10
I open my eyes as an alarm clock blares a few inches from my right ear. It’s one of those vintage models with bells on top
that you see in old-school cartoons. Antique or not, I have a sudden urge to hurl the abhorrent thing across the room.
After a few failed attempts, I finally manage to silence the contraption. I sit up in bed and notice someone under the covers
beside me. Not again. Each new day rattles me to my core, and yet I’ve come to accept my predicament—the mysterious force that beams me from one
reality to the next. I don’t understand it. I can’t control it. All I can do is hold on for dear life.
The figure beside me stirs beneath the sheets; I brace myself, as I’ve become accustomed to, waiting for the big reveal—today’s
“insignificant other,” the term Spencer so aptly coined.
Spencer. Memories of our time together come rushing back—his kindness, Rosie’s passing. I’ve hardly had time to process it all, and
now I’m thrust into some new reality.
I peer across the bed, filled with loathing and anticipation. Which would-be love from my past is he? Someone I met in a bar?
My first crush from elementary school? That guy from college, what’s-his-name, who spilled beer on me at a Dave Matthews concert?
I stare at the human form beside me, cloaked in rumpled sheets. I’ll figure out where I am later; first I need to identify the male du jour.
“Hey,” I whisper, cautiously tapping the edge of his shoulder. When she stirs, my left ventricle nearly bursts.
“Wait... what ?” I stammer, inching toward the edge of the bed as the woman beside me sits up and arches her back, stretching her petite
arms up to the ceiling with a yawn.
“Morning to you, too, eejit,” she says running her fingers through her pixie-length, platinum blond hair. She’s about my age,
maybe a little younger—pretty, with sharp features, deep-set blue eyes, and a thick Irish accent. Whoever she is, we’ve never
met—at least I don’t think so.
“Um... what are you doing here?” I ask nervously.
She rolls her eyes. “Stop the lights, Lena. After last night, I just can’t deal.”
Last night? I take a deep breath.
“Listen,” I say, covering my bare legs with the edge of the sheet. “I don’t mean to sound weird or anything, but are we...
um, did we...?” I swallow hard. “What’s going on?”
She laughs. “Last night’s pints are talking, I see. You’re obviously in bits.”
“In bits?”
“Are ya fecking kidding me? Two years in Ireland, and you’re still struggling with the slang?” She shakes her head mockingly,
before her expression softens. “I’m just slagging. You know I love ya—but, bloody hell, not in that sort of way.”
My head spins, trying to make sense of this latest scenario.
“Besides,” she continues, stretching her small arms in the air again, “Colm would come after me with a pitchfork.”
Colm. Oooooh, this one I remember. The summer after my sophomore year of college, I backpacked through Europe with girlfriends—all of whom, I might add, got mono and had to fly home early, leaving me to finish the last leg of our trip solo. I met Colm Dalton on a train from Paris to Zurich. He was tall—so tall that his head grazed the ceiling of our passenger car. While he did heave my ridiculously overstuffed pack into the luggage compartment, it was his enormous smile and humor that piqued my interest. I don’t know if anyone else has made me laugh that hard since. Maybe it’s just an Irish thing, or maybe it was... him? In any case, when I reached my stop, Colm scribbled his phone number and email address on a scrap of paper, which I tucked into the pocket of my shorts. That night, after I’d settled into my hostel, I reached into my pocket and it was... gone, and Colm no more than a few paragraphs in my travel journal.
I met a lot of interesting people that summer, but he was the only one I really remember. “There’s just something about Colm,”
Frankie used to say whenever I’d reminisce about that train ride. I suppose everyone has their what-if person—the profound
chance encounter turned into a... missed connection—and I’ve certainly bumped into a lot of them these past few days. But
Colm was special.
“The Dalton boys may be thick-skinned,” my bedmate continues, her expression softening, “but their hearts? All teddy bear.
Colm would be wrecked if you left him. Same with my Declan. Speaking of, I should probably get back and give that arse a talking
to. He was fecking locked last night. He actually said to me, ‘Bitsy, you need to mind yer tongue. You have the dirtiest mouth
in Kinsale.’” She sighs. “Three whiskeys, and there he goes again, acting the maggot . Men.”
“Yeah, men,” I say, doing my best to follow.
Bitsy turns to me, her eyes flashing. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to, ya know, swing for the other team? It’d sure teach
those fecking Dalton boys a lesson.”
As she leans forward, I lean back, and she bursts into laughter, smacking her hand against my arm. “Sorry,” she says, chuckling.
“I couldn’t help it.”
I shake my head as she climbs out of bed and slides her lithe body into jeans and a sweater, before eyeing her watch. “Colm’s
train should be gettin’ in soon, yeah?”
“Um, yeah?”
“I bet he’ll be fiending to see ya. Wish Dec got some of Colm’s romantic genes.” She smiles, with a sigh. “Hey, thanks for letting me stay at your gaff last night. Nothing good comes from a pub row.” She sighs, reaching for a bag by the window. “If that man of mine would stop being such an arse, maybe we could be sisters someday.” Her eyes brighten. “Like, real ones.”
Sisters. My head spins as I attempt to piece all this together. Her name is... Bitsy ? Gaff must mean... house? Her boyfriend, Declan, is... Colm’s brother? And Colm is... coming home—here—soon?
“Well, I better go check on that man-child of mine,” she says, turning to the door with a grin. “See ya at the pub tonight—yeah?”
She blows me a kiss and disappears out the door.
I exhale deeply. It’s only 9a.m., and I’ve not only leaped to another continent, but also woken up beside the spunkiest woman
in Ireland. I like Bitsy. I can see us being friends in real life, if that even exists anymore.
I glance down at my hand, to my bare ring finger. Maybe we’re one of those couples who don’t wear rings, or maybe we never
tied the knot? I’m hoping for the latter. The last thing I need is another husband. Funny, a few days leading up to this,
that was all I wanted. Careful what you wish for, I guess.
I set out for the bathroom, where I take a long look at myself in the mirror. The first glance is always a shocker, but this
one? Not as much. I mean, yeah, my hair is lighter, my freckles a little more prominent, but my cheeks are dewy and rosy,
my eyes bright. I have the look of someone who’s just returned from a week-long vacation—with room service. But am I happy? I wonder.
It’s too soon to know, I realize. I mean, I haven’t even seen Colm! What if he weighs four hundred pounds? What if he has
anger issues or, worse, is one of those guys who spends all day filming himself playing Minecraft ? How would I even know? I met him once , for a few hours , on a train . He could be anyone or anything. He could be a—
Enough , I tell myself, as I make my way to the closet, picking out a sweater and jeans, before having a quick look around the tidy
bedroom with its cream-colored plaster walls and wide-plank hardwood flooring. A painting of a castle hangs above the headboard—a
flea-market find, perhaps, lovingly carted home and hung on the wall. I’d buy something like that—in another life.
I walk through the doorway to a charming living room and kitchen area, with its low-slung, beam-studded ceiling that hovers
overhead like a protective heirloom quilt. At the helm of the kitchen is a vintage stove, which looks like a relic from another
era, with its well-worn brass knobs and heating elements soaked in a thousand layers of patina and probably just as many memories.
I pour myself a glass of water, then sink into the sofa by the fireplace, where the charred embers in the hearth bear evidence
of last night’s warmth.
A framed photo on the coffee table catches my eye, and I lean in to have a look. There I am, standing in front of a Christmas
tree beside Colm—and a little boy, about six or seven, grinning from ear to ear. I’m immediately confused, and shocked. Could
this be... our son? It feels like a million years ago, but I think back to Nathan in Pennsylvania, when I learned of my
miscarriage. For as long as I can remember, motherhood was a big no-thanks for me, which is why I didn’t expect the revelation
to hit me so hard, especially seeing Frankie with her baby, knowing I may not be capable of carrying a child of my own. It’s
like the possibility of motherhood was ripped from my arms at the precise moment I began opening myself up to it.
I try to imagine myself here, cuddled up under a blanket with Colm—and our son?—laughing like we did that day on the train
all those years ago. Would he still be funny? Or has time embellished the memories of that day? What if, all these years later,
he’s actually... kind of dull? Maybe the fantasy of the Irishman I met on a train in Europe was just that—a fantasy—and
in real life he’s just—
My thoughts come to a screeching halt when I hear footsteps outside. I freeze, watching as the door opens—hinges creaking—and a very tall, and very handsome Irishman walks in with a bouquet of pale pink roses in his hands.
“There’s my girl,” Colm says, coming toward me, beaming.
“Hi,” I say, more than a little stunned. He’s just as I remember—and more—with his wild green eyes, chiseled jaw and dirty-blond
hair with a kiss of gray at the temples. The years have been good to Colm. More than good.
“My flight arrived early, so I caught the morning train,” he continues, sinking into the sofa beside me. The train. It’s what brought us together all those years ago. “London was grand, of course, but I couldn’t wait to get home.”
I smile, taking it all in—taking him in. I’m both confused and pleasantly lost in his eyes.
Colm runs his hand through his hair. “I had to go, to see it for myself—to see what a big opportunity like that could look
like.” He sighs. “My bleedin’ pride, I guess.” He nestles closer beside me. “When Mum asked me to take over the pub, at first
it felt like a life sentence. Never getting out of Kinsale, never having the chance to run my own distillery.” He sighs, eyebrows
raised. “But a funny thing happened. When I got to London and saw the place I’d be managing, I felt this pang in my heart,
ya know? I couldn’t stop thinking about Kinsale. I guess I love this bloody old town.” He laughs. “Besides, the owner of that
distillery was a first-class arse.”
I grin, doing my best to track what he’s saying.
He nods to himself. “I couldn’t get your words out of my head, either. You helped me see that family matters more than ego
or ambition. The bottom line is that I’m the firstborn, and Mum shouldn’t be tending the pub any longer. It’s time I take
the reins.”
“So,” I say. “You’re... staying?”
“ We’re staying,” Colm replies, reaching for my hands triumphantly.
I can’t help but feel triumphant, too, but also confused. Yesterday I was hurtling through shock and grief—and new feelings.
Spencer. And today? Colm’s baring his heart and looking at me with adoring eyes as if I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world. I can’t help but wonder about the path that led me here—in this life, anyway—the kaleidoscope of roads taken, and not, that make up the story of us.
“You okay, Lena?” Colm asks, searching my face. “Is there something bothering you?”
“No, no,” I reply. “I’m just... taking it all in. I mean, look at us, two people who met randomly on a train, and we found
each other again. What if I’d gotten off at an earlier stop, or...”
“Or didn’t send me that message on Facebook.” He beams. “I never thought I’d see you again, and then there you were, in my
inbox.” Colm nods to himself. “You’ve made me so happy, Lena. I just want to make you proud.”
I think of Mike, standing in his underwear surrounded by boxes of fidget spinners and cracking his first beer at 9a.m. Colm
couldn’t be any more different. “How could I not be proud of you?”
He nods. “I wanted to do big things... for you—for us. Are ya sure you can love a man in an apron, filling pints at Dalton’s
Pub?”
I smile, his big heart on a platter before me to take, and I can’t help but feel immediately enamored as I connect the dots.
Colm went to London to pursue a big-paying job, but his heart is anchored here, in... Kinsale. He’s not staying because
it’s the glamorous choice, but rather the right one.
“I had a look around, and a good think, and I realized that all I need—all I’ve ever wanted—is right here... in that bleedin’
old pub.” He pauses, smiling. “And in this creaky old cottage with you.” He hands me the bouquet of flowers. “Do you like
them?”
“I love them,” I say, my heart beating faster when our eyes meet again. I recall the same intense feeling the day we met,
not that I could tell the difference between run-of-the-mill attraction and, well, something more . All I know is that I felt something then, and I’m feeling it again—right now.
“Well,” I say, breaking our silence as he leans closer. “I... better get these into a vase.”
Colm nods, reaching into his coat pocket a few times as if he might have lost something. For a moment, his eyes are distant—elsewhere.
“There,” I say, placing the flowers on the table.
“I see you’ve been painting,” he says, pointing to an easel and canvas near the far wall of the living room beside the window.
A beam of light shoots through the paned glass, illuminating the swath of green grass in the little scene. I walk closer,
studying the landscape, much like the one hanging on the bedroom wall. It’s stunning, actually. The waves practically jump
off the canvas. I can almost taste the sea spray. I painted this ?
Behind my back, Colm presses his chin on my shoulder. “I know I always say it, but I think this one might be your masterpiece.”
Me? An artist? Sure, I sketched a bit in high school, but I gave that up a long time ago. Art was my mother’s thing, not mine. She tried
to teach me to paint, but it always ended with tears streaming down my face. Even though she promised the muddied colors on
my canvases were beautiful, I knew they weren’t. I would never be as talented as she was. But now? Standing beside this easel,
I can’t help but wonder if there’s more of my mother in me than I ever knew. The thought both comforts and frightens me, especially
now. If I can paint like this, does that also mean I’m susceptible to the demons that plagued her? Are they lurking, beckoning
me down a similar path? No, I tell myself as I feel Colm’s breath on my neck.
He pulls me closer, and my body yields, melting into his embrace like butter; when he kisses me, his mouth feels like home.
He tugs at the edge of my sweater, his fingers traveling up the small of my back. I don’t ask him to stop, though the moment
ends abruptly when the door swings open and a boy, about eight or nine, gallops in.
“Daddy, Lena! I’m home!”
Lena. Not Mom, then who?