All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  “So, that’ll be a pint of Guinness, will it?”

  This young fellow’s being rather insistent, isn’t he?

  “Are you expecting a big rush or something? You seem to be in one.”

  I flash a little bit of that famously charming fucking smile to show that I’m just taking the piss.

  Seems like all I do these days is take the fucking piss, but this fellow doesn’t seem even a wee bit offended.

  “Seriously, though—what I’m craving is that Tall Blonde in the Black Dress.”

  A flicker of recognition fizzles through the bartender’s face.

  “I haven’t heard anybody call it that in a while.”

  “Just how long could a while be in your young life?” I query, stepping around the stool in front of me and resting my weary duff for the duration of the celebration.

  The pre-novel writing celebration that lies ahead of me, that is.

  “Long enough to read two or three of your books, Mr. Walsh.”

  Of fucking course—another fan. Another young fellow who connected with my own typewritten angst, writ large across several internationally bestselling tomes—and yes, that includes the list in the New York Fucking Times.

  It’s not like any of them came out too long ago. Maybe I’m just shaking off the last of that youthful angst myself.

  Maybe I’m still in the thick of it without knowing.

  Fuck, I shouldn’t be taking fucking notes, shouldn’t I?

  “Blonde in the Black Dress,” the barkeep says. “Coming right up, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Call me…Killian.” I like saying my name like that. On a few rare fucking occasions such as this one, anyway. “And I’ll call you…”

  “Rowan.”

  “No kidding. Well, Rowan, to answer your question…” I’m still running that chip through my fingers under the bar. “What was your question again?”

  “Never mind that, Mr. Killian.” Rowan’s focused on trying to pull the perfect pint, trying to impress, well, one of the more famous authors to emerge from this tiny village—or hamlet—or whatever the fuck you want to call it, in the middle of the sparsest yet greenest county here on the island of Eire.

  “Blonde in the Black Dress,” Rowan announces, placing a fresh pint on the little cardboard coaster in front of me.

  Would you believe that the coasters in this place are fucking blank? I don’t even know where they get them. You think those promotional ones would come free from Guinness or from fucking Killian’s Irish Red or, I don’t know, one of those fucking whiskies or something.

  You gotta love this fucking pub, though, with these blank, dark red little circles of cardboard to protect the ancient, dusty wooden bar from our glasses sweating the nectar of life.

  Trying to forego the pretense of having anything to fucking hide, I hold up my hundred-day Alcoholics Anonymous chip. It’s partially a show for Rowan, but he’s not even watching me. He’s busy chatting up some crowd of fleece-wearing tourists at the other end of the bar.

  “That’s probably for the best,” I say to myself, letting go of the small, bronze coin and watching it sink into the pint of lager.

  My sponsor told me that these chips are some of the rarest sobriety chips that you can find. A hundred days now—you wouldn’t think it’d be that fucking rare.

  He’s splitting town for a while, anyway. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is by now. A day can carry you a long way sometimes.

  Now as for me, I’m happy to let the chip fall where it may—right into the Blonde in the Black Dress.

  If any of you out there are worried about sanitation issues, I’m convinced that this stuff could kill the bubonic fucking plague if it wanted.

  With just a few wee nips, it’s already starting to kill that coiled up tension and anxiety that’s loved to do nothing more than eat away at my fucking gut for the past three fucking months.

  Speaking of wee nips, there’s a sudden stiff wind nipping at my back as more townsfolk of various fucking kinds are filing into the pub.

  I can hear them but not see them. It’s a sonic blur of laughter, loud voices, people excited to be going out on the drink.

  All I need is another few sips of stout. Then another few.

  There’s a point I lose track of my rare, bronze AA coin. That point comes early enough in the evening.

  The point where I can judge what point I’m at in the evening comes and goes with some swift fucking speed, too.

  “Pint of Guinness, Mr. Killian? Lady in the Blonde Dress?”

  “Are you drinking tonight, Rowan? You just used the words blonde dress as if that’s a normal thing for a human to be doing.”

  “It’s a busy night, Mr. Killian.”

  “Just call me Killian.”

  “Would you like a shot of whiskey to go with your next black-blonde dress stout in a pint glass, then?”

  “What’s the well whiskey here, Rowan?”

  “Ah, you should know Mr...You should know, Killian. My stars, it feels strange calling such a figure as yourself by just your first name, sir.”

  “Is it Jameson?”

  “Of course it is, Killian...sir.”

  “Then I’ll have to say thanks but no thanks. Just keep the Guinness flowing, if you don’t mind.”

  The Guinness stops flowing at some point, but only because I choose for it to stop. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Most likely, I just make an executive fucking decision, which I can’t even fucking remember.

  Another such executive decision I make is to find my way to the coat rack and slow dance with it to a Pogues song playing on yonder jukebox.

  Another such executive decision is to sit at a table with that group of fleece-wearing tourists and let them buy me stew from the kitchen while asking me repeatedly when my next fucking book is due on store shelves.

  Then, sometime before closing, the Guinness starts flowing again.

  It’s probably the best executive decision I’ve made all night. A few more heavy pints to send me on my way.

  “Are you sure you won’t be having a shot of Jameson to go along with your last Blonde Lady, good sir Killian?”

  “You know, that nickname I don’t mind, Rowan. But for feck’s sake I can’t be drinking any shots of that whiskey tonight or ever. I’m not enamored with taking that tone, but please stop mentioning that word that starts with the tenth letter of the basic Latin bloody alphabet.”

  “No problems at all, Mr. Killian.”

  Maybe I made the next executive decision, or it could’ve been some other entity, but after some length of time, every patron in the pub is joined in a song, belting at the top of our lungs.

  Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,

  Breaking windows, cursing, sinking,

  Every raking, never thinking,

  Live the Rakes of Mallow.

  That collection of loud, boozy voices soon becomes just my own solitary voice, singing the same song, wandering through the quiet night air along the side of the road connecting the heart of the village with my little cottage.

  Living short but merry lives,

  Going where the devil drives,

  Having sweethearts, but no wives,

  Live the rakes of Mallow.

  I’m not even sure if I’m getting the fucking melody right anymore.

  Rebecca

  The fine line between dream and reality is becoming goddamned thin.

  Watching the headlights flood the perilously narrow stretch of barely paved road in front of me, I realize that I’d crossed that line ago.

  Hours ago, possibly.

  Thousands of miles ago, even more possibly.

  What was the last normal, believable thing that happened to me, anyway?

  Fuck, I may have to go back years for that one.

  Left turn ahead onto…

  The voice coming through my smartphone speaker crackles and fades abruptly.

  “Left turn onto where? What left turn? It all looks straight! Help! Where did you
go?”

  Okay, a left turn, that’s what I’m looking for.

  If my eyes stay open.

  Fuck, should I just pull over and sleep in this goddamned SUV?

  It’s certainly frigging big enough.

  Much bigger than I thought I’d be getting at Shannon Airport. I booked a subcompact to make the drive out to my cottage in…

  Somewhere in the middle of Ireland.

  Even in my head, I sound like a stereotypical American dope. That’s one reason I wanted to get the most unassuming vehicle possible to drive to my rental home in the middle of nowhere.

  I didn’t want to stick out in any way. Of course, this meant not making a big stink when they handed me the keys to the largest vehicle they had on the lot.

  Possibly the largest vehicle in any part of Europe at that, without a built-in GPS, which I had not only booked ahead of time, but went so far as to confirm several times with the rental counter via email and VoIP calls from the States…

  Erm—maybe I had this coming, actually.

  It’s fitting, really.

  I acted, albeit unwittingly, like an obnoxious American, so I ended up with an obnoxious American car.

  Although to refer to this rolling behemoth as a ‘car’ would be stretching the very definition of…

  In...hundred…eters, take a slight right onto D…

  “What? What? Wasn’t I supposed to turn left? Now I’m turning in a hundred meters, or nine-hundred kilometers, onto some street with a…no!”

  This really is a dream, isn’t it?

  Next, I’m going to be back in high school, except, Jack Nicholson’s going to be the principal, for some reason; and Principal Nicholson will tell me I have to come back for a semester to take some course I had somehow missed twelve years ago. But then I’ll forget to attend any classes and get lost on my way to the final ex…

  Left turn ahead onto—

  Static. Then nothing.

  It’s too frustrating to even yell anymore.

  And besides, it’s not my poor phone’s fault I accidentally pissed off the staff of the car rental counter at Shannon Airport.

  In fact, it did have me heading in the right direction for several hours.

  At least, I think it was the right direction.

  Fuck. If I really wanted to eschew American stereotypes, I could’ve taken a goddamned bus or something.

  Although, if all the roads in this area are as narrow as the one I’m on, I doubt there’s much bus service in the area.

  It looks like I’ve got about a half tank of fuel left, and I’m bound to reach some sort of civilization eventually.

  I’m not keen on just stopping out here in the middle of the moorlands.

  If that’s even where I am.

  Dream or not, I’m not convinced there aren’t some sort of sprites or faeries—the type of creatures who’d be at home in an illustrated book of Celtic mythology—but would turn out to be quite real and furious about my intrusion on their moorland homes if I were to stop here for even a minute.

  Now that’s an idea for a children’s book. Some mythological land that’s actually quite accessible—a place you could end up in without even trying.

  Maybe one of those places you’d be transported to from your bedroom after a family fight.

  There were times I could’ve used a place like that, even during my adult life.

  A magical place of escape, full of wondrous creatures.

  That’s something that could capture the imaginations of kids and adults alike.

  Even though I’m busy with this massive illustrating contract right now, that’s a book I could draw and write.

  I could start sketching out ideas during my spare time here—especially since I no longer have a husband to occupy so much of it.

  I left that Dickhead back in LA.

  Yes, that’s his name now. Dickhead.

  I feel like even that is better than he deserves, but I’m willing to be magnanimous.

  The ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers, but a few thousand miles between us should help kickstart the process of exorcising every bit of his memory from my heart, mind, and soul.

  A good creative project—I mean, besides the one I’m doing for work—wouldn’t hurt either, I bet.

  Especially if it turns out to be a popular kid’s book in its own right.

  Upcoming…urn…in…ters.

  “Shut up, phone, unless you want to help me brainstorm.”

  I don’t understand this…brainstorm.

  I think my phone’s AI virtual assistant app is getting smart with me.

  “Come on, phone. Help me think of some ideas. Here’s the basic premise: it’s a children’s book, about this kind of other world, a land if you will, but you can get there easily—maybe magically after a family argument—and these magnificent sort of creatures live there. These…things. And they…”

  Showing results for Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak—

  “Fuck, you just had to choose the worst possible moment to—”

  First published in nineteen sixty-three—

  “Stop telling me about it! Since when do you even do that? Just please tell me how to get to my fucking cottage so I can sleep.”

  The enormously popular children’s book—

  “Ahhhh! Why are you emphasizing certain words now? Just be quiet!”

  Unable to take it anymore, I grab the phone, still keeping one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the empty road.

  Squeezing the sides of the phone with my hand and jabbing the front of it with my thumb, I try desperately to silence the jerk-face of a device.

  To no fucking avail.

  One of the most successful such books of all time!

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  Finally turning my head to see my asshole smartphone, I only get a brief glimpse before I decide I’m too mad to even look at it, so I just throw it behind me, into the backseat, as hard as I can.

  The phone finally shuts the fuck up at the moment of impact.

  Twisting back towards the windshield, I have a moment of panic as my foot slips on the accelerator.

  The vehicle starts to weave forward with the mildest bit of unsteadiness, and I have a split second of pure panic getting my foot back in its normal position on the pedal.

  I’m still going plenty fast, but that’s by choice now, I’m just about ready to—

  Is that finally a fucking street sign of some kind ahead?

  I’m not sure yet, but I remember I’m going to need my phone to find my way around no matter what.

  I glance into the back of the SUV to see if my phone is within reach—it’s not—before looking right back at the road like a responsible driver.

  Hmm. That’s not a street sign, and it’s moving slowly.

  Oh, shit—that’s a person, right in front of the headlights.

  I slam on the brakes.

  As the giant vehicle screeches to a halt, I no longer see anything through the windshield that looks like a person, or even a street sign.

  However, I do hear a distinctive thump.

  Killian

  Bam!

  By the time I realize I’ve been hit by a car, I’m already lying on the ground.

  I’m more surprised than hurt, really.

  I’ve walked this road countless times—I can’t even fathom a number high enough to be accurate—and I know that this road gets maybe two or three cars a day.

  At most.

  And never at night.

  Ever.

  And as sloshed as I am, I still know to walk on the side of the road. I may enjoy a drink every now and again, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know to walk on the side of the road in order to avoid ending up in the exact situation I’m now in.

  It seems as though my precautions were all for naught, though.

  Especially when faced with a giant monstrosity of a vehicle that takes up the entire fucking road.

  A cool night breeze sweeps over the f
ield, and I feel the grass—no, not grass—clovers tickle the side of my face.

  Maybe the luck of the Irish is on my side after all. It’s not every day that you get hit by a fucking car and not get hurt.

  I try to push myself back up—seeing as I have no intention of sleeping in a clover patch tonight—and that’s when I feel it.

  This yell of pain peals out of me and echoes over the countryside. I’m pretty sure I just woke the people of Dublin from their slumber with that yell.

  The pain that shoots through my arm is intense. It’s broken, or partially fractured, at the very least.

  Not even all the Guinness in the world could numb that pain. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t test the theory, though.

  “Oh, my god. Are you okay?”

  I hear a voice—a familiar voice—from the road.

  There’s no way that it could be…

  I must be far more hammered than I thought. I tell myself that I’m just imagining things—that the booze is playing tricks on me.

  But hearing her voice is one hell of a trick.

  Because this is no trick at all. This is as real as the clovers surrounding me, or the waning moon in the night sky, or the pain that just finished coursing through my fucking arm.

  But that pain is gone now.

  Rebecca Doyle.

  I’m dumbfounded. Out of anyone who’d be out here, she’s the last person I expected to see.

  And then I’m taken by the sight of her.

  She’s the definition of the picture-perfect Irish lass. I don’t care where she grew up.

  Her hair is red, like a smoldering fire. Her eyes are this pale blue that reminds you of the lake on a summer morning.

  Her skin is as fair and flawless as the rarest, most precious diamond. She’s slender, but not frail or petite-looking.

  But perhaps my favorite of her many attributes are her legs. You could wrap yourself up between her thighs and find no happier place on God’s green earth.

  And—judging from the look on her face—she’s just as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

  “Killian? Killian Walsh?” she asks as if she’s seen a ghost.

  And maybe she has.