty percent skimpy clothes and hair dye. She is, like, super flammable.”
“Where’s the other ten percent?” He chuckles, shooting me a look I can’t decode.
“She’s not very good at math,” I deadpan.
Malachy throws his head back and laughs so boisterously, I feel it vibrating in my stomach. Back home, a boy like him would elevate his looks to his own benefit somehow—become an actor, model, a social media persona, or some other made-up job. My mom would have a heart attack on impact if she ever saw Malachy laugh. He laughs with his entire face, practically inviting wrinkles. Every inch of his flesh is squeezed tight.
“I’m Mal,” he says.
Since we’re mid-walk and he can’t shake my hand, he bumps his shoulder against mine, tugging my hoodie down to reveal more of my face.
“What about you? Are you going to smash any Irish stereotypes?” I ask.
Mal takes a sharp turn onto a corner street. I follow.
“Afraid not. I’m Catholic, a mammy’s boy, and a mostly functioning alcoholic. My grandfather…actually, he’s not technically my granddad. Father Doherty’s a Catholic priest, but Mam’s da died young and Father Doherty, his brother, kind of took care of her like she was his own. Anyway, he taught me how to make stew, which, to this day, is the only food I know how to prepare. I live on a farm with a staggering amount of sheep, all of them arseholes. I prefer stout to lager, missionary position over doggy, think George Best was a god, and reckon brown sauce can cure anything short of cancer, including but not limited to hangovers, a badly cooked meal, and possibly hepatitis C.”
“We’re…incredibly stereotypical representations of the places we come from.” I roll my nose hoop, moving it around inside its hole. I do that when I’m nervous. Keeps my hands busy.
“Stereotypes exist because they have a seed of truth.” He stops, turns around, and raps the roof of an old Ford the color of bad teeth. “Now, come. We have places to go, things to see, and I’m afraid you must do the driving.”
“Huh?”
“The last one wasn’t a meet-cute. And Geena Davis is not a man.” I can’t help but laugh. How dare he thaw me before I’m ready to defrost?
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” He throws a set of keys into my hands, and I catch them on instinct. “Your carriage awaits, Madame Semantics.”
This guy is sleek, charming. The worst type of heartbreaker—not compassionate enough to let you know he’s an asshole by actually behaving like one. I bet he leaves a string of half-beating, bleeding, broken hearts in his wake wherever he goes—like Hansel and Gretel left breadcrumbs to find their way home by following the trail. Only I know where this path is leading: destruction.
“Wait. Before we go anywhere, I have something I want to ask you.” I raise a hand. Best to set the expectations right now.
“All right.” He throws the passenger door open, sliding inside. I’m still standing on the pavement when he shuts the door, rolls his window down, and rests his arm on its frame, sliding his aviator sunglasses on.
“You coming?”
“Aren’t you going to ask what that is before you let me in?” I frown.
He raises his aviators and flashes me a smile that can hold up the entire universe with its magnitude.
“What’s the point? I’ll give it to you, anyway. Be it money, a snog, a shag, a kidney, a liver. God, I hope it’s not my liver you’re after. Unfortunately, mine has seen some mileage. Come on now, Aurora.”
“Rory.”
“Rory,” he amends, dragging his straight teeth over his bottom lip. “Much more fitting. You don’t look like a princess at all.”
I arch an eyebrow. I don’t know why his statement annoys me. He’s right. I look nothing like the princess my mother wanted me to be. My best friend, Summer, says I look like a suicidal pixie.
“You look like the more beautiful stepsister in a Disney movie. The underdog who gets the prince at the end. The one who wasn’t born with the title, but earned it,” he explains.