Chapter Forty-Five
Marty
I send my first postcard the day after I get back.
I purchased it from Dublin airport - a cheesy postcard with a pint of Guinness in one corner, the Ha’penny Bridge below it and next to them a dated photo of The Temple Bar pub – and had the message written and a stamp on it that night.
I then got up early the following morning for a ten-kilometre run in the rain and posted it at the first post-box I saw.
Even though I had it tucked in the back of my shorts and boxers, a fact I painfully wished I could have shared with Jenna, the Irish drizzle still managed to get at it and the first few lines were blurred with droplets.
The second postcard is also from Dublin.
This time, a shot of Trinity College I chose and posted on a whim one surprisingly warm evening in September.
I'd just watched the sunset during a long bike ride with Dad that took us out in County Wicklow, and we stopped at the corner shop at the end of our street to pick up milk at Mum’s request. Since the last one I sent went unanswered, I’d been trying to put off sending another, but the sunset had been too beautiful and my mind was always so full of her, I couldn’t wait any longer.
JENNA, IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS AND IT STILL FEELS LIKE I’M DYING. YET I’M STILL HERE. I SACKED OFF UNI FOR GOOD AND WORK FULL-TIME AT DERMOT’S. THEY ADDED THE MARTY PARTY TO THE DRINKS MENU. IT KILLS ME IN THE BEST WAY WHEN I SEE PEOPLE DRINKING IT. I LOVE YOU, MARTY.
I send my third postcard from France on a Christmas ski trip with my parents, Maeve, my uncle Dermot and his kids.
It's not the worst trip in the world but I miss both Arnie and Jenna in equal measure, thinking how Arnie would shit himself on the black runs and how good Jenna would look with ski gear gripping her curves.
It feels like a true achievement when I make it through the week without a drink, but I realise part-way through I have my sister to thank for that as she drinks Diet Coke with me and helps me carry our drunk father, uncle and cousins home most nights.
JENNA, THE SNOW IS FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. TWO SEASONS HAVE GONE BUT MY LOVE FOR YOU HASN’T. I THINK ABOUT YOU ALL THE TIME. I WISH THIS WAS EASIER. BUT MORE THAN THAT, I JUST WISH I COULD SEE YOU. LOVE, MARTY.
The fourth postcard I send is in April on my first holiday with friends since Ibiza.
It's a slightly more civilised long weekend playing golf in the Algarve, a sport I am categorically shite at, but the sun shines and the sunsets over the Atlantic take my breath away.
I play the Dead Boyfriend Card so my mates join me for them and they stay respectfully quiet and contemplative as we sit back and watch the ocean claim the sun.
Little do they know I'm sitting there thinking about the other love of my life as well.
After, they let me choose a restaurant that serves more than burgers and chips, and then they get to drink their bodyweight in Sagres beer while I return to the hotel and think about Jenna, cry about Arnie, or sometimes call my sister or mother and let them distract me with their ramblings.
JENNA, I WATCH THE SUNSET EVERY NIGHT HERE. I DO IT TO FEEL CLOSE TO YOU, AND ARNIE. I GOT A PROMOTION AT WORK AND AM HELPING DESIGN THE SUMMER MENU. I WISH I KNEW YOU WERE OKAY. LOVE, MARTY.
The fifth postcard I send when I'm away in Ghana, teaching at a summer rugby camp for three months.
It was a last-minute decision to go, what with work going so well, but Dermot gave me the final prod when I told him about it.
I'm there with lads from all over the world who are five or more years younger than me, and it shows.
Immature jokes, inappropriate comments about sex or women or queer folk that I pull them up on, not to mention hygiene habits that have me learning to breathe through my mouth whenever I'm in the dorm room.
But I'm outside all day. I'm meeting and playing with kids who teach me more about life than any adult ever has, bar maybe Jenna or Arnie.
And I'm reconnecting with a sport I love.
I also spend a handful of nights kissing Veliane, a strikingly attractive woman who works at a bar in town where we go occasionally to play table football and dance terribly, much to the locals' amusement.
Veliane has the most impossibly straight teeth, the daintiest hands, and an elegant arch in her back.
She is a Christian and doesn't want to have sex before marriage, and the relief I have when she tells me this is felt from my head to my toes.
She and I have easy conversations and sweet end-of-the-night kisses once the bar is closed, but all too soon she has to return to Accra for university.
JENNA, IT’S BEEN A YEAR, ALMOST TO THE DAY. I’LL NEVER FORGET THAT DATE. I HOPE YOU WON’T EITHER. RUGBY CAMP IS CLASS, BUT AS WITH MOST THINGS I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT IT. PLEASE BE THERE IN FOUR YEARS. I LOVE YOU, MARTY.