3
T he mid-June evening at the Thatch is moving along like any other, just as Briggs Murphy had hoped. Then Brian Laughlin stands from his usual barstool, three in from the end, pint of Guinness in hand, and makes his way to the musicians playing in the corner.
Damn it, Briggs thinks.
Brian bends down to whisper in the guitarist’s ear, who then whispers to the fiddler, who leans across the table to the frame-drum player, who nods at the woman playing the tin whistle.
What was a nondescript night will now be unforgettable.
Briggs is going to kill Brian Laughlin. He’d fire the musicians, but he only pays the players in free beer and chips. Plus, he needs them. It’s tourist season. Fifteen minutes from last call, and Briggs foolishly thought he’d make it through the night unscathed.
From behind the bar, he’s been chatting with a busty English woman in a hot-pink tank top announcing in silver lettering that she’s part of the B RIDE S QUAD . The rest of the hen party—along with the bride, who’s wearing a white veil and matching white tank top with the words O FF THE M ARKET across her chest—is dispersed around the bar, standing out in their vibrant colors among the other patrons, who are mostly dressed in neutral tones, long sleeves, or fleece. More appropriate attire for the cool Irish evening. The hen party is dressed like this is Temple Bar, Dublin’s hot nightlife location, not a remote island off the southern coast of Ireland.
It took until five minutes ago for the well-endowed Brit to finally approach Briggs, though she’d been throwing him looks all night.
“So you, like ... own this place?” she asks. Briggs keeps one eye on Brian, who’s now circulating through the pub, quietly chatting with every local in attendance. No small feat, considering the large crowd. He wonders whether, across town, the Moorings is busting at the seams as well. Since Liam Doherty died, the place hasn’t had the same fervor, understandably. Grief is a cloud that thins out only as time passes, never disappearing completely, and with Liam having passed away so recently, every local at the Moorings is under a thick blanket of gray. But the longer the pub stays in this state, the higher the probability that Briggs will have a problem on his hands this summer. The Moorings needs sunshine, which Ireland isn’t exactly known for. Rumor has it, the light might come in the form of an American, but the island has yet to see her arrival. “You’re Briggs Murphy?”
“Aye,” Briggs says.
The Brit leans on the bar, accentuating her breasts, a move Briggs would commend and reciprocate with thankful glances if his attention had not been stolen by Brian.
“I’ve read about you.” A twinkle sparks in her eyes.
“Best not to believe everything you read.”
“The reviews are consistent,” she counters. “Five stars across the board. A perfect track record for a man. A herculean feat, if you ask me. Most men can’t find their way around a market, let alone a woman’s body. But apparently, you have impeccable navigational skills.”
Normally, Briggs would appreciate the innuendo, but suddenly he’s not in the mood for games. Not with Brian halfway through the crowd, the inevitable now officially unstoppable. Damn those Yelp reviews that mention Briggs by name. As great as it is to have so many five-star reviews, Briggs is embarrassed at what women are willing to put on the internet, even if it is accurate. But that was the risk he took, sleeping with customers.
“I can’t believe I’m meeting the Briggs Murphy in the flesh. You’re just as I thought you’d be.” She steps back to take him in, eyes roaming over his face and broad chest. Then she leans onto the bar on tiptoes to see the lower half of his body, her breasts pressed between her arms, practically falling out of her tank top. “Shame you’re wearing pants.”
“Damn food-safety laws.”
She giggles. “I didn’t picture you with a beard. It’s quite nice.”
He scratches at the thick stubble on his chin. “Thanks.”
She leans in closer and whispers, “Do food-safety laws apply to the bathroom as well, because I’d be happy to take your pants off in there.”
Only rarely will a patron be this forward, but then again, hen parties tend to bring out the immoral side, especially on a remote island that feels completely cut off from reality. The number of bachelor and bachelorette parties has increased over the years, with travel bloggers and social-media influencers writing about the island and its two infamous pubs.
Briggs doesn’t respond. He has a hard time mustering any charm this late in the night. He hasn’t even asked this woman’s name, a mistake his father would chide him for. Always know your customer, whether local or tourist. A pub should feel like a home, and all the patrons, family members.
“This pub isn’t just a place for people to get a pint,” Joe Murphy would say. “It’s the heart of the village. People come here when they’re happy, sad, broken or whole, celebrating or mourning. They rely on our door to be open. And this pub, just like a heart, is built to hold it all. It’s the best thing we offer to our patrons. Remember that, son.”
Briggs usually does, but tonight, he’s having a hard time with the suffocating crowd and Brian Fucking Laughlin.
The blond Brit takes a different tactic. “Is it true?” she asks.
“Is what true?”
“The feud between you and the Dohertys. Do you really hate each other? Like the Capulets and Montagues.”
Briggs stumbles on his practiced line, his heart beginning to pound as Brian Laughlin returns to the musicians after rounding up the locals. He was so close to getting through the night without anyone acknowledging today’s significance. If he could ring the last-call bell now, he would.
His silence lasts long enough that the other bartender, Briggs’s roommate, Hugh Duffy, swoops in. “You know the Irish,” Hugh says, in his American accent. “Their memories might be long, but they’re not good with details.”
The woman glances briefly at Hugh before looking back to Briggs. “So you don’t even remember what you’re fighting about?”
“Did the Capulets and Montagues?” Hugh counters.
“I can’t remember Shakespeare that well,” she admits.
“Spoiler. They didn’t. That’s why the story’s a tragedy.”
“Well then, whose pub opened first?”
Briggs answers, “The Thatch, of course.”
“But you’re a Murphy,” she says, finally understanding how this all works. “So of course you’d say that. If I go to the Moorings, some Doherty would probably say the same thing.”
What Doherty? Briggs thinks. That’s the question everyone on Inishglass is asking themselves. Briggs and Hugh both shrug and speak their practiced line together. “You’ll have to go to the Moorings and see for yourself.”
The Murphys and Dohertys have had a silent agreement for decades. Once they got over their actual feud and realized it was better for business if they worked together, both pubs kept up the ruse, building a legend around their families, an ancient dispute between the only two pubs on the island. Inevitably tourists would want to visit both, to see which one they liked better. They’d travel back to wherever they came from, tell their friends about the famous rivalry, and the next year, Inishglass would see an uptick in tourists.
At least, that’s how it used to work, back when Briggs’s grandfather and father ran the pub, and word traveled like a game of telephone. Nowadays, it’s Yelp or TripAdvisor or TikTok. The internet has done wonders for a business that relies on tourist season. It’s also done wonders for Briggs’s sex life, not that it needed help to begin with, as Hugh likes to point out.
“We’re going to the Moorings tomorrow night,” the Brit says and licks her lips. “But ... I could be convinced otherwise.”
Briggs usually appreciates a woman who wears her sexual intentions on her sleeve, or in this case, since her top has no sleeves, across her chest. Not tonight, though.
Out of the corner of his eye, Briggs sees Brian collecting the musicians in a huddle.
Bloody hell. It’s happening, and Briggs can’t stop it. Within minutes, every phone in this place will be aimed at Brian. Minutes after that, the videos will be posted on social media or texted to friends and family. Briggs should not complain. It’s free marketing to people across the globe.
But he had one goal tonight. Make it through the evening on autopilot and into a woman’s bed. Ignore his emotions and let his physical body carry him through the night. It was either that or get piss drunk, which is no longer an option. Briggs settled on the first, and until Brian stood up from his barstool, he was on track to accomplish his goals, the busty blond being his reward for survival.
Brian stands on top of a chair and hollers for the pub to quiet down. Even the Brit’s attention is pulled away. The place quiets in a matter of seconds. Briggs feels his heart beat wildly in his chest. All he wants is fresh air. Forget the orgasm he’d planned to soothe his pain. A woman won’t do. Not even his art studio will do tonight. Too many walls. He needs space. Air. All in short supply right now.
Five minutes until he can ring the last-call bell. But it’s too late.
With the pub’s complete attention on Brian, he speaks, loudly. “For those of you who don’t know, you all have come to the Thatch on a very special night!”
A few locals pound on their tables and cheer, egging Brian on. Any tourists who hadn’t already gotten their phones out do so now.
“Joe Murphy was the owner of this here fine establishment, and one of the best lads this island has ever known!” Brian continues, his voice growing in confidence. More cheers and pounding. Brian grins, face crinkled with decades of working his farm and spending nights at the pub. He points at all the cameras, as if talking to each one like his own child. Bloody hell, Briggs thinks. Damn the Irish. Can’t they ever do anything without putting on a show of it? “Today would have been Joe Murphy’s sixty-second birthday. God rest his soul. He loved this place like he loved his family. With all his heart.” Then Brian places a hand on his chest, closes his eyes, and pauses, like he’s about to pray. When he looks around the room again, Brian’s gaze lands on Briggs. “Am I right, lad?”
Briggs leans on the back bar, bottles of liquor stacked behind him on shelves. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Aye. My father was a great man.”
“A great man!” Brian echoes. More pounding on the tables. More cheers. A truly idyllic Irish scene for the tourists. By the end of next week, the Thatch will have ten more five-star reviews about this moment alone.
But if Briggs could tear Brian down from his chair and toss his wrinkled ass out into the street, he would. Brian is just doing what he knows is best for the island, and if Joe were alive, he’d love the theatrics of it all. Any other night, Briggs would, too.
“Joe always ended the night with the same song, so it’s only right that on his birthday, we should do the same. Now, I want everyone here to raise your glass!” Brian bellows. “To the best damn pub filled with the best damn people on the best damn island in Ireland! No matter what those bloody Dohertys say! To the Murphys and the Thatch!” The entire pub echoes his words, and he heaves his pint in the air, like it’s a flag on a battlefield and he’s claiming victory. Then on cue, the musicians strike up again and begin to play “The Parting Glass.” Brian sings from his pedestal:
Oh all the money that e’er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas it was to none but me.
Briggs practically holds his breath as tourists gobble up the tear-jerking folk song that was Joe’s favorite, so much so that it was played at his funeral ten years ago. This is why tourists come to Ireland, specifically Inishglass, a place known for two things: its vibrant green color, for which the island was named— inish meaning “island” and glas meaning “green” in Irish—and the rivalry between its only two pubs, the Thatch and the Moorings.
This scene will only help business, and it should make Briggs happy, but all he feels is sick to his stomach. He waits out the song, knowing he can’t walk out of his own pub during his dead father’s song, but unable to sing along, even as the pub overflows with the last refrain.
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be to you all.
At last, the song comes to an end with an uproarious round of applause. Briggs forces a tight smile and tips his head appreciatively, every eye in the pub on this substantial man behind the bar, no longer the lanky eighteen-year-old boy who lost his father too young and too soon, but a handsome twenty-eight-year-old man and business owner.
Now the busty maid of honor in the hot-pink tank top gazes at Briggs with a new expression, a twinkle of emotional intrigue that kills any desire Briggs had. He doesn’t do emotional. Not with women, at least. Not tonight. His only saving grace is the time. Finally, it’s last call. Briggs rings the bell, and everyone moans.
“Sorry, but even the best nights must come to an end,” Briggs announces. If he’s speedy, he can be out the door by midnight. He busies himself refilling pints and drinks, a last round of shots for the hen party. Then he collects dirty glasses in the bus bin and takes it into the kitchen.
Safely hidden from the crowd, he makes himself an espresso and slams back the shot of rich, decadent coffee, hoping the relief of caffeine will loosen his tight jaw. He might hide in the kitchen until every last patron is gone, including Brian Laughlin. But his reprieve is cut short when Hugh bursts through the swinging kitchen doors and hollers, “Ooh wee! That is one fine set of cantaloupes!”
“Keep your voice down, Drongo. She’ll hear you.” Briggs sets his cup down. “And they’re not cantaloupes. Cabbages at best.”
Hugh considers that and agrees. Then he swats Briggs on the ass. “What the hell are you waiting for, Furphy? Get back out there and find out if those things are real!”
“Visual assessment: they’re not.” Briggs makes another espresso for Hugh, who’s undoubtedly tipsy. “When was the last time you shagged something that wasn’t your hand?”
“When was the last time you passed up the opportunity to inspect a fine set of bodacious fun bags? I can see the steam coming off that blond, and the weather definitely calls for oral sex. I get that you can bag any woman who sets foot on this island, and that must be a real burden for you, but come on, man. You owe it to your fellow brother who isn’t lucky enough to be born with a brooding face and a beard that grows in evenly. You know the deal. It’s your duty to take every opportunity and report back in detail.”
“Your beard is atrocious. And I never tell you anything anyway.”
“Don’t I know it. You’re sexy and a fucking gentleman. I’m basically Robin, and you’re Batman. And you know what Batman does?”
“Flies around at night and fights crime.”
“And gets laid by hot-ass English women with breasts the size of cantaloupes.”
“Cabbages.”
“We’ll never know if you don’t get back out there, Batman!”
Briggs hands the coffee to Hugh. “Don’t worry, mate. Tourist season is just starting. There will be plenty of cabbages to come.”
“No one comes to Ireland to shag an ugly American bartender,” Hugh says.
“Don’t say that.” Briggs smirks. “You’ve been on this island so long, you almost sound Irish.”
“Too bad looks aren’t as transferable as accents. Women look at you and take off their clothes. Women look at me and just get confused.” Indeed, Hugh Duffy is a bit of a conundrum, born to a large Irish American Catholic family with eight kids who favor their Chinese mother in appearance and not their redheaded father. Hugh stares down at his coffee and sways on his feet. “Do women use fruit when they talk about men?”
“What else is an eggplant emoji for?”
“Good point. What do you think I am? Squash, cucumber?”
“Baby carrot,” Briggs says. He wiggles his pinkie at Hugh, who grabs it and twists. Briggs laughs and easily pulls his hand free.
“Come on, man,” Hugh pleads. “I got drunk tonight for you. You owe me.”
It’s common for Briggs to be tipped in drinks, rather than money, and it would be rude to turn down a glass of whiskey from a tourist or a shot from a hen party. But he’s not about to tell everyone in the pub that he’s off the wagon indefinitely, knowing the news will circulate the entire island by morning. So Briggs accepts every last liquid tip, takes one sip, and then pawns off the rest on Hugh. “Fine,” he says. “Celery. Now would you please drink the damn coffee so you can close this place up for me?”
Hugh’s eyebrows pull tight. “What’s up?”
After rooming for over half a decade, the two are fine-tuned to each other. Briggs is incapable of keeping anything from Hugh, even if he wants to. “I just need to get out of here. Get some air.”
Hugh shoots back the espresso, wraps his arm around Briggs, and says, “Look. I know tonight can’t be easy for you, especially after ...” He scans the kitchen for eavesdropping employees, but it’s only them and Finn, the pimply fifteen-year-old dishwasher whose ears are plugged with AirPods playing nineties grunge at top volume, as usual.
Briggs shrugs out of Hugh’s embrace and picks up a clean rack of glassware. “I’m fine.”
“You are so not fine.” Hugh attempts to take the rack. “Let me carry that.”
But Briggs shuffles out of his way. “I appreciate the concern, but I’d rather risk death than be treated like a fecking weakling for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t joke about that, bro,” Hugh says seriously. “You could barely breathe a few days ago. Scared the shit out of me. You need to be careful.”
“I am.” In fact, Briggs has plenty of precautions in place to safeguard against pain. It’s precisely why he won’t get involved with a woman who wants more than sex. He sets down the glasses. “But I’m not taking up yoga, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I don’t know ...” Hugh claps him on the back. “Bendy chicks in tight pants.”
“I don’t need a yoga class to get a girl to bend over in front of me.”
“Now, there’s the guy I know!” Hugh pulls Briggs toward the kitchen door. “Come on. There’s still time. I bet the blond is still here.”
But Briggs stays. “She’s all yours. I’m taking a walk.”
“You know I’m not good with women.”
“When are you going to get up the balls to ask a girl out?”
“Being the royal fuckup that I am,” Hugh replies, “I have confidence issues, you know that. So probably never ... or when that genie finally shows up and grants me my wish.”
Briggs slips into his fleece jacket. “Don’t you remember from Aladdin ? Genies can’t make people fall in love.”
“No,” Hugh says, picking up the rack of clean glasses. “But they can change celery into an eggplant.”
Briggs chuckles.
“Hey,” Hugh says, serious again. “History doesn’t always repeat itself, Briggs. Your dad’s story may have ended one way, but that’s not going to happen with you.”
Briggs opens the back door, feeling the cool, damp air on his face. Maybe Hugh is right. Maybe Briggs is destined for a different ending, but right now, he finds that hard to believe. Five days ago he was diagnosed with the same heart condition that killed his father.