by Gage Grayson
There are no true, honest feelings there for Rebecca.
She’s a nice enough lass, that’s for certain, but I can’t love her.
I’m not capable of loving anything other than my work and my booze.
That’s it. End of fucking story, boy. And I like it that way, dammit.
I don’t need these fucking sentiments—real or fake—complicating my life.
So, all of these symptoms of sentimen-fucking-tality that I get whenever I look into her wondrous blue eyes—or see that astounding smile of hers for that matter—aren’t real.
It’s just the whiskey talking.
And it loves to talk some bullshit.
29
Rebecca
“Beautiful day for a tour, isn’t it?”
Killian’s eyes are on me as we start down the path to the center of the village.
“Don’t push it, Killian. Just be a professional tour guide, please, and maybe I’ll leave you a good review on TripAdvisor.”
Is it difficult to believe that I haven’t really been outside since I’ve been to Ireland?
The only times I’ve been outside have either been at night—usually while drunk or absolutely exhausted—or when the weather’s been less than ideal, and I didn’t feel like I was really getting the feel of the village, the countryside, or even the country itself.
Okay, there was the one exception of my recent little walk to the pub, but even then, I was lost in a renewed sense of artistic inspiration and was overly caught up in details.
Yeah, that’s stretching it, I know.
But walking outside with Killian right now—with gorgeous weather and an aromatic blend of scents I’ve never experienced before but unmistakably bring to mind the word spring—it almost feels like I’m stepping off the plane for the first time.
“So, tell me,” I begin, even though I’m not quite sure where I’m going with it, although I am sure I enjoy the way Killian looks at me with such immediate interest in what I’m saying. “Do you get everywhere here using nothing but your own two feet?”
Nice. Very relevant question I thought of, there. Good going.
Of course, Killian’s look of interest turns into mild confusion.
“Well, six, including Ida’s.”
There, saved it. Killian’s laughing, anyway.
“Don’t you think that’s plenty, my dear? Look, I understand that this is a whole different culture than what you’re used to…”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re having a go at me?”
“Not at all, lass. All I’m saying is, you’re probably used to driving everywhere—including the supermarket next door, and even down the walk to get the morning papers. And I’m sure you’re smart about it, too...”
“I’m not liking any of this at all, young man.”
My face is stern and unamused, but Killian has an unflappable ear-to-ear grin as he stares at me. It’s lucky for him that the little path into town is vacant as usual, because he’s not even watching where he’s going.
“I’m trying to pay you a compliment, love. I’m sure you avoid goin’ down to the Walmart on Sundays, because it gets so crowded you’d have to walk an extra ten paces down the car park.”
Staring straight in front of me, I give Killian a nice little punch in the arm.
“Hey! You already broke it once.”
“That was the other arm, Killian—and is it even broken?”
“So, you’re going for a twofer with my arms, huh?”
“And I’ll have you know that I get at least five miles on the treadmill every time I go to the gym.”
“Do you drive there?”
“Do you want a fresh one?”
I turn to Killian, whose leprechaun shit-eating grin hasn’t budged, and I raise a foreboding fist.
As it’s been threatening to do, Killian’s smile becomes a hearty laugh that fills the countryside.
Clenching my fist while shaking it in Killian’s laughing face, I keep my quiet, angry expression in place.
My own urge to laugh is putting up quite a fight, but I’m able to just barely keep it stifled. My face is flushing like mad, but that should hopefully be adding to the angry effect.
“Alright, Becks, there’s no need to act like someone just cut in the queue at MacDonald’s.”
I’m about to correct Killian’s pronunciation of the fast food behemoth’s name, but quickly decide against it for a variety of reasons.
“Like you don’t have those here,” I mutter.
Taking in the breathtaking vista serving as the background to Killian’s beaming face, it’s actually difficult to imagine any multinational concern daring to sully the scenery here.
“Not in this county, lass. No chains of any kind permitted.”
My suppressed laughter from earlier sneaks back up on me, mildly, in the form of a small, playful smile.
“Just one of everything, huh?”
“That’s the law of the land, love.”
“What if your local pub wanted to expand?”
The smile finally fades from Killian’s face as his imagination is suddenly ignited.
“Keep talking.”
“Let’s say...do you mind a hypothetical?”
“Obviously not, Becks. Paint a picture.”
“Okay, so, your local pub wants to open a location in one of the empty cottages within a few steps from yours. No construction involved.”
Killian turns to glare in consideration at the path extending before us.
He is seriously thinking about this.
“There couldn’t be—none of that allowed, either.”
“What, is there not enough empty space?”
Boy, do I feel like an asshole as soon as that joke leaves my mouth. The beauty of this region is so astonishing that I wouldn’t even jokingly question it.
Unless it was somebody who knows me well—somebody who would for sure know that I’m joking, and would get the joke.
It seems like Killian gets it. He’s turned back to me, and his smile is back as well.
“I’ll have you know that we appreciate natural grandeur here. That, and everyone’s too fucking drunk most of the time to get a solid erection together.”
“Yeah…So, anyway, no loud construction crews, no loud pile drivers hammering away...”
“Ah, the image is coming together. Is this your new children’s book?”
“Ignoring that...no waiting either, really. Just a really local branch of your local pub. Open twenty-four hours, too.”
“So, we’re ignoring local laws in this picture you’re painting?”
I shrug and look ahead. For the first time I notice a family—two parents, two children—wandering leisurely down the path in front of us.
“Only the laws I choose to ignore.”
“Nice!”
“So, would you then be interested in changing your county’s policy?”
Killian returns to his contemplative, looking-ahead pose.
“I don’t know about that one, Beckster.”
“No one at the new pub branch would be allowed to discuss your work with you, past or future—not unless they wanted to face criminal charges.”
“Rebecca, my love, if that painting you just completed had any chance of coming to pass, I’d do anything in my power to facilitate it. Deadlines be damned—I’d be lobbying the county council twenty-four fucking seven to get that branch opened.”
“So, you don’t always love walking. You might be more American than you realize.”
“During those cold rains in the winter, I may as well be baseball and apple fecking pie rolled into one fucking entity, that’s how American my attitude gets towards walking. I’d even drive your hired SUV—Ida could fit in the back if she wants to come along.”
“Hey, I never noticed that before.”
Just in front of us, there’s a small offshoot from the path leading to a little gravel area with benches, tables, a couple of chess tables—and a fountain.
“Ah, that’s for families and the like. They only bother setting up that crap on sunny days, and the fountain’s usually off.”
“If this was LA, the fountain would always be off. And nonfunctional. And probably filled with garbage.”
“I doubt it’s that bad, Rebecca.”
“Maybe not, but...”
Instinctually, I start following the offshoot down to the small public space, where the family’s already setting up a picnic on one of the tables.
“Go down there if you want, Becks, I’m going to the pub.”
“I’ve seen the pub already.”
“I’ll give you the history, then. I may make up some large gaps of it, but it’ll be...”
Killian’s voice trails off as I walk towards the fountain. The only other people in the small expanse are a couple standing, just watching the fountain. A woman with shortish red hair, brighter than mine, and a very clean-cut looking guy in a dark green sweater.
Getting closer, I recognize them as the couple I saw drinking like fish at their own table last time I was in the pub.
Now, they’re staring at the fountain quietly and peacefully.
The small, stone fountain is surrounded by yellow furze flowers. Something compels me, strongly, to walk up to the fountain to see what the big deal is myself.
Staking out a spot on the other side of the water from where the couple is standing, I stare and try to concentrate.
After a few seconds, I’m ready to give up.
It’s just a fucking fountain, after all.
But seeing the water cascade from the center of the fountain towards the sides, making a gentle, white noise, I decide to watch for just a moment longer.
And I can’t stop.
It's like the fountain contains everything.
All the good things in life, but also all of the bad shit—some of which I’ve become very familiar with.
All mixing and flowing together, diluting all the attachments and all the other bullshit we ascribe to every single goddamned thing that happens to us. Eventually, it all ends up in the pool.
After that, maybe, there is no good or bad. As the water sits there peacefully, it just is. And that's more reassuring than anything. Maybe this is why my BFF Stephanie is into all that Eastern stuff.
Part of me wishes Killian was here with me to share the moment, instead of running off to the pub as always—but I’m not sure he’d understand it, either.
Except, he is there. In fact, he’s standing right next to me, apparently.
When I turn to him, I expect to see annoyance or impatience. It’s not like he’s going to leave me here, even though he doesn’t want to be here, either.
But I’m wrong, he’s staring at the fountain with at least the same intensity I was.
I watch him go through the process I just went through. At least it really seems like that’s what he’s doing.
And then, he turns to me.
“I’ll hand it to ya, Becks. For today, at least, this is better than the pub.”
30
Killian
There’s only one truly Irish way to end a day: wandering in the countryside and strolling through town with a beautiful woman on your arm. If anyone tells you any different, that’s proof they’re a lying arse and deserve nothing less than the fucking worst in life.
Now, the only way to end a day like this is by grabbing a couple pints at the pub.
I hold the door open—because I’m a true Irish gentleman—to the Lamb & Clover for Rebecca.
“Well, aren’t you just the Irish gent?” Rebecca teases with a smile.
Didn’t I say that I was a true Irish gentleman?
“Of course, lass.”
I step in behind her with a smile.
Proper Irish pub music always puts a smile on my face.
Wherever there’s Irish pub music, there’s booze. And what better way to make an Irish man happy than with some whiskey and a pint or two?
The Lamb isn’t overly busy. All the regulars are here—hence why they’re called regulars—and it’s filled with a handful of tourists and other out-of-towners as well.
It’s that perfect blend where you can still navigate through the people with ease, but the sound of conversations and laughter rise just enough to nearly drown out the ambient music.
“Hey, Charlie. One Arthur,” I call out to the barman.
“Arthur?” Rebecca raises an eyebrow out of—what I can only assume is—curiosity.
“As in, Arthur Guinness. We call pints of the black stuff an Arthur in his honor. So, one Arthur is one pint of Guinness.”
“That makes far more sense than I had expected.”
She laughs, and it is my turn to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.
“What? Did you think us, Irish, were nonsensical folk? That we were prone to making up words and phrases because we don’t know better? Or because we’re just a bunch of drunken fools?”
I sound far more like a giant arse than I meant to be. At the very least, I can keep certain other nicknames to myself.
The look on Rebecca’s face tells me I’ve embarrassed and insulted her.
Neither of which had been my intention at all.
“Sorry, lass. Still a wee bit hungover from last night and this creeping headache has me feeling a little cranky.”
“It’s no big deal.”
She brushes it off with a wave of her hand and a smile, but I can’t help but think that my apology did nothing to put her at ease.
I take a seat at the bar and Rebecca grabs the stool beside me.
Charlie brings me over my pint with his usual smile.
The man has been running the pub for nearly forty years now. And—given the prominent laugh lines of his aging face—I don’t think he’s ever had a single day in that time where he hasn’t smiled.
“Lass, you can do far better than this sad stook,” Charlie warns with a chuckle.
My hands wrap around my glass. The coolness of it and its weight feels comforting, and I can already feel my headache begin to abate.
“Oh, I know. I just have a thing for stray dogs,” she gibes.
“That’ll do, Charlie,” I chuckle and shake my head.
Charlie is a kind old man, but isn’t nearly as funny as he thinks he is.
Nor is Rebecca for that matter.
I bring my glass up to my lips and I’m hit with the smell of malt and burnt wheat when the milky drink slips over my tongue. The mix of coffee and chocolate blends together perfectly for a truly flavorsome stout.
There’s a swell of love and hope in my heart as I take another sip. It’s like waking up on Christmas morning to a Pulitzer and a couple red-headed ladies to spend the day celebrating with while the spirit of Cú Chulainn declares you Ireland’s greatest gift.
“So, how is your arm, anyway? Is it still broken or...”
Rebecca’s words trail off into the void as she looks off into the nothingness of the evening crowd.
“Oh, my arm is perfectly fine, lass. Or could you not tell from how vigorously I’ve been using it these last couple of days.”
My answer gives rise to a soft flush in Rebecca’s cheeks that matches the scarlet color of her long locks.
“But I’m curious now, lass. That night on the road. You knew it was me, didn’t you?”
“I would never,” she exclaims.
The soft flush in her cheeks quickly fade at my accusation.
“Uh huh,” I counter with a chuckle. “Come on, lass. In all the places in the world you could go, you would end up on that road just as I was walking it. You had it all planned. Just like back in Dublin.”
Her face is awash with a handful of emotive expressions. Anger, insult, guilt and pain being the most prevalent.
For a moment, I almost think that I might be onto something with my line of questioning.
I’m not so callous—or foolish—as to genuinely believe that this was all some great plan or conspiracy. I’ve not had that m
uch to drink.
But the guilt I see in her eyes looking at me has me thinking that I’ve certainly hit a vein of truth. It has nothing to do with her hitting me with that wasteful SUV of hers—that was obviously just an incredible fluke—but instead in reference to our time together in Dublin.
The time in which she walked out on me without a word.
“Now you’re just imaging things, Killian. I didn’t come halfway across the world just to hit you with a rented SUV.”
“So, instead, you just stalked me and showed up so that you could get back into my pants again now that you’re a free lass?”
I’m pretty sure she’s going to hit me after taking in that comment.
Feeling the waves of her anger radiate towards me, I laugh and take another drink.
From the corner of my eye I can see Charlie cleaning a glass and shaking his head in my direction.
“You really are an asshole, Killian.”
Bitterness drips from every syllable of her words much like venom drips from the fang of a cobra.
I set my glass of Guinness down on the bar.
My brow furrows in disappointment at myself.
A soft sigh absconds from my lips in shame.
My eyes follow the tiny droplets of condensation from my glass as they make their suicide dive to the wooden bar top.
“What is with you, anyway,” she interjects into my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
I’m genuine in my apology.
My intention had not been to insult or hurt her.
But then that’s always been my problem.
I turn to her with the faintest of smiles upon my lips. “I was just taking a piss, lass. I meant no harm. Truly.”
She gently shakes her head at me and I’m mesmerized by the sway of her silky locks.
I’m not entirely sure she believes me and my apology. Not that I can blame her.
The story of my life has always been pushing away whatever good comes into my world.
I’m a loner not because I want to be left to my own devices—though that is certainly a part of it—but because I’m not keen on sharing every little fucking thing with every single other person.
Why? I couldn’t fucking clearly say at this point. There certainly is safety that comes with being alone and keeping people at arm’s length.