“What is it with you McConnell men?” Charlotte scoffs. “I appreciate your concern Sam, but I’m twenty-eight years old. I can handle myself. And even if I needed a tour guide, I wouldn’t want it to be him.” Charlotte turns to me, her eyes filled with frustration.
I turn to Sam, holding my arm out toward Charlotte.
“See,” I say sarcastically. “She doesn’t need me. She’ll be fine.”
Charlotte
I’M GOING TO BE fine. I had been fine since I was eleven years old when I had to buy my first batch of groceries alone, quickly learning my mother wasn’t going to do it because her shifts were too long and too close together. This new arrangement isn’t going to shake me or upset me. I won’t let it. I’ll be damned before I let Sam or Mason know it had felt like a pin prick to the heart to hear them talking about me like I was a bag of old laundry that needed to be dealt with. I would never tell them how many times in my life I had seen the same look from relatives while I grew up.
Nope. I’m fine.
I push back a few loose strands of hair that have come undone with the wind picking up and continue toward the main part of town. I turned in for the evening after my discussion with Sam and Mason, determined to sleep off the hurt and anger. Today, I had plans to find a new place to stay and start asking around about my relatives. I took a cab to the entrance of the city limits and walked the rest of the way toward town, giving myself the opportunity to take in the sights. Like in the car on the way here, something inside of me is thrumming in this place. It’s like something has been set free. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the freedom of traveling for the first time, but there’s something magical about this place—something that calls to my soul.
I try to rein in everything I’m feeling and keep it simple, focusing on the drizzle hitting my face. It's raining again, and thankfully, I came prepared. I made sure to wear my tall red rain boots, pairing it with my black dress, dotted randomly with red cherries. I tug the light raincoat tighter around my chest, hoping to ward off the chill. This is going to be a good day if it fucking kills me.
I finally make it downtown and revel in all the colors I find woven within the tiny city. It's beautiful, and I can’t help smiling as I wander down the street. This place is completely unlike home. I feel wrapped up in the warmth of the center of town, feeling its rich history in every nook and cranny. I people watch, noticing an older couple walking arm and arm. Small cars zip in and out of the narrow streets. A tall, cathedral style church is at the end of the block, standing tall above all the other buildings.
I think back to what brought me here. It was almost a year ago when I broke down and opened up to Kyle about how lonely I was. I have no close family, and the only relatives I had known had died. He finally suggested I try one of those ancestry websites to see where I was from, and if I had any family I didn’t know about. I took his suggestion and a few months later, found out I had relations living here in Ennis. Or at least, I had at one point in time. Who knows whether this still rings true? Either way, I had made up my mind to travel here and find out if I could discover anything about my heritage. Kyle was supposed to come with me. He’d studied abroad here for a year or two and claimed he knew the area like the back of his hand.
As the day wanes, I continue making my way down the narrow cobblestone streets, my frustration growing when I think of all the things Kyle no longer is. A good boyfriend wouldn’t have backed out of such an important trip, and an even better boyfriend would have been here to support his girlfriend of three years. Especially when it was to find a link to family. But Kyle hadn’t been supportive in a long time, so it didn’t exactly surprise me.
Thankfully, I had Sam, but now, he was pawning me off to his brother who happens to share similar characteristics with a two-headed jackass.
I let out a sigh and take a second to regain my bearings. There are several pubs and local places to get food, so I decide to start my discovery there, hoping to find out if any of the locals might know my family name. Hugging the coral-colored building, I duck down and travel a few steep steps until I find a deep, stained door with “The Irish Lily” in golden lettering. I push on the door and relish the warmth radiating from the large hearth in the center of the room. Once my eyes adjust to the dark interior, I can see several empty tables scattered around the room and a long bar toward the front, adorned with at least three patrons. All male, I might add. I don't even have to look around to know I'm the only woman.
I brush my nerves aside and push forward until I find a free spot at the bar. The conversation immediately lulls as I awkwardly slide onto an open stool, the wooden legs screeching against the tile floor. I try not to notice I’ve caught the unwanted attention of everyone in the bar, watching me adjust in my seat. I focus on the bartender, an elderly man wearing a white collar shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a black vest. He's drying a pint glass as he watches me warily. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t want me at the bar, much less in the vicinity of his building. Clearing my throat—and ignoring his rudeness not asking what I wanted to drink—I clear my throat.
“Can I get a beer please?”
It's a rare occasion for me to drink beer, but every now and then, I would have one with Kyle when he had friends over. I was more of a Jameson girl, but unfortunately, I couldn’t hold my whiskey well. The bartender lets out a laugh that comes out more like a scoff. He shakes his head and turns away, grabs an empty glass, and carries it over to the taps on the opposite side from where I’m sitting. I nervously wring my fingers on top of the bar and chance taking in my surroundings. Beside me is a man, slightly older than me with dirty blonde hair. His eyes are bloodshot and the sour smell of alcohol clouds around him like he’s recently taken a bath in a barrel of whiskey. The men sitting a few seats down from him all look about the same age as the bartender. I decide to start my investigation into my family with the men down at the end. I just needed to get rid of the gross guy between us and figure out how to get them talking.
I shift my gaze around the room a bit more, so I don’t come across too nosey. The two men near the end of the bar top start talking between themselves, their eyes stealing a glance at me from time to time.
The bartender carefully places my beer in front of me, giving me a grunt before he returns to his glass drying. I take the opportunity to call him back.
“Excuse me?” I ask. I straighten my back, trying to make myself more noticeable.
The bartender half turns to pay attention to my question when the two old men at the end start arguing loudly.
“Shut up, ya manky ass!” The elderly man growls in a thick Irish accent. He’s wearing a dark green pleated jacket and a hat I’ve only seen on golfers.
“I don’t need the likes of you telling me what is and what isn’t.” The man beside him yells. This man appears younger than the one he’s arguing with. He’s wearing a red leather jacket and his big beer belly stretches the white t-shirt underneath his coat. “I know exactly right from right,” he adds, reiterating his point.
“Feck off, you dryshite,” the old man yells back. “You’re all banjaxed in the head and don’t know right from right.” He gestures to him with his finger before he turns to the bartender, dragging him into their argument. “Bern tell him.” he continues. “Tell him I was the one who made that bet two years ago.”
“Now, you two need to stop your shoutin’.” The bartender shakes his head, unamused. “Stop bein’ two legless pieces of trash and keep it down.” Refusing to engage in their argument any further, he goes back to wiping the counter, not bothering to look back in my direction.
I bite the inside of my cheek, pushing away the frustration building inside of me. The older men continue their bickering as the man beside me keeps his head low, not speaking a word. I’m starting to think maybe coming here was a bad idea, a mistake. But I don’t give up easily, and my desire to find answers overrides my lingering doubt. I sit up even more, straightening my ba
ck away from the barstool, and direct my sights on the bartender.
“Excuse me?” I ask again. “Can you help me with something?”
The bartender stops mid-wipe and narrows his blue eyes at me.
Unsure whether he’s actually going to acknowledge me this time, I don’t wait for him to respond.
“I was hoping you could tell me if there were any locals who shared my last name? I wanted to see if you might know who my family is.”
I swallow as nearly the entire bar falls silent as the words spill from my mouth. The two men who were arguing only seconds before are completely silent, holding their half-empty beer glasses in the air as if they stopped mid-drink. And the man next to me slowly slides off his stool, his body swaying back and forth on his way out.
“What’s the last name?” the bartender asks, slightly tilting his head. I swallow and turn my head to face the other two onlookers.
“Kelley,” I say, clearing my throat. “My last name is Kelley, and I traced my family back here to Ennis.”
The two men at the end burst into fits of laughter, their snickering already grating at my impatience. The bartender shakes his head back and forth, suppressing a grin. I trade glances between them, not understanding what’s so funny.
“What?” I ask.
“Kelley is one of the most common names in all of Ireland, girlie,” the bartender answers first, planting his hands on the bar and leaning forward. “Nice haystack you’ve got yourself there,” he adds with a smirk. “Good luck finding the needle.”
All three men laugh and return to their drinking. All the while my face flushes with embarrassment, and a thin sheet of moisture forms along my palms.
Of course, I would have one of the most common last names in all of Ireland. Of course, it wouldn’t be easy to track down my only living relatives. I resist the urge to cry and instead, opt to pay for my drink and head over to a local hotel. Or is it a hostel? Whatever they’re called, I want to find one, and quickly, so I can cry in peace. I don’t have my luggage, but I’ll make do with what I have for the night and plan to get my things tomorrow from Mason.
“Um… how much for the beer?” I ask, pulling out my purse.
“That’ll be five,” the bartender says over his shoulder.
I duck my head, still embarrassed and thumb through the contents of my purse looking for my euros. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach when I realize my wallet isn’t in there. Shit.
This isn’t happening. This is not happening right now. Panic wells in my chest, and my face heats with fire. I hunt for my wallet again, shoving my hand inside the deep pockets of my purse, but regardless of how many times I move the random receipts and tube of Chapstick aside, I don’t find my hot pink wallet. Anxiety pushing forward, still unconvinced, I frantically dump the entire purse out on the counter. Lipstick, Chapstick, two pens, pennies, a few nickels—all clatter onto the glossy, wood surface of the bar but still, no wallet. And not a single euro. Fuck.
I gulp and slowly look up at the bartender, staring at him wide-eyed, willing away the tears already welling in my eyes.
His bushy eyebrows draw together as he watches my pathetic display of discovery. Zoning in on the mess I’ve made on the counter, he quickly snaps his head to the back door, piecing together the same thing I had. Although I hate to admit, it hadn’t taken me long to figure out the man who had sat next to me, reeking of whiskey, had most likely stolen my wallet.
“Are you staying around here, local?” the bartender asks. His voice is suddenly gentle and concerned, probably sensing my potential meltdown.
I fight to keep the tears from falling and push my eyes tightly together. I’m not ready to lose it in front of these strangers. I nod in agreement and share probably more than I should, but I have no way to pay for my beer. I only hope my eagerness to be honest will somehow help.
“I’m staying over in Roslevan with some friends,” I manage to say.
The bartender pulls out a pad of paper and with a heavy sigh he sets it in front of me. “Write the address here. I’ll drive you and settle it with them.”
I freeze, processing this man’s offer to help. I’m all for strapping on my big girl panties and taking control of my situation. At the same time, I haven’t really proven myself otherwise until this point, even to myself. I had refused Mason’s help and look where I am now. Although I had refused Mason’s help, I reasoned with the common sense still buried in my mind.
Did this man really expect me to get into his car alone with him?
Sensing my hesitation, he waits for me to write the address, pushing the pad closer. “Come on.” he urges. “I don’t have all day.”
“Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t want to get into a car with you. Can’t I wash dishes or something to pay for the beer?” I stumble through my response, shame quickly filling my mouth with a bitter taste. This wasn’t necessarily my fault, yet I still feel the sting of guilt worm its way through me.
“How about we take my wife with us, so you aren’t so worried?” he asks. “It’s just, I have a feelin’ ye won’t be able to pay for a cabbie back. Don’t want ye walkin’ now that it’s getting closer to dark. It won’t be safe.” His blue eyes soften, and he even gives me a half smile. The mention of his wife puts me at ease, so I accept and write the address to Sam’s I thankfully still had in my text messages.
True to his word, Bern introduces himself properly, then his wife, Lydia. We pile into his delivery truck, all three of us on the bench, scrunched together and drive to Roslevan. Bern was right about how quickly it would turn dark. We haven’t even left the city limits when the sun sets in the sky. I tightly clutch onto my purse, willing the truck not to take any nefarious turns or strange detours. I really don’t want to add kidnapping to my list of issues. Eventually, we pull in front of the beautiful stone house and perfectly manicured lawn, and I sigh with relief. Bern opens his door to get out. I look over and shake Lydia’s hand.
“It was nice to meet you.”
“Good luck to ye, sweet girlie,” she smiles and takes my hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
I silently wish I had more time with Lydia. On the drive over, I had told her a bit about my story, but when I mentioned my last name, she winced, just like the men at the bar, reinforcing the whole needle in a haystack image in my mind.
I slide out of the truck and head toward the door with Bern trailing behind me. I softly knock, wishing I could turn around and head to a hotel. I don’t want to face Mason and prove to him I, in fact, needed help. I certainly don’t want to see that same look on his face, the one where I was suddenly his obligation and responsibility.
A few seconds pass before the door swings open. Mason is standing there with a tight white t-shirt and a pair of sweats hanging low on his perfectly narrow hips. I hate how good-looking he is. I hate his perfectly disheveled, gorgeous thick hair and how it always seems like he’d expertly run his fingers through it. I also hate his strong jaw and those strangely perfect lips.
I blink and push away how one look from him already makes me feel.
He curiously trades glances between Bern and me, awkwardly standing on his front porch.
I thought about the many reactions Mason might have with my sudden reappearance with Bern in tow. Considering the reaction he’s giving me, I can confidently say, it was one which was unexpected.
“Sorry, to bother ye, but she couldn’t pay, so I brought her home. She owes me five euro for her beer,” Bern finally speaks up when he realizes I’m not going to.
Mason’s eyes swing to mine, and I panic again, feeling the need to defend myself.
“I had money!” I practically yell, looking back and forth between Bern and Mason. “I could have paid!” For some reason, I had this deep, primal need to let Mason know I wasn’t a complete train wreck.
“Right,” Bern said. “Her wallet was stolen at the pub. Fecking gobshite sitting next to her. We didn’t even know until he was already gone.”<
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I watch Mason’s face take on an interesting look, his eyes narrowing. The color of his eyes intensifies beneath the small lantern hanging above the porch. As Bern continues explaining my predicament, Mason’s jaw ticks. At first, I think he’s pissed. But it doesn’t take me long to find the lingering softness to his eyes, almost as if hearing the whole story has brought on feelings of pity. When they search my face and drift down my body, they make me think he’s feeling something closer to worry, than anger.
His gaze warms some nearly frozen place inside of me—some place deep that hasn’t been thawed in a very long time. Some place reserved for mutual attraction, trust, and love, things I struggle to give to my boyfriend since he lost them over a year ago.
Mason blinks and seemingly breaks away from where his thoughts have taken him and reaches for something next to him, behind the door. He pulls a thin, white and blue bill from his wallet and hands it to Bern.
“For your gas and her beer. Thank you.” Mason thanks Bern once more, then pins me in place with another strange look. This look is hesitant, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly reaches forward and tugs on my hand, dragging me into the house.
Without a word, he shuts the door, and the quiet house swallows up all my questions—why Mason was still touching me, why his breathing had suddenly grown heavy.
His grip doesn’t loosen as he turns and slowly leads me through the house. I don’t know exactly what happened to the moody jerk I left earlier this morning, but this Mason doesn’t look at me like a bag of laundry. He looks at me like I belong here, with him. Things are slowly becoming sloshy in this frozen heart of mine.
His hand wrapped around mine, I follow him without a word, his silence unnerving. I fight the feelings brewing inside me, the ones that want to pick apart his brain, just to know what he’s thinking. I’m slowly learning Mason is the kind of man who keeps his thoughts bottled inside. Essentially, he’s a Rubik’s cube I have yet to solve.
What are the Chances Page 5