5
B riggs wakes at dawn, after a fitful sleep, and immediately wonders what the hell he was thinking.
The problem: he wasn’t.
He knew better than to walk into the Moorings last night, no matter his excuses. He wasn’t worried about getting caught, confident he could have spun the story, just like he told Ivy: Briggs Murphy seduces Liam Doherty’s oblivious long-lost daughter. A better script to increase the popularity of the pubs has never been written, though the prank would be off-brand for Briggs. Much too cruel. He would never use sex as retaliation, his antics much tamer and innocent, like last year when he and Hugh broke into the Moorings and swapped the soap in the bathroom for glue. Any local would see straight through the seduction tale. Tourists, on the other hand, would love it.
But that’s not why Briggs kissed her. He did it because ... well, Briggs doesn’t know why the hell he did it, which is the cause of his sleepless night. It must have been her suffering. He just couldn’t stand the sight of it. He had to attempt to make her feel better at least. Or so he’s telling himself this morning. Was the kiss his wisest decision? No. Was it a completely selfless act? No. But was it effective? Briggs would like to think so. Until it wasn’t.
He won’t consider what would have happened if Ivy hadn’t shown up. He had let the situation get out of hand, too caught up in how good she tasted, her body too perfect in his hands.
Briggs launches himself out of bed. He needs to move. Ignore the images in his mind. He knew, when he saw that damn light on, that Liam’s daughter would be inside. Since Liam’s passing, everyone on the island has been wondering when she’d show up. Why it had to be yesterday of all days, Briggs won’t begin to wonder.
And of course Liam Doherty’s daughter is absolutely gorgeous, with big blue eyes that already feel permanently etched in Briggs’s pounding, sleep-deprived brain. Of course she looked like a hilarious flopping fish dancing around the empty pub. Most women Briggs meets are painted and primed to look like magazine images. But Maeve was so uninhibited, which was just so damn ... sexy. He had watched her through the window and laughed, from the bottom of his belly, something he’d thought impossible yesterday. Maybe that’s why he did it. Because she made him laugh on a day he reserved for being bloody pissed off at the world. This year, even more so.
Briggs rubs a hand over his heart. He’s always known it was broken, which is exactly why he avoided getting tested all these years, even after doctors told him that hypertrophic cardiomyopathy can be hereditary. He didn’t need a doctor to confirm it. Was that classic avoidance? Sure. But Briggs managed the situation on his own, staying hyperattuned to any changes in his body, always taking precautions. His number-one rule: don’t get too attached to life. It might end sooner than you think. Hence his lack of commitment when it comes to women. It’s not that Briggs is a commitmentphobe. He’s a realist. Objectively, if he can limit the amount of affection a person feels toward him, he can lessen their pain when he’s gone. That was the only prescription Briggs needed.
And then last week, with Aoife, his friend of nearly twenty years, he fainted while running after her husky, Pema, who slipped her leash while tied up to one of the picnic benches outside the Thatch. Thank God Aoife had stopped by before the pub opened, so only she and Hugh witnessed Briggs’s collapse. He had noted other symptoms in the last few months, more frequent heart palpitations and shortness of breath, but it was fainting in front of his two closest friends that forced a visit to the doctor in Cork to confirm what Briggs already knew. His recent diagnosis just solidified his decision-making all these years.
Now Briggs puts on his swim trunks and a hoodie, takes a piss, brushes his teeth, and slips into his worn-out trainers before sneaking down the stairs, instinctively skipping the very last step, like Joe Murphy had always done. Within seven minutes of waking, Briggs is in his Jeep, driving toward the ocean.
Since he came back to Inishglass five years ago, with Hugh in tow, Briggs rarely misses this daily routine. Even in December, when it’s dark and cold, with sleeting rain, and he thinks his balls might turn into ice cubes and fall off. And he’s not about to stop now.
Most days it takes eight minutes to get to his spot. From eyes open to the water, it’s fifteen minutes total. At six in the morning, the roads are clear, with only the occasional sheep crossing. Thank goodness. After last night’s kiss and the bloody image of Maeve as she frantically wiped the floor clean of whiskey he spilled, Briggs’s body tingles with the need to jump, more than usual. She looked like a kicked puppy, and he had done it. Briggs would have licked the whiskey from the floor himself if it would have made her feel better. Instead, he licked something much more enjoyable.
He grips the steering wheel. Why the hell did he kiss her? She may have started it, but he went back for more, like an idiot. He prides himself on being decisive and in control. Last night was an eclipse, a brief blackout in judgment caused by a perfect storm of circumstance. That’s the only way to explain the kiss.
Briggs accelerates, taking the windy road faster than his mother would approve, but having grown up on this island, he knows just how far he can push it. Hell, in his teen years he could take these turns at well over the speed limit, with two girls screaming in the back and his best friend hanging out the sunroof. But they were total idiots back then, with no concept of tragedy. Today, Briggs pushes it to eighty, but no higher.
When his destination comes into sight, he sighs with relief, and before the car is parked, he unbuckles his seat belt. Tire tracks are worn into the grass where Briggs parks each day, and he slides the Jeep Renegade perfectly into his spot. He’s out of the car as fast as he can, sweatshirt thrown on the hood, trainers discarded on the ground, hands tingling like they always do the moment before he jumps. Briggs runs up to the edge of the water and leaps into the rough gray sea below.
Hugh is in the kitchen cooking when Briggs walks in. Hugh spins around, spatula in hand, and points it at Briggs’s face, like a proper mother. “Under the circumstance, do you really think you should be plunging into freezing cold water, young man?”
Briggs plops into a seat at the kitchen table. “I hope you made coffee.”
“We’re out.” Hugh turns back to the stove, breakfast sizzling in a skillet.
“Damn it.” Briggs rubs a hand over his tired face.
“Is someone a wee bit cranky today? What happened, Furphy? I didn’t hear you come in last night.”
“That’s because you were passed out on the couch.”
“You can’t blame me for being drunk on the job when you were the one giving me the drinks. Did you go back and find the blond Brit?”
Briggs had completely forgotten about her. “No,” he says. He’s not about to tell Hugh about Maeve. The American will ask endless questions. Briggs doesn’t need that noise today. Better to keep the lone incident locked in a vault.
Hugh scoops the contents of the pan onto two plates and sets them on the table.
“What the hell is this?” Briggs looks down at the blob of white and green.
“Egg whites and spinach,” Hugh says proudly. “The yolk is where all the cholesterol is.”
Briggs pokes at the food. They’ve lived together for five years and mostly sustained themselves on frozen pizza, Indian takeout, and fish and chips from the pub. But since he collapsed, the fridge has been filled with tofu, vegetables, and kombucha.
Hugh takes a bite. “Hmm. Not bad.”
“I don’t believe you.” Briggs leaves his plate untouched.
“No. For real, bro. The spinach really rounds out the dish. Very ... earthy. You should try it.”
“You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
Hugh pokes at his plate but can’t bring another bite to his mouth. He groans and drops his fork. “This tastes like slimy dirt. Healthy food blows.”
“I appreciate the effort, mate, but I’d rather risk death than eat fecking tofu for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t joke,” Hugh says seriously. “You have no idea how scary it was for me when you collapsed.”
“I’m sorry my heart condition is so taxing for you .” Briggs rolls his eyes and takes his untouched plate to the counter.
“I’m glad you’re finally admitting to what a selfish bastard you’ve been. It’s time to start thinking about someone other than yourself. I need you alive, bro. If I can’t cling to your coattails, I’ll actually have to grow up and take control of my life. Maybe even risk getting a real job or asking a woman out. Do you know how hard that will be for me? Balls don’t just grow overnight. Cultivating insecurities like mine takes years of hard work and humiliation.”
“You’re right,” Briggs says. “I should have been more thoughtful.”
“Thank you.” Hugh sets his plate down and claps Briggs on the back. “I accept your apology.”
Briggs chuckles, shrugs out of Hugh’s touch, and grabs his car keys.
“So does this mean you’ve decided?” Hugh asks.
“Decided on what?”
“Having heart surgery?”
“The only thing I’ve decided is that I need coffee. I’m going to Aoife’s. You coming?”
Hugh snags the keys out of Briggs’s hands. “The doctor said surgery is highly successful. It’s an easy fix.”
“When did open-heart surgery become an easy fix?”
“Point taken. I just mean there is a fix,” Hugh says. “It isn’t a death sentence.”
This conversation would be exhausting no matter what, but without caffeine, Briggs feels drained and annoyed. He staves off Hugh with the only answer he can muster. “I can’t do surgery until after tourist season, anyway. I can’t be away from the pub that long.” When Hugh starts to counter, Briggs cuts him off. “The doctor said it was fine to postpone as long as I take precautions and keep an eye on my symptoms. Which is exactly what I’m doing.” He snatches the car keys back. “Now I’m going to get a bloody cup of coffee, which happens to be good for my heart. Are you coming?”
“Nah. I’m on a health kick. I’m gonna hit the gym before work.”
“Is that code for masturbate?” Briggs says, halfway to the door.
“Don’t underestimate it,” Hugh says, dumping both plates of food into the garbage bin. “You’d be surprised how strong my wrists are.”
Mettā Café is full of tourists when Briggs walks up. He parked three blocks away because the streets are so crowded this time of year, and while the island has grown to accommodate the rise in visitors, it’s still an island, with limited space.
He’s about to open the door to the café when he sees, sitting inside bent over her phone, the one person he was hoping to avoid. The fact that he knows Maeve simply by the top of her head and the way she shyly crosses her legs, like she doesn’t want anyone to notice her, is concerning. But so is the fact that Briggs hasn’t had a drop of coffee this morning. The conundrum pushes his patience, so he goes around to the back and enters through the kitchen door, knowing Aoife won’t mind.
She has her arms full of dirty plates when Briggs sneaks inside, and he quickly helps her with the load, taking half and setting them in a bus bin. Aoife sets down her own stack and puts her hands on her hips. Colorful sleeve tattoos run down both her arms. Briggs has always admired Aoife’s unconventional beauty, her bright blond pixie cut and endearing disregard for fashion, favoring flowy clothes one might find in an ashram.
“What girl are we avoiding this time, Briggs Murphy?” Aoife says, no formal greeting needed.
“Your café is too bloody popular. The line’s out the door, and I’m having a caffeine emergency.” Briggs snags a freshly baked scone from a tray.
Aoife throws a dish towel at him. “You’re paying for that.”
“Come to the pub later. I’ll give you a free pint.”
“I haven’t paid for a pint since I was sixteen. And I drink wine. Which you well know.”
“Well, then why are you complaining about the scone? You owe me. Mind getting a latte to wash it down?”
“Bugger off, you twat.”
“Might I remind you, I know about the time you gave Harry O’Toole a hand job with olive oil.”
Aoife gapes at him. “My hands were dry. I was being thoughtful. I would have chafed him otherwise, and it was all I could find.”
Briggs chuckles, feeling lighter for the first time since he woke up. He should have come straight to the café. Aoife has a way of grounding him when he’s untethered. Hell, she might be the only person Briggs would ever consider marrying, if the thought didn’t disgust him so much. Too much like marrying his sister.
“Harry smelled like Italian food for a week,” he says through a mouthful of scone.
“But my hands were smooth as silk.” Aoife holds up all ten fingers and wiggles them with a laugh. Then she points at Briggs. “Don’t think for a bloody second that sending me down memory lane will work. Out with it, Briggs.”
“Can’t a lad just get some coffee?”
“No. Now, who’d you shift this time?”
“No one. I swear.”
But Aoife knows better, having been friends with Briggs since the dawn of his sexual existence. She stalks to the front of the kitchen and peeks into the dining room, which is decorated in what Aoife calls “anti-Irish charm.” No bangers and mash or potpies on the menu, only baked goods, vegetarian dishes, and smoothies with ingredients like acai seed, tart cherry juice, and turmeric.
The tables and chairs are a mishmash of east Asian colors and designs, inspired by a trip Aoife took to India while studying Eastern philosophy at college. One wall is brick, decorated with plants. The window frames are painted in various bright colors—green, pink, yellow—so the café feels vibrantly alive. Dangling from the ceiling are at least fifty light bulbs in all different shapes, colors, and sizes. There’s a Buddha shrine in the corner. Every morning at six thirty, Aoife offers a free meditation class, though Briggs has yet to attend, being too busy jumping into the ocean that time of day.
It only takes one glance around the room for Aoife to notice Maeve. She closes the door and glares at Briggs, slowly shaking her head. “I thought she looked familiar. The eyes ... So Liam Doherty’s daughter is finally here.” Standing on her tiptoes, Aoife swats Briggs on his head. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”
Briggs holds up his hands and backs away. “It was an accident!”
“You accidently screwed Liam Doherty’s long-lost daughter?”
Briggs puts his finger up. “I didn’t have sex with her. You know my rules, Aoife. I don’t take advantage of vulnerable women. That’s not my style.”
“Then what the hell happened?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t make the best first impression.”
Aoife pokes her head back out the kitchen door for another look. Maeve sits quietly in the corner. “I can’t believe how much she looks like Liam,” Aoife says, sadly.
As if Briggs could forget. Maeve has been etched in his mind all morning. He needs to get the hell out of the café. “Forget the coffee, Eef. I’ll see you later.”
But as he turns to go, she grabs his arm. “Like hell you’re leaving. I don’t care what you did to that poor girl to make her hate you, you need to fix it, Briggs. Now. We need her. Do you see all those tourists? They’re here because of your families’ feud. If she doesn’t play along, if the feud dries up, they’ll stop coming, and we’re all screwed.”
Briggs clenches his jaw, knowing Aoife is right. As much as he’d like to stay far away from Maeve Doherty, for reasons he is heartily trying to ignore, he has no choice but to put himself directly in her line of fire.
“Fix it, Murphy,” Aoife insists.
“Fine,” he groans. “I’ll fix it.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get a vat of coffee now?”
Five minutes later, Briggs sets a green smoothie aptly named Jet Lag Lube in front of Maeve. He plops himself in the seat across from her, his second large latte in hand. “Cat video?” he asks.
Maeve looks up from her phone, her blue eyes assaulting him. Briggs has to glance away to gather his composure.
“I don’t watch cat videos,” she says.
“Everyone watches cat videos. They’re hilarious.”
“I’m more of a dog person.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And why is that?” Maeve sits back in the seat.
“Dogs are messy. Too much shedding and slobber for you.”
“Please.” She holds up her hand. “I just ate.” Then she starts to stand. “And now I’m leaving.”
“But I brought you a smoothie.” Briggs gestures to the green concoction.
“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” Maeve rests her hands on the table, leans toward him, and says pointedly, “You are a Murphy, after all.”
Try as he might, Briggs can’t help but glance at her chest, which is at his eye level. Grapefruits, he thinks.
Get it together. He cannot think that way about this woman. Not because he’s a gentleman, but because right now, accompanying that thought is a feeling, one that Briggs is wholly opposed to. One that he has tried all morning to ignore, claiming it’s a figment of his imagination.
But he likes her. Holy hell. Briggs Murphy has a crush on Liam Doherty’s daughter. Like a bloody thirteen-year-old boy who can’t control his hormones.
Briggs clears his throat and forces his gaze away from Maeve’s chest. “Ivy explained everything to you?”
Maeve crosses her arms. “Unlike some people, she told me the truth.”
“I didn’t lie to you, Maeve.”
“I thought you were a tourist!” A few tables look in their direction, and she lowers her voice. “I thought I would never see you again. If I had known, I never would have—” She stops abruptly, biting back the words she was going to say.
“Never would have what?” Briggs goads her.
She sits down and states in a hushed tone, “You took advantage of me.”
“Me?” Briggs rests back in his seat, ignoring the part of him that’s happy she didn’t walk away. “I believe you started things.”
“You walked into my pub!” Again, she brings her voice back down to a whisper. “You knew who I was and conveniently failed to mention that our families are mortal enemies. You should have stopped me. You knew better. But you were trying to get the upper hand.”
“And what about you?” Briggs counters.
“What about me?”
“You took advantage of me ,” he proclaims.
Maeve gasps. “What?”
“You just said you thought I was a tourist. You thought you’d never see me again. So you were clearly looking to take advantage of me sexually and then discard me.”
“Don’t say that word.”
“What word? Sexually?”
Maeve shakes her head like her mind is an Etch A Sketch and she’s attempting to wipe an image from it. She leans in. “You owe me an explanation.”
He mimics her, leaning in, bringing them practically nose to nose. “You owe me a harsh reality,” he counters.
They wait in silence, their faces so close that Briggs can feel the heat off her skin and smell her sweet, creamy perfume. Suddenly, his pants are too tight.
He grinds his teeth and sits back. “Will you please just drink the smoothie before it completely melts? It’ll help your jet lag.”
“Why should I believe that? You probably laced this thing with a roofie as a joke.”
“I might not be who you thought I was,” Briggs says, now utterly serious. “But that is despicable. I would never do that to a woman, or anyone else.”
Maeve cowers back in her seat, lower lip nestled between her teeth, undoubtedly feeling guilty. “Why are you here?” she asks quietly. “Didn’t you embarrass me enough last night?”
Bloody hell. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to make her feel better, and all he managed to do was make it worse. And now he can’t explain himself because he’ll sound like he kissed her for charity. She’ll assume that he thinks she’s pathetic. Not that his feelings matter. In fact, his feelings can’t matter. It’s best to ignore the whole lot of them and stick to business.
“You may hate me after last night,” Briggs says, resting his elbows on the table. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we have to work together. People come to Inishglass expecting a show from our families. It’s imperative not only for both pubs, but for the whole island, that we give them what they want. Without a booming tourist season, most of these places would struggle to survive.”
Maeve chews on that, her lip nestled in her teeth again, a move that is utterly adorable and infuriating. Briggs can’t help but remember what that lip felt like in his teeth.
“A show?” she says.
“Aye. A good one at that.”
Maeve nods and stands, her eyes glued to his face. She picks up the smoothie, now half-melted, and loudly announces, “A gift for you, Briggs Murphy! From the Dohertys!” Then she dumps the entire drink on his head and walks out of the café.
Briggs watches her leave. Aoife stands behind the counter, mouth agape.
“Well ...” Briggs walks over to his friend, trailing green liquid behind him. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”