The Long Walk

by Jill Cox

  “So, what? We just set up a fire, boil some water, and throw them in? Right here on the beach?”

  “You didn’t think we were going to keep the little blighters as pets, did you?” Though Jack was smiling, I could see he wondered just how far the precious American could be pushed before she freaked out. But Jack Kelly didn’t know me as well as he assumed. My competitive streak reared up like a fiery dragon awakened from its slumber.

  Fifteen minutes later I’d collected nearly fifty winkles, and Jack had maybe half that many. He pretended to act defeated, but it was clear I’d passed some sort of test. Maybe I should have been proud of myself too, but instead, I knew the truth: Jack Kelly was the real champion tonight. From the moment we’d stepped onto the beach, Shanghai Pete had never crossed my mind. And maybe no one but me would ever realize it, but for Jack, that was the biggest victory of all.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jack and I sat side by side on the beach for a while, stoking the tiny fire beneath the boiling winkles. He took the steaming pot off the fire, ladled one winkle out onto his hand with a soup spoon, and handed it to me along with a safety pin. “There’s a little plug at the entrance of the shell. Just throw that part away. If you angle the sharp bit well enough, the little guy will come out in a corkscrew shape.”

  I must’ve angled the safety pin just right because just like that, a perfectly coiled mollusk sprang free. “Like that?”

  Jack beamed at me for a second, nodded, and dug into his shell. “Right, then,” he said, holding his winkle-clad safety pin in the air. “Want me to go first? Show you how it’s done?”

  Oh, this guy. If he thinks I’m too prissy to eat snails…

  The second it was in my mouth, I wanted to gag. I grabbed the Thermos of tea Jack had brought along for the evening and downed four huge gulps.

  Jack laughed so hard he should have cracked a rib.

  “Ugh,” I grimaced, wiping the lukewarm rivulets of tea from my chin. “How did that ever become a thing you eat? That was nothing like escargot.”

  “I know,” he chuckled, pitching his own winkle back into the pot. “That’s why I never eat the vile creatures. I can’t believe you’d be so cavalier about your own safety, you American madwoman.”

  Jack winked, hopping up to grab the pot from the fire. He ran down the beach to dump the rest of the winkles into the surf, and then he was back, handing me a stick of gum as he rejoined me on the blanket. But as he crinkled his own wrapper into a tiny ball, something in the sky over the northern Promenade caught Jack’s eye. “There you are,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s about time you showed yourselves, mates.”

  I followed his gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “That’s because you’re not looking high enough.” He smiled up at the sky and waved. “Hello, my friends. Kind of you to make an appearance for us tonight.”

  “Who in the world are you talking to, Jack?”

  He stood and pulled me with him, his left arm curling around my waist. “Look there,” he pointed above the shops on the far end of the Prom. “Tell me what you see.”

  I squinted. “I don’t know. Just some funny-shaped clouds.”

  “Look again.”

  I watched what I’d thought were clouds morphing slowly – very slowly – from a fluffy gray blob in the night sky into a greenish strand. And a few moments later, they were no longer cloud-like at all. “The northern lights,” I half-whispered, half-gasped.

  “Aye.” His voice went soft. “Have you seen them before?”

  “Never.” I stared up into the sky as the threads of green spread out like a curtain. “I always heard you can see them in Oregon, but…”

  Tears filled my eyes so suddenly that I couldn’t have stopped them if I’d tried. Whenever we’d spent Christmas in Ireland over the years, Ian had woken me from a dead sleep each and every night to sneak outside in search of the Northern Lights. And that summer with Pete and Kate, he’d insisted we all try again, even though summer was hardly the best opportunity. “We’ll see them,” he’d insisted. “I can feel it in my bones!”

  We had not seen them. But it was one of my favorite memories all the same.

  That old familiar ache crept into every part of me, and for no reason at all, I missed my brother so badly I couldn’t breathe. Why? Because of some rogue solar particles?

  Jack turned me to face him. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. This hasn’t happened in a really long time. I even made it through Christmas this year like a boss. Which is saying a lot, because last year…” I covered my mouth while I tried to regain my composure, but it was no use. “It’s my brother, Ian. He –”

  “I know about Ian.” Jack brushed the tears from my cheeks. “Mum told me about the accident. I’m so sorry, Meredith. You must miss him terribly.”

  I nodded just as another sob overtook me, and Jack pulled me tight against him without a word, rubbing his hand gently across my back like I was a small child who couldn’t calm herself down. It should have irritated me. It would have irritated me, except that was exactly how I felt – childlike and foolish.

  “Is this why you didn’t put your brother in your book, then?” Jack asked quietly as he tightened his grip around my waist. “Because it hurts too much to remember him?”

  “Yes.” My breath hitched in my throat as another sob rolled through me. “But he’s there. He’s there in every word.”

  “How so?”

  I pulled away a few inches and shook my head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m sure this has never happened to you, but when I started writing my novel, I had a hard time finding the narrative voice. So I met with my professor. He suggested I close my eyes and sit silently for three full minutes and imagine myself telling a story to someone. Even if it felt weird.”

  “I’ve heard of this technique, but I’ve never tried it. Sounds mental.”

  “Oh, believe me, I agree. But when I opened my eyes, Dr. Carraway asked, ‘Who did you see?’ ‘My brother,’ I replied without hesitation, like it was the most obvious person in the world. He got this huge grin on his face. ‘Your brother’s your audience. No one else matters while you’re writing this one, because you’re telling it to him.’”

  A smile brightened Jack’s face. “So that’s who Allie’s speaking to the whole story? Your brother Ian?”

  “Yes. Well, everywhere but the kissing scenes, because that would be weird.”

  Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Who was the lucky audience member for those scenes?”

  “My fourteen-year-old never-been-kissed self. I figured she’d appreciate them the most.”

  Jack laughed softly to himself for a moment, then turned me back to face the northern sky. I leaned my head back against his chest as Jack slipped both arms around my waist. And for a long moment, even though I should have been watching the night sky shifting between eerie green and deep purple, I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of the sea and Jack and the midwinter’s night I never could have imagined at this time last year.

  “Tell me about your brother.” Jack’s breath skimmed my cheek as he spoke. “Was he a nutter like you who let strangers convince him to eat dodgy sea creatures?”

  “He was brave. If he were here right now, Ian would have eaten the entire pot of winkles, just to prove he could.”

  Jack laughed. “And you wouldn’t?”

  “Well, maybe,” I smiled to myself. “But Ian had pluck, you know? Even when we were little kids, he always walked fearlessly into the unknown. Me? I need ten types of road maps and a list where the pros far outweigh the cons. But not Ian. He just stepped out on faith and trusted everything would work out for the best.”

  And that’s what got him killed.

  Jack rested his check against mine as tiny red flames danced along the edge of the green. “Be kind to yourself, love. No one in the world expects you to carry on with a stiff upper lip.”

  “I hope not,” I whispered. “Because I miss him. So much.”
/>   “Of course you do,” he said quietly, the lilt of his brogue thrumming like a song. “What would he think of your book?”

  “Are you kidding?” I laughed through a tiny sob. “He would have loved it. If he were here, he would’ve already mocked up several designs for #TeamLuke and #TeamAllie t-shirts.”

  “Yeah?” Jack chuckled. “And which side would he wear?”

  “Team Allie for sure,” I smiled skyward. “Always.”

  We watched the colorful ribbons of light roll in a long streak over us, as though they’d come to County Clare just for this very moment. The fire behind us crackled and jumped as the waves crashed against the shore, bringing the middle-of-the-night tide closer and closer with every wave. And even though I should have been exhausted, I hadn’t felt quite that alive in a very long time.

  “Jack,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “If you want answers for the dancing gases in the sky, you’re asking the wrong bloke.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that.” I bit my lip. “Would it be too personal to ask how many times your book got rejected?”

  “Rejected?” Jack laughed. “Over one hundred agents and publishers scoffed at the idea that some farm boy should write a romantic comedy. Everyone except my agent, Michael, and County Down Press.”

  I winced. “I don’t think I have enough courage to face that.”

  “Of course you do, Younger Sister of Ian Sullivan. You could have cratered into yourself when he died, yet here you are, watching the skies waltz and slaying winkles like a champ. Courage runs deep in your family.”

  Nat King Cole’s Stardust began to play in my head. Ian loved that song. So I leaned into Jack again as the sky flickered green and violet and red, imagining that the colors were my brother waving at me through the night sky.

  I’m still here, Fee. Keep telling me your stories.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  To say I was mortified the next day might be the understatement of the millennium. Not only had I boo-hooed uncontrollably in front of a virtual stranger, I realized as the day crept on that Jack had planned our little excursion to the beach not just for the winkles, but for the northern lights. During my lunch break at the pub, I saw on the news that the previous night’s aurora borealis activity had exceeded the meteorologists’ hype. Which meant that my snotty-nosed sobbing had ruined Jack’s well-staged romantic moment.

  When he’d dropped me off around four a.m., Jack had handed me the binder holding my manuscript, and for the next couple of days, I pored over his margin notes. Not a single comment made me feel stupid, even though all of his suggestions for change were spot on. What an impressive skill.

  Oh, who was I kidding? Everything about Jack Kelly impressed me.

  But then he never called – not Wednesday, not Thursday. Weren’t we supposed to meet up to discuss our stories? Suddenly, every second of my sobfest felt even more cringeworthy than the high number of words Jack had found missing from my manuscript.

  WHO LEAVES WORDS OUT OF THEIR OWN STORIES? This girl right here.

  So when Jack stopped by O’Connor’s Pub on Friday night with three other guys, I went from dazed to confounded in a millisecond. After a brief European-style (read: meaningless) peck on the cheek and an even briefer introduction, Jack and his buddies carried on with their evening, laughing and holding court at the corner table, completely oblivious to my presence.

  Same song, one millionth verse, right? Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

  Except I’d never been any good at The Game. I’d only had two (alleged) boyfriends, and both had grown out of friendships. So as I bussed tables and re-organized the already sorted silverware behind the bar, I rehashed the past week, overanalyzing the sudden stall in Jack’s attention.

  Had I injured his ego when I caught so many periwinkles?

  Should I have read more into that stick of gum he offered me?

  Did I look stupid in Wellies?

  Hey, it doesn’t take much to change a guy’s mind about you. Like, oh, I don’t know, when you neurotically obsess over every reason he hasn’t called you, maybe?

  That’s right, Meredith Fiona Sullivan. Start using all three of your names. You are a relationship serial killer on two continents.

  All night I’d ignored Kieran’s orders to take my legally-required fifteen-minute break. With Jack and his friends nearby, I could hardly do my normal break ritual: find an empty seat at a remote table, eat the soup of the day and peruse whatever tabloid Kieran’s wife had left in the office that week.

  But at ten, Kieran finally laid down the law. So, without even grabbing my coat, I walked out the front door and turned right for a stroll up Fisherstreet along the River Aille.

  The sky, which had been clear for days, picked that moment to spit tiny, cold droplets of misery on an already pitiful me. Really, sky? Giving me frizzy hair was not going to help solve the problem at hand.

  Wait a minute – why had the raindrops stopped pelting me?

  “Hi there,” Jack said as he appeared beside me, holding a rather large umbrella over the both of us.

  “Oh,” I blurted, attempting to smile through my chattering teeth. “Hi yourself.”

  “Enjoy catching colds, do you?”

  “I didn’t know it was supposed to rain.”

  “In Ireland? In December?”

  Ignoring his quip, I gestured over my shoulder toward the pub. “Your friends seem nice.”

  Jack scrunched his eyebrows together. “You think so? Because I was just thinking they’re the three most annoying people on the planet.”

  “What? But you guys were laughing so hard that the other patrons were laughing too.”

  “Oh, so you did notice that we dwell in the same universe as you,” Jack smirked. “The lads have been taking the mickey out of me since we walked in the door. They keep calling you Tinkerbell.”

  “Tinkerbell?” My nose crinkled. “From Peter Pan?”

  “That’s right – the enigmatic, mercurial fairy. The way you’ve been flitting back and forth all night without a single glance my way, they don’t even believe I know you.”

  “Oh,” I muttered, shivering. “Sorry about that.”

  “Here.” Jack stopped me mid-stride and handed me the umbrella. He removed his coat and I slid inside it, one arm after the other. “This is our annual tradition during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. We usually meet up on Wednesday night, but my friend Martin and his wife didn’t escape from her parents’ house in Donegal until yesterday.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations, Jack.”

  “Well, yeah, I think I do. See, there’s this gorgeous American in town, and when I promised to help polish up her manuscript, she didn’t seem to mind that I’d just used the most obvious pick-up line she’d ever heard. Only now, I’m afraid I’ve wrecked my chances, because she’s spent all night torturing me, flirting with every bloke in O’Connor’s except the one who fancies her most.”

  I tugged the collar of Jack’s coat up to hide the smile creeping into my cheeks. What was the very odd sensation brewing inside my chest? Oh, yeah. Flattery-induced elation. Unlike me, Jack was very good at the game.

  Jack twirled the handle of the umbrella absentmindedly, sending rain droplets spiraling around us. “So, Kieran says you’re working tomorrow night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Seems a shame that you’ll be spending your first New Year’s Eve in Ireland watching other people have all the fun.”

  “Someone has to,” I smiled as my stomach fluttered again. “Will you be spending tomorrow evening with the Lost Boys again?”

  “Lost Boys? Ah. Tinkerbell is also quick-witted,” he smiled as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “No, I’m driving up to Galway tomorrow afternoon. January 1 is Maeve’s birthday, so Adam always takes her somewhere special.”

  “Well, that’s romantic. Where are they headed this year?”

  “Paris,
actually,” Jack grinned. “Every year since the twins were born, Emma and I have taken turns watching them while Adam and Maeve go on a mini-break. It’s a bit of a tradition now.”

  New Year’s with the nieces? If Jack was playing me, he wasn’t just good at the game. He was a savant. How adorable was that?

  “The thing is, Meredith,” he said, switching the umbrella over to his left hand. “I’ve debated all week whether or not you might like to join me. I know you’ve met the twins, but spending New Year’s Eve with someone else’s family, that’s – well, you know. But I’ve just asked Kieran if he can spare you for the rest of the weekend, and he said yes. That is, if you fancy having the time off. I haven’t given you much advance notice, after all.”

  I could hear the rain pelting louder and louder against the umbrella, marking the seconds as I paused to think. If anyone else had asked me out the night before New Year’s, I would have said no. I might be a ridiculous ninny, but I did have a shred of dignity. But ever since we’d met, Jack continued to disarm me. By guile or by accident, he’d managed to sway me out of my self-imposed hermitage in this tiny little town.

  I glanced back up Fisherstreet toward the pub. Then I returned my gaze to Jack and smiled. “Who would miss out on a night with the ninja twins? If Kieran says it’s okay, I’m in.”

  “Grand,” Jack grinned widely, switching the umbrella again to his right hand. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at four.”

  As we walked back to O’Connor’s, Jack slid his fingers casually between mine, prattling on about the weather and the unexpected tourist onslaught and all manner of minutia. Every bit of it seemed so normal, like this was our habit, walking hand-in-hand down the lane every evening on my break. At the front door of the pub, Jack hovered over me for a moment.

  “One more thing,” he said, with a look so earnest that I wondered if he knew it was the greatest weapon in his arsenal. “I’m the only singleton left in our group of friends, so the lads have to live vicariously through me. It would be tragic if we don’t brighten their pathetic lives with a bit of intrigue.”