Chapter 21
twenty-one
Linus
Four Months Later
The rain never really stops in Ireland.
Sometimes it softens to mist, brushing your cheeks like breath, and other times it lashes sideways across the Luas tracks until the whole street gleams silver. Either way, it’s constant. Like the ache behind my ribs.
I’ve been home nearly a year now. You’d think I’d have settled by now, but I still wake up expecting the sound of guitars bleeding through thin walls, or Padraig laughing somewhere down the hall. Or Liam’s voice, low and rough with sleep, telling me to come back to bed.
Instead, it’s radiators ticking and the sound of the telly.
Dundrum’s grand in its own way. My flat sits above a pharmacy, across from the Town Centre. From my balcony, I can see the glass roof of the shopping complex and the queue for train stretching down the platform. It’s all very proper. Good schools, tidy pavements, cafés.
No chaos. No noise. No live music.
Exactly the opposite of what I’m made for.
I drop my bag on the counter and shrug out of my jacket. I’ve finished another fourteen-hour shift at The Merrion, herding florists, caterers, and entitled brides through a wedding costing more than most people’s houses. The ballroom sparkled, the champagne flowed, and every smile felt rehearsed.
My name tag reads Linus O’Donnell, Events Manager. I earn every single penny of my salary.
Not bad for a lad barely out of uni, I suppose. Mum calls it a proper job. My da brags about it to his fellow politicians. The problem is, I can’t stop thinking about the smell of beer-soaked wood floors and the thrum of bass under my feet. About doing something with my life I’m actually proud of.
I didn’t come back to Ireland because I wanted to. I had no choice. When the clock ran out on my visa, there was no extension left to beg for. No marriage proposal from Liam. I had no choice but to say goodbye.
Oh, what a long, drawn-out, painful goodbye it was.
The night Felicity finally blew the whole thing apart was the end of my era.
I’d spent months trying to hold the band together, patching holes in the boat while everyone else drilled new ones.
Before I left, I found Arleigh, a raw, talented singer, unbothered by fame.
I gave her information to Liam and Padraig, telling them she’d be the one to save them.
They promised to give her a chance, but I was convinced they’d blow her off and Fireball would descend to the bottom of the ocean without me taking the reins. A couple days later Liam texted.
Liam: Arleigh’s in. You’re always right about these things, love.
It felt like hope. Maybe we’d continue things long-distance.
Then silence.
He’s never been in touch again. Hasn’t returned any of my calls, texts, or DMs.
I tried a different tactic. I meant it when I said I’d keep managing them from Dublin. I drew up contracts, built spreadsheets, pitched them to a European promoter I knew. Sent it to both Liam and Padraig.
No reply. From either of them.
At first, I made excuses. It’s arduous to integrate a new band member. The tour’s mad. Wi-Fi’s shit. Time zones.
I was lying to myself.
Of course, the masochist inside of me wants to reach out again. Give it one last try to connect. Maybe if I kept the tone light: How’s the tour? Or encouraging: I’m proud of you. Perhaps, something small, human: I really miss you.
Then I remember the last thing he said at the airport before I left. “If you stay, I’ll never learn how to stand on my own.”
At the time it sounded noble. Now it feels like a curse.
I still follow every shaky video on YouTube, every tagged photo on socials. Through their posts, I know Fireball now manages themselves. Liam and Padraig run the show, Mitch, their roadie drives, Arleigh sings. They seem to be thriving.
Christ.
Picking up my phone, I pull up the band account and tap on their latest photo dump.
Some gig in Atlanta. Liam’s delectable. All sweat and sinew, head bowed over his guitar.
Padraig’s in the back, steady as ever. Arleigh’s caught mid-note, arms outstretched, crowd roaring.
They look powerful. Immersed. Beautiful.
There’s another of the three of them after the set. Arms slung around each other, eyes bright.
Clearly, I’m not needed. The twins have it under control and, truthfully, maybe it’s for the best. They can rely on each other, not others, for once.
I tap the screen until it goes dark.
My heart is broken.
Liam was my life. My family. My home. He’s living his best life and I’m stuck in a flat smelling of new paint, immersed in a corporate hell which makes my parents proud as punch, but doesn’t fit me.
The kettle clicks off behind me. I pour the water even though I don’t really want tea, and watch the steam rise.
I lie to myself most days. Tell myself I’m over him.
Rationalize his behavior. Our relationship was his first true love, tour adrenaline, lust and sex disguised as something real.
Then my mind drifts to the small things.
How Liam would rest his forehead against mine before he went on stage to ground himself.
Yeah, the truth fucking destroys me. Liam was my fucking soul and he’s doing to me what he always does when he’s ripped apart. Burying it. Burying me. He used his bisexuality as an excuse to break up. Claimed he couldn’t be faithful.
Now he’s probably fucking his way around America to purge himself of our love while I’m still a celibate ghost hovering over Fireball’s social feeds, hoping for some small crumb.
I take a sip of the tea. It’s gone cold already. Figures. I shut my eyes, lean back against the counter, listen to the sound of car horns honking below.
Glancing down, I see an envelope on the table with The Merrion’s crest. Inside, my pay slip. I should feel grateful. My bank account is fat. Aside from rent, I don’t spend any money. This job is every hospitality major’s dream.
It’s not mine. I’m living someone else’s life. Every event I manage feels the same. Perfect, hollow, rehearsed. There’s no room for creativity. Or mistakes. Or messiness.
I glance at another stack piling on the table. Gig flyers from local pubs and indie venues I’m contemplating scouting on weekends. Wondering if building something for myself will take my mind off of my sorrow.
There’s even a name swirling around my head: Isis Management.
Isis is the goddess of restoration. If anyone needs restoring, it’s me.
I could take everything I learned from working with Niahm’s father and from my time with Fireball.
Reimagine the bedlam into brilliance. Do it completely my way this time.
Maybe in a year or two I’d have a roster.
To start, a few Irish acts worth pushing abroad.
Once I’m able to make enough to quit the hotel, I’ll be able to breathe again, maybe even feel alive.
Until then, my job at The Merrion will fund my company. Keep Mum and Da off my back.
Like clockwork, my phone buzzes.
Da. Dinner Sunday? Bring a girl this time, for God’s sake. Your mum’s worried you’ll turn into a priest. She tells me Niahm’s single again, maybe give her a call?
I snort under my breath. Typical. They don’t know about Liam. About who I am or what I want.
They don’t know me. Not really.
My da, John O’Donnell sits at Cabinet meetings and talks about housing policy and national heritage.
Molly O’Donnell, my mum, volunteers on school boards and parish committees.
Both of them believe faith is strongest when it never bends.
My sisters, Bridget and Orla fall into this same line of thinking.
Early on, when I first suspected I was attracted to men, I learned early how to compartmentalize. My personal life had to stay private. Like the time I let a guy blow me on our family holiday. How this infidelity led to my breakup with Niamh.
None of them know about Liam. How I loved him, or how we talked, late into the night, about what it might mean to build a life with a woman we both shared. I don’t tell them I’m destroyed inside. Or how lonesome I am.
I suppose I could try. After all, I’m an adult who deserves to live life on my terms and have a family who loves me as I am.
Reality is, I’ve imagined it a hundred ways. Mum would cry and I’d never know if it was out of worry or disgust. Da would go silent, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s old-school, West-Meath born, the type who measures a man’s worth in pints and hurling scores.
At this point, why disappoint them for no good reason. There’s no one in my life now, so what does it hurt to let them believe I’m too busy for love? Give them hope someday I’ll bring home a nice girl from work. Or get back together with Niamh.
For now, I can’t fathom someone else in the space where Liam used to be. Until something real materializes, best to stay under the radar.
Outside, the rain turns to mist again. Dundrum Town Centre glows against the dark like a promise of everything ordinary people want. Warmth, security, routine.
I rest my forehead against the glass and watch the lights blur. Picture the twins in their mini-bus somewhere in the States. Padraig probably dozing against the window, headphones on. Liam tapping out a rhythm on his knee, pretending not to think about the people he’s lost.
In my bedroom, I pull the blinds down, undress and crawl under the covers. On the dresser, I keep a framed photo of the two of us backstage. Liam’s biting my earlobe and I’m smiling cheek to cheek.
Everything good I’ve ever had is in the picture.
Now he’s gone.
I trace the edge of the frame, open my nightstand drawer and shove it to the back.
Nestling into my pillows, I listen to the rain hit the window.
Hopefully someday, when Isis is real and the name O’Donnell means something in music, I’ll call him.
Maybe he’ll answer and we can laugh about how young and foolish we were.
Maybe we’ll find our way back to each other. Find our third and make the family we dreamed about.
Or, maybe not. Either way, I’ll keep building. For me.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the rhythm of the rain. Steady, endless, familiar.
For the first time in months, as I drift off to sleep, I give myself permission to move on. Put the past behind me and focus on building the future I want.
The decision feels like prayer and punishment.
I wouldn’t trade it for peace.