Last Call for Love

1

M aeve Kaminski is a planner. Her mother likes to say that Maeve came into the world, saw what a mess it was, and has been trying to organize it ever since. It started with blocks when she was a baby. She’d spend hours ordering them by color and size. When most kids wanted a Barbie, Maeve wanted the house, so she could arrange all the little items inside, planning the living room, the bedroom, the closet.

By the time she was four, she was color-coordinating the bookshelf of board and picture books in her bedroom. At six, her favorite weekend activity was reorganizing the pantry. At eight, when most kids were begging for Harry Potter and iPods for Christmas, she wanted a datebook with rainbow-colored pens. The rosewood-pink leather-bound book with the year and her initials engraved in gold along the spine became Maeve’s prized possession. She carried it around like most kids now carry their cell phones, pulling it out every chance she could to note each assignment, test, soccer game, birthday party, and school dance, each event written in its correlating color. School assignments in green. After-school activities in blue. Social events in pink. Every Christmas after that, Maeve received an identical new datebook with fresh pages for the year to come. As she got older, she added purple for dates. Red to monitor her period. Yellow for birthdays. She kept a list of all her crushes, written in orange, and then crossed them off in black when her affection eventually faded.

Now at twenty-four, Maeve has her datebooks all displayed on a bookshelf in chronological order. A solid collection, tracking all the important events of her life. “The Diaries of a Control Freak,” her best friend and roommate, Sonya, says. But Maeve likes to see her life written out in a rainbow of colors, planned and organized. She wants to know what’s coming. If a pantry is organized, you don’t have to wonder what you need from the grocery store. If a desk is in order, you don’t have to search for paper clips. When life falls to pieces, a well-organized person knows where the hell the parachute is.

Or so Maeve thought, until her proverbial parachute was stolen by a Midwestern heartthrob who never forgot Mother’s Day and had a body like a Greek god. Now Maeve Kaminski is on a ferry bound for an Irish island, her life having made an unexpected U-turn just days ago, her existence now as cluttered as her best friend’s closet.

It all started with Spencer Allen.

It was a typical Saturday evening after a long day in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. Maeve was dressed in her usual baseball attire—’47 Scrum Cubs T-shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and faded blue Cubs cap. She and Sonya had stumbled over to the Cubby Bear, which, as always after games, was packed with reveling, tipsy fans decked out in the team’s gear. And there he was, wearing the same cap as Maeve, preppy baby-blue khaki shorts, canvas belt, and casual gray T-shirt. Soft brown eyes and sandy blond hair, ancestry from hardworking farmers in Germany or Sweden that made him tall and strong, melded with a Dutch grandmother whose influence softened and rounded his facial features. Maeve could have guessed he was into Big Ten football and chicken wings but worked out five days a week. Egocentric enough that he cared what others thought of his body, but not so much that it got in the way of having a good time.

“Nice hat,” he had said, nodding toward Maeve’s.

“Same to you.” She raised her lite beer for a toast. “Are you from Chicago?”

“Michigan, actually. But I live here now. You?”

She told him about growing up a mile away from Wrigley Field.

“Nice. A city girl.” They talked the rest of the evening about Maeve’s childhood on the north side of Chicago, riding the L downtown by herself to the hospital where her mom, Maryann, worked. Sleepovers at her grandparents’ house in Portage Park. Her parents taking her to Grant Park the night Obama won the presidency.

Spencer told her about his parents’ divorce, his great-grandma’s farm outside of Grand Rapids, his childhood dog, Pebbles.

“My sister named him,” Spencer groaned. “He looked like a mop.”

“I bet you cried like a baby when Pebbles died.”

“Guilty. I have a little container of his ashes on my nightstand. But isn’t that love?” He narrowed in on Maeve with such intensity that she felt it in her groin. “When you love someone, you can’t let go. It physically hurts too much.”

Maeve had never been in love before, and admitted as much.

“Sounds like something we need to remedy, Maeve Kaminski.”

She liked the way he said her full name, as if etching it into his memory. He walked her home and didn’t even try to come inside, instead promising to text on Monday.

“What time?” she asked, the question a test.

“Ten a.m.” Then he sent her a calendar invite. A calendar invite . For a control freak like Maeve, that was almost as good as an orgasm.

And he did text at exactly ten on Monday. He picked her up at exactly seven on Friday for their first official date. Was never late. He always remembered important dates. Hell, he even reminded Maeve to schedule her annual. Spencer Allen may have been the only person more organized than Maeve. Unfortunately, for two years, he was meticulously planning her demise.

“I hate you, Spencer Allen,” Maeve says aloud, as the ferry hits a substantial wave and lurches left, forcing her to grab the railing to steady herself as a rolling nausea rises within her. She will not allow herself to puke. That would just be too pitiful.

Seasickness has never been a problem on Lake Michigan, but the strait between Ireland’s mainland and the southern island of Inishglass is rocky, the water churning and rolling like storm clouds below the boat.

“Keep your eye on the horizon. That’ll hold your stomach steady. We’re almost there.” The older gentleman next to Maeve has a thick Irish brogue she can hardly understand, like the faint outline of a jetty through the thin layer of fog in the distance. The man is dressed in a pageboy hat, knee-length navy rain jacket, and muck boots. A perfect replica of a stock photo captioned “Irish farmer.”

“My weather app said it was going to be nice today,” Maeve says. “All sunshine. I planned accordingly.”

The man laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Weather app? Won’t get much use out of that here.”

Maeve shows him the bright yellow suns stretching for hours, and the phone almost goes overboard when the ferry hits another wave. Again, the man laughs. Maeve feels like she might cry. And right then when her day can’t get any worse, it starts to rain, but only on her, as if a single cloud hangs directly over her head. The man, who is dressed for rain, is completely dry. Maeve quickly retrieves her rain jacket from her backpack and slips it on.

“At least you didn’t rely on that app of yours when it came to packing.” The man points off the bow as the bright green of Inishglass breaks through the layer of fog and clouds, as though someone pulled back a stage curtain and before them is Brigadoon. “There she is,” he says with affection. “I know you’re not a local, which means you must be a tourist. Here to see if the rumors are true about our little island?”

Maeve has no idea what he’s talking about, nor does she want to. The less time she spends here and the less she knows, the better. Not her usual approach, but she has her reasons.

“Just visiting for a few days,” she says.

Inishglass is a patchwork of green rolling hills, intimidating jagged cliffs, and sandy beaches. If Maeve were here under different circumstances, and not on the verge of vomiting, she’d be snapping pictures like the rest of the tourists and promptly posting to Instagram. This is a moment for her, after all; she’s never been out of the United States before today. If there was ever a time for social media, it’s now. But Maeve’s parents don’t know she’s left Chicago, let alone the country.

Not that she is doing anything wrong. She’s twenty-four years old. She lives in an apartment she pays for. She has a job, and while being an inside sales rep for a cable company isn’t her dream, it sustains her lifestyle. Ultimately, Maeve is an adult. Which is precisely why she has not told her parents about Spencer and instead plans to fix things herself.

“Well, if you ask me, there’s no better pub on earth than the Moorings. My mother would come down from heaven and drag me out by my ears if she ever saw me in the Thatch. But that’s how people on this island are. Loyal, with long histories and even longer memories, though no one is willing to fact-check, either.”

Maeve is barely listening, too focused on keeping down the airplane chicken and rice that came with her economy seat.

As the ferry approaches land, people prepare to disembark, but the man next to Maeve doesn’t move. He’s been prattling on the past few minutes, Maeve only catching a word here and there, but now he examines her face intently and says, “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

That captures her attention. “This is my first time in Ireland.”

“It’s the freckles on your nose,” he says, pointing at them. “And your eyes. You’re Irish, for sure.”

The boat staggers as it slows into the harbor, where a few other fishing boats are docked along the jetty. Maeve turns away from the man, uncomfortable under his stare.

“Polish,” she says with a shrug. “Last name’s Kaminski. I think it’s time to go.”

“My suggestion?” the man says with a wink. “Delete your weather app and embrace the unpredictability of the island. You’ll have more fun.” He walks away.

“Unpredictability is not really my specialty,” Maeve admits under her breath. And she isn’t here for fun. This is a business trip.

She reminds herself this will all be over soon. She will be back in her queen bed, in her garden apartment that smells like her favorite sandalwood and rose candle, in her beloved Chicago, before the end of the week. This speedy jaunt to Ireland will be a blip in her story. She is organizing the proverbial pantry, getting her life back on track. She will never again forget the parachute.

The rain over Maeve’s head stops, and the sun breaks through the clouds. She shakes out her jacket before putting it back in her bag, wishing the nausea would disappear, too. The sun hangs low in the west, making its way toward America. If she could ride it home, she would.

Eager tourists file off the boat, but Maeve lingers, not confident her stomach can handle walking just yet. She’s envious of everyone’s excitement, their awe, their freedom, but mostly, their itineraries. The months of preparation they must have gone through to get here. Their confirmation numbers and planned tours and return flights. Maeve can’t even go to a restaurant without first looking at the menu online, and now she’s flown across the Atlantic without any idea of what’s in store. Not her ideal, but she had no choice.

And then right as her self-loathing hits a pathetic low, her phone rings with a call from Sonya, offering the first stitch of relief since Maeve’s flight left O’Hare yesterday afternoon, bound for Dublin.

“Top of the morning to ya!” Sonya yells.

“Your Irish accent is terrible. And it’s evening here.”

“Well, aren’t you a bloody arsehole.” Her accent is somewhere between cockney and East Indian, with a solid dose of flat, nasal Chicago.

“Did you google Irish phrases?”

“Maybe.” Sonya switches back to her natural Midwestern accent. “Any word from He Who Must Not Be Named?” Sonya starts every conversation with this question, astounding Maeve with her optimism.

“Yes, after eight months of ghosting me, Spencer called to offer his condolences. Turns out, all this time, he was burning in hell. That’s why he didn’t call.”

Sonya laughs.

“Tell me what you’re doing right now,” Maeve adds, needing a distraction from her seasickness.

“OK . . . don’t kill me.”

And just like that, panic rattles her once again. “What?”

“I’m on my way to Homeslice for Bloody Marys.” Quietly, like an afterthought she doesn’t want Maeve to hear, Sonya adds, “With Melanie Kingston.”

“Melanie Kingston? Who’s—” And then Maeve remembers the girl that she and Sonya grew up with. A total snob whose mom invented a talking photo album back in the early 2000s, and when Oprah named it one of her “favorite things,” Rachel Kingston became an overnight success and wrote a self-help book for entrepreneurial moms titled Capture This Moment, Mommy: Manifest Your Future Now (Your Kids Will Thank You Later) . Rachel now runs a mindfulness institute and retreat center. Melanie was the kid who knew your soft spot and smiled as she pressed on it with a manicured finger until it bruised.

“I ran into her last night at ROOF,” Sonya explains. “I swear, she’s changed.”

“I’ve been gone for less than twenty-four hours, and you went to our favorite spot without me?” Maeve hears the music of the city playing behind Sonya. Horns, motorcycles, garbage trucks, barking dogs, angry bicyclists. What Maeve wouldn’t give to be yelled at by a bike-delivery guy right now.

“We’ve been cooped up for months, Mae,” Sonya says delicately. “Not that I’m complaining, but ... it’s June in Chicago.” They have avoided the posh ROOF for months because of Maeve’s lack of funds, and being the best friend she is, Sonya has spent most weekends in their apartment, drinking the cheapest jugs of wine they can find. No wonder Sonya broke out the second Maeve left.

“I’m sorry.” Maeve puts her head down on the railing of the boat, her nausea worsening, though she’s not sure whether it’s seasickness or homesickness or lifesickness.

“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do. You know who did this. This is his fault.”

“I should have known better.”

“Said every person who’s ever ordered chicken wings on a first date. It happens to all of us. And in your defense, your chicken wing was really hot. A lot of people would risk getting sauce on their face for a bite of him.”

Finally, a laugh. But right as Maeve is about to thank Sonya for being the best best friend a girl could have, the call drops. Maeve collects herself and exits the ferry. Just as she sets foot on the jetty, the phone rings again.

“You know you’re the best damn friend a girl could ask for.”

“Maeve Kaminski?” Not Sonya. The voice is male. “This is Konrad. I’m a collector with American Debt Services. I’m following up from a previous call last week. We have yet to receive payment from you.”

Maeve holds the phone so tight her fingers ache. “I explained this to the last person who called. My identity was stolen.”

“So eleven months ago, you didn’t take a trip to Mexico where you racked up ... fifteen thousand dollars of debt?”

“I did take the trip. But I didn’t know I was spending the money.”

“Sounds like too many margaritas.”

The trip was Spencer’s idea. They had been together for over a year, the longest relationship for either of them. He wanted to celebrate in a big way. He suggested Mexico and the five-star resort with a private plunge pool overlooking the ocean. And the snorkeling excursion. And the romantic beachside dinner with the mariachi band.

“That’s not what—it was my boyfriend, Spencer. He spent the money. He bought the flights. He booked the trip. He’s the one who owes you.”

“But your name’s on the card.”

“He opened it without me knowing!”

“This sounds like a lovers’ tiff. If your boyfriend spent the money in your name, tell him to pay you back.”

“I would, if I knew where he was.” Maeve hates how pathetic she must seem.

“Sounds like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“You have no idea, Konrad. If you knew everything that’s happened, even you’d give me a break.”

“Let me guess—this Spencer guy said he loved you.”

“I really trusted him, Konrad.”

That’s the most shameful part. The debt is bad, but the fact that the little girl who loved to organize didn’t see the mess all around her has Maeve doubting herself on a level she didn’t think possible. If you don’t have order, what do you have? A big fat mess. And Maeve hates messes.

Bottom line: she’s a control freak who lost control.

“Why don’t you just tell your mom what happened and ask for help?” Konrad suggests.

“There is no way I can tell my mom about this.” Maeve takes in the foreign landscape, and her stomach knots, squeezing tighter.

“What about your dad?”

“That’s . . . complicated, Konrad.”

“I’m sure he’d understand. Dads love their little girls, right?”

“Well, asking him might be a bit of a problem.”

“And why’s that?”

Maeve may not be certain of much right now, but she’s confident of this. “Because, Konrad. My dad is dead.” Then she pukes into the harbor.