by Carter Blake
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.”
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 much 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.”
&
nbsp; 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.
It’s what I always do. It’s what I’m doing here and now with Rebecca.
Rebecca is a remarkable woman in so many ways. Outside of her obvious beauty, she is a woman of tremendous talent. And she possesses a kind soul that is a true rarity in a world that is often bleak and dreary.
She shines like a candle in a storm that refuses to go out. A flame that stands against the wind and says that she will not bow.
I’m a drunk Irishman who is known for one thing—and I can’t even seem to do that lately.
No, Rebecca deserves better than what I can offer.
And we’ve made a deal. We—I—can’t let whatever it is that I’m struggling with inside affect that.
She’ll find her Prince Charming someday when she is ready.
But it won’t be today.
And it won’t be me.
Rebecca
I really have no idea what to make of all this.
Our day has been amazing. It’s undoubtedly an experience that will stay with me until I’m lying on my death bed.
The people, the culture, the sights and sounds are all truly breathtaking.
Especially the Irish countryside. It’s like serenity captured in a painting that’s too beautiful to be real.
But it is.
Even if I stay here my entire life, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept that this place exists in the ugly, dirty and only occasionally beautiful reality I’ve known most my life.
It will always seem unreal.
Killian seems unreal, too. At times he’s his own work of art.
Like an Irish version of Michelangelo’s David, but much more well-hung.
But then we come here, to this damn pub again, and Killian becomes a completely different person from when we’re alone.
“Thank you, Killian.”
I appreciate that he’s apologized. I really do.
It’s just that I can’t help but wonder what version of Killian I’m dealing with now.
“Hey, Killian Walsh.”
A couple of women, who look to be in their late twenties, approach us—or rather Killian—with coquettish smiles.
“We’re big fans. Can we buy you and your friend here a round? Maybe a couple shots of Jameson?”
At least they’re polite enough to include me in the offer and not act like I don’t exist.
“No, thank you, ladies. It’s quite alright. I thank you for your patronage. It means the world to me.”
His voice is full of life. Vibrant and charming like the Killian I met in Dublin years ago.
Like the Killian who takes me to bed.
“Well I just want to say that A Moon in the Alley is my all-time favorite book. It’s amazing,” one of the girls—a brunette with big doe eyes and breasts to match—gushes.
“Well thank you, lass. Truly, I appreciate it.”
The girls wave goodbye and stumble towards the rest of their drunken evening.
I watch them walk away, but Killian’s gaze turns back to the half empty pint in front of him.
Is this why he’s such an asshole in public?
Has all this constant adoration gone so much to his head that he thinks he can just be an asshole and nobody will be offended by it?
Does he truly believe that he’s now The Great Killian Fucking Walsh and that he can do no harm?
“You totally get off on this, don’t you?”
I don’t know why I blurted it out, but it’s too late. And honestly, I want to hear his response.
“Not in the slightest, Rebecca,” he answers dryly.
The smile that he had for the girls fades from his face—which is a shame since he has a truly beautiful smile—and is replaced by a look of mild boredom.
“Bullshit. You went from asshole to Prince Charming the moment compliments and tits showed up.”
“Honestly, lass. It’s all an act. I didn’t get into writing to be some big celebrity or be admired. I really can’t stand all the adulation. And whenever people show up and approach me like that? I don’t really know how to deal with it except to be as nice as I can and send them on their way as quickly as possible.”
I hear this mix of tenderness and embarrassment in his voice that leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s being upfront about this.
But I’ve seen several sides of him today that it’s getting hard to know which ones are genuine and which ones aren’t.
And that thought makes me go back to questioning his apology.
Was it genuine?
Was he talking to me like he does his fans?
Is he telling me what I want to hear—or rather, what he thinks I want to hear?
I take another sip of my coffee, which has proven to be quite the delightful treat. I never thought that I would enjoy the stuff regularly, even with the one mug a day habit I’ve been developing.
Even if I decide to nip this daily habit in the bud, I can see myself enjoying a cup of nice, strong coffee on St Patrick’s Day.
That and some of the Locke’s single malt. That was yet another nice surprise in the world of Irish beverages.
And yes, Irish drinking—alcoholic and non—is a whole world unto itself. The amount of stouts, whiskeys, and spirits that the Irish have made is mind boggling. I can probably spend a year here just exploring it all.
Maybe I’ll convince Stephanie to take a year off and come join me someday when I’m enjoying a bit of booze again. I’m sure she’d love to roll out a yoga mat and try a Full Lotus or a Downward Dog out in the middle of the Irish countryside.
She can absolutely meditate out here, too, I’m sure. I don’t know how she does it—I don’t think I could ever relax that much—but more power to her.
“And again, I’m sorry, Rebecca. I don’t mean to be such a colossal arse. My social skills may have fermented a little in recent years, or decades.”
Another apology.
But, can I believe it?
A lot of men apologize when called out on their bullshit. Even my ex-husband—Captain Dickhead von Fuckstick—apologized when he hurt me.
Didn’t always mean they were sorry. And it certainly didn’t fucking mean that they weren’t going to do it again.
And with Killian acting so strange, I’m still wondering if I can believe him. If I can trust him.
How do I know he won’t make some other accusation—a hurtful one at that—or blame me for some crime that has never been defined?
“Rebecca? Rebecca Doyle? Is that you?”
I can’t even begin to express how shocked I am right now to hear someone who isn’t Killian calling out my name.
I turn on my stool to see a tall, well-dressed Irishman standing before me.
Unlike Killian, this man is exactly what you expect a native Irishman to look like.
He has short strawberry red hair and a thick beard of the same color that blends into it perfectly. He has the same blue eyes that Killian has, but this man’s eyes are softer—almost jovial.
And though he may be dressed like a stock broker, his roguish smile certainly hints at a man who’s more mischievous with his tim
e than watching the market.
“I’m sorry, but do I know you?”
“My apologies. Where are my manners?” He laughs and offers his hand to me. “Flanagan. Brian Flanagan. I’m a tremendous admirer of your work. Though not nearly as much as my nephew. The Butterfly and The Bee is his all-time favorite book. He adores the butterfly. All of the artwork on my sister’s fridge is of the butterfly.”
I take his hand in mine for a polite handshake, “Brian Flanagan, the writer?”
He nods, “One and the same.”
“I’m a fan myself. I was actually reading Light at Sea on my flight here. I adore Malcolm as a protagonist. It’s not often you see male characters embrace their vulnerability and turn it into a strength.”
“Well, in truth, Malcolm is just a pale intimation of my father. That man defined, to me at least, what man can and should be. Far too often men close themselves off from the world. They believe solitude and booze are strengths. There is nothing wrong with embracing the softness of one’s heart and letting it shine through.”
Oh, this guy is good.
Handsome? Check.
Well-dressed? Check.
Talented? Check.
Can make a subtle dig at Killian so that I don’t have to? Double check.
From behind me, I hear the sound of an empty glass slamming down against the bar.
I turn to look and I’m not surprised to see that Killian has finished the rest of his pint in one big drink.
“Oh, Killian. You know...”
“Yes, I know Brian quite well thank you,” Killian cuts me off with an abrasive tone that I’ve never heard from him until now.
“Killian and I go way back, don’t we? We grew up together in this very county. He’s always been an inspiration for my own writing, and I hope to someday prove to be his equal.”
Brian’s tone is both smug and humble—something I didn’t ever think was possible to do—but I’ll be damned if he didn’t just pull it off.
The man is far better than I give him credit for.
A flush of red appears in Killian cheeks and I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy it.
It’s nice to see the roles reversed for once.
I do feel a twinge of guilt for getting pleasure out of seeing Killian’s displeasure, though.