16
Jen H.
Avon Lake, OH
7/15/2023
IRELAND’S MOST WANTED POTATO?
This little island feud is now a global debate, thanks to social media. And I, for one, can’t get enough.
Is it the pierogi or the person? Both are quite the dish, but almost impossible to taste. For one, your only hope is to get in line early because they sell out fast. And as for the other ... if you can find a way behind his bar, you’re a lucky woman. Bottom line: There’s a potato to satisfy everyone’s craving on Inishglass, but you need to be cunning to get it. And trying for both is the best part.
Nila N.
Paris, France
7/8/2023
Umm, hello?! Am I the only one who noticed this?
If you were lucky enough to be in Inishglass this past weekend, you witnessed one helluva grudge match. After a five-year slump, the Moorings finally beat the Thatch in a surprising victory, but that wasn’t the best part of the game. This year’s fights weren’t like the past (and I’ve been three times). There was a new tension on the field and dare I say it was ... sexual.
Maybe I’m crazy. But isn’t it a little suspicious that a Murphy and a Doherty disappeared during that kickball game ... together? Forget #irelandsmostwantedpotato. I’d like to know #whathappenedduringtimeout
And Emily K. from Salt Lake—I’m with you. How is this not a TV show????
At precisely nine in the morning, Maeve is about to walk into Stitches and Bitches when Barb bursts out the door and snaps, “What the hell happened?”
“But I’m on time!” Maeve says, adjusting the knitting bag slung over her shoulder.
“Have you read the recent reviews?”
“No. I’ve been . . . busy.”
Barb points at Maeve’s face. “Exactly.” She puts on the reading glasses that dangle from her neck, and leans in close. “With whom?”
Maeve gasps. “How did you know?”
“Please. I was a high school teacher for twenty-five years. I know the look.” Barb wags her finger at Maeve. “For the love of God, please tell me it isn’t that lawyer. I warned you about him.”
“No! Definitely not him,” she insists. Maeve can’t believe she ever entertained the idea that Eoin might be a decent human being. Barb waits expectantly, tapping her foot. There is no way she’s going to let this go. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.”
“You’re seriously asking a sixty-year-old lesbian if she can keep a secret?”
Solid point. Maeve tells her about Briggs, starting from the beginning but leaving out the intimate details. Those she keeps for herself, stored like bubbly, fizzy soda coursing through her veins, making her skin buzz and her head light and her feet practically float off the ground.
Maeve fully expects Barb to yell that it’s a terrible idea to get involved with a Murphy, seeing as they’re supposed to be enemies. Instead, she says, “It’s brilliant.”
“Really?” Maeve can’t believe it. “But the feud? We’re supposed to hate each other.”
“But now you’re like leprechauns. People will want to catch you together to prove you exist. Liam would love this.”
Maeve never thought about it that way. “He would?” She can’t explain why Barb’s reaction makes her so happy, but it does, even as a part of her is jealous that Barb knew Liam and Maeve never will.
Barb asks pointedly, “Does this mean you’re staying on the island?”
Behind Barb, the rainbow window display that Maeve composed from bundles of yarn, with a pot of gold yarn balls at the bottom, still celebrates Pride Month. She’s been so busy at the pub that she hasn’t had time to redecorate yet.
It hit her yesterday that Chicago’s Pride Parade was two weeks ago. She and Sonya have never missed it before. Every year the Boystown neighborhood transforms into a huge festival with food, vendors, music, and the best drag show you’ll ever see. On Sunday of the big weekend, Maeve and Sonya park themselves on Broadway, mimosas in water bottles, and watch the parade, anxiously awaiting the ROTC—Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps—a group of male performers doing synchronized military-mixed-with-dance routines that bring down the house. It’s Chicago at its best: summer, sunshine, and a good show. But this year, what used to feel so pivotal to Maeve now feels, not completely expired, but dated.
But to stay in Inishglass? How could she abandon her family in the States for a birth father she never knew? It would be like saying to them, “Thanks for raising me all those years, but now I’m moving to Ireland to be a Doherty because Briggs Murphy asked me to be his girlfriend, and he’s really talented with his potato.”
When she thinks about going back, though, a knot tugs at her belly, and her whole body winds tight.
“Don’t answer that,” Linda says, coming up behind her wife. “God, you’re nosy, Barb. That’s none of our business.”
“I had an idea for July,” Maeve says, gesturing to the window.
Barb stops her. “You’re not coming inside today.”
“But my lesson?”
She takes Maeve by the arm and drags her away. “We’re not doing our lesson here.”
“Then where?”
Barb stops and looks Maeve dead in the eyes. “Well, now it’s my turn to tell you something.”
“I thought you said I was supposed to take the day off,” Maeve protests. They’re standing outside of the Moorings, the pub still closed this early in the day.
Barb takes a set of keys out of her purse and walks to the back of the building.
“Where are you going?” Maeve scampers to catch up with her. Barb stops at a door Maeve has never noticed before.
Maeve expects a storage closet, but instead there’s a staircase that leads to the upper level of the pub, which Maeve has never explored.
“What’s up there?” she asks.
Barb groans. “Has anyone ever told you, you ask a lot of questions?”
“I don’t like surprises,” Maeve admits.
Barb softens and lays a comforting hand on Maeve’s shoulder. “Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath, walk up the damn steps, and trust that whatever is waiting for you at the top, you can handle it. There’s a reason I brought you here now and not a month ago.”
“But I thought we were knitting?”
“Do you honestly think Liam cared if you learned to knit?”
The pieces come together then. Liam didn’t want her to learn to knit a stupid scarf. He wanted Maeve to go to Stitches and Bitches and run into Barb.
Maeve gazes up the staircase and slowly takes one step, then another, over and over, until she’s at the top. She has to grab the wall to steady herself as she realizes that she’s standing in Liam Doherty’s home.
The walls are white, the A-frame ceiling outlined in dark wood beams like downstairs. Multiple windows allow the daylight in. Sitting in the middle of the empty room is a large box with Maeve’s name on it.
“Liam and I met in grief counseling,” Barb says, coming up behind Maeve. “I was a year in remission, and while I was happy to be alive, I hated my new body. I hated that I was scared that the cancer might come back, even though everyone expected me to be happy because I was alive. Linda heard about the group from a person in town and forced me to go. I asked her what the hell I was grieving over, and she said, ‘You lost your boobs, Barb! It’s OK to cry about it!’” She chuckles, her attention on the box. “I swear fate brought me to that first meeting so I could meet Liam.”
“Was he there because of cancer, too?”
Barb shakes her head. “That would come later.”
“Then why?” Maeve asks.
Barb’s eyes are softer than Maeve has ever seen. “He was grieving you, honey.” The words suck the wind out of Maeve’s lungs. “He didn’t want you coming up here until you were ready. For that.” She points at the box. “Look inside, Maeve.”
“I don’t know if I can.” But when Maeve steps away, Barb stops her with a gentle hand.
“You just walked up the stairs. Don’t stop now. You can do this, or I wouldn’t have brought you here.” She nudges Maeve forward.
Maeve kneels before the box, touching her name, written in the same handwriting as the list. When Barb heads toward the stairs, Maeve stops her. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“This is between you and your father.”
“But where are the rest of his things? Is this all that’s left?”
Barb points to the box. “Liam only wanted to save what was most important to him. Everything else he donated.”
“Wait, Barb.” Maeve stands. “This apartment ...”
“It’s part of the pub, so it’s yours ...” Barb holds Maeve’s gaze, like she knows ownership isn’t as easy as handing over some keys. “If you want it.”
“Wait,” Maeve begs again. “Will you still teach me how to knit?”
Barb grins, and Maeve can see the young girl Barb was in the eighties, dancing on bars, falling in love with Linda. “It would be an honor.” Then she leaves Maeve alone with the box.
How long Maeve sits staring at it, she doesn’t know. Seconds, minutes, hours ... she traces her name over and over, willing herself the guts to pull back the tape and confront what’s inside.
She wants Briggs here. She wants him to hold her and tell her it’s going to be alright, that she can handle whatever is in the box. But this is between her and Liam. She owes her father this moment. Just the two of them.
Her heart pounds so boldly in her chest that she can hear it as she peels back a corner of the tape, then hesitates. Her hands are shaking, and she pulls in a deep breath to steady herself. Then another.
Why didn’t he reach out to her before he died? Why wait until there was no chance they could ever know each other? Sadness and longing fill her bones, making her body heavy. No matter what’s in this box, she’ll never be able to talk to Liam about it. Never be able to thank him or hug him or yell at him or cry on his shoulder. Or share a pint at the pub together. She’ll never get to see him grow old. Why did he bring her here if he knew he wouldn’t be around to witness it? There must be a reason.
At that, she musters the courage to pull the tape away.
Maeve first sees an envelope with her name on it, just like the one that held the list. She opens it, running her finger along the sealed flap and pulling a thick letter free.
Before she reads it, she needs another breath. Then gradually she unfolds the paper, a sad smile growing at Liam’s recognizable handwriting.
Dear Maeve,
Well, if you’ve gotten this far, you’ve met Barb. Let me guess, she pulled out her boobs the first time you met. She did the same to me. I thought she was taking the piss until she reached into her shirt and actually did it. It took me a bit to understand she was testing me. If I was going to be her friend, I had to be able to handle the ugly side of life. As it turned out, it was my life that got a lot messier. But we’ll get to that part. Just know this—there are a lot of friends who will go through life with you. There are only a few who will sit next to you while you die. Barb sat next to me.
If I learned one thing in grief counseling, it’s that we all mourn differently. Barb hides her sadness in thorns, so only the bravest get close to her. So if you’re reading this now, you must be brave. Know that, wherever I am, I’m proud of you.
But enough of that. The Irish aren’t known for being sentimental, and I won’t start now. This letter isn’t meant to make you sad. I have some explaining to do, and this is my attempt. I wish I could have done this in person, but time ran out on me. I hope you don’t mind if I play my dad card here and tell you not to make the mistake I did. I’m not talking about the mistake of giving you up, though I have regretted that for many years. No, the biggest mistake I made was thinking I had more time. And when I realized I didn’t, it was too late.
But none of this makes sense to you, so let me start at the beginning of a story I’m sure you know by now. I met your mum during a year-long holiday, having made a deal with my father, after my mother died suddenly in a car accident, that I could travel the world for 365 days, and the 366th I would take over the Moorings. He needed me more than ever to help run the family business, now that it was just him and he was getting older.
I met Maryann on day thirty-seven in Phuket. I liked her Midwest accent and short blond hair. I liked that she would stop our conversation if there was a good song playing in the bar and sing along at the top of her lungs. I admired that. I’ve always had a bit of stage fright. Even now, knowing people have to cheer for me (because what kind of arsehole would boo a dying man), the thought of singing in front of a crowd makes my palms sweat. We shared drinks and laughs and eventually ended up in bed together. She was moving on the next day with a group of Germans to visit Chiang Mai. I was headed to Vietnam with some folks I met from Canada. We went our separate ways, and that was that.
I didn’t know her middle name. I didn’t know her favorite color. She mentioned medical school, but I had no idea what kind of doctor she planned to be. That’s not to say I couldn’t have asked—I just didn’t care to, because we were only meant for one night.
I explain all of this not so you’ll forgive me, but so you know the truth. I was not prepared to be a father. I was not thinking about babies when Maryann and I got together. I was only thinking of myself.
Six months later I opened Maryann’s email that said she was pregnant. She had sent it four months earlier, but I had ignored it, assuming it was a note to keep in touch. I almost deleted it. At the time, I was in Nepal. I had moved on from Thailand, my night with Maryann, and the Canadians, and I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to look backward or forward. But there was a reason I didn’t delete the email, as much as I wanted to convince myself otherwise. I knew deep down that if Maryann was reaching out, it wasn’t to say hello. So I finally opened it.
Here I must admit something, and I’m terrified to do it. You’d think death would make this easier. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I’ll never feel your anger. I’ll never hear your hateful words. But please know, I wish I could. Not having those things has been my punishment for the past twenty-four years. What I would have given for you to yell at me face-to-face.
I read the email. She was pregnant. I deleted it. Maryann told me she was having our baby, and I erased you. Why? Because I was a selfish coward. Because I wanted to stay in Nepal. Because I convinced myself I wasn’t the father. I told myself Maryann had slept with other men, one of the German blokes she traveled with, and it was a mistake. Even if I was the father, Maryann and I weren’t in love. She wasn’t going to move to Ireland, and I couldn’t move to the States. As the only Doherty child, I had a family obligation. The Moorings would pass to me. I had known since I was little what my future would be, and if I couldn’t leave Ireland and Maryann couldn’t leave the States, there was no point in acknowledging that I was your father. I made every excuse I could, and then I pressed delete. I had 173 days left before I had to be home. The world owed me those days. The world owed me that this was all a mistake. That’s what I told myself. Once I got home, I’d contact Maryann, and she’d tell me she had been wrong. The baby was someone else’s, and she’d apologize for ever sending the email. That was the bargain I struck with myself that day.
I knew you had been born by the time I went back to Ireland. I knew I had lied to myself. I had done something despicable. I knew Maryann didn’t just deserve a response, she deserved a man to be the father of her baby, not a selfish child. I was so far from what you needed.
I still did nothing, again choosing myself over you. About a month after I got home, Maryann sent me another email. I expected her to curse me for ignoring her. Instead, she said she had met a man called Keith Rothchild, and she was in love with him. More importantly, he loved you. He changed your diapers and rocked you to sleep and did all the things I wouldn’t do. He was who you needed. A proper father.
“When we met in Thailand, you said you felt trapped in a future you had no say in. I won’t do that to you. Maeve has everything she needs now. Keith and I will do all we can to give her a good life. You don’t ever have to worry about her. You’re free, Liam. I say that with no animosity, only love. I hope you find happiness.”
Those were her exact words. I deserved none of her kindness, and yet your mother offered me an abundance. She didn’t have to tell me about Keith. She didn’t have to put my name on the birth certificate. She didn’t have to let me off the hook. She owed me nothing, and yet she gave me everything.
Knowing I had Maryann’s blessing, I assumed I’d move on. She had freed me from any obligation. And you had a mother and a father now. And then on your first birthday, I found myself in Cork. I can’t remember why I was there, but I wandered into a children’s shop and saw this small stuffed elephant. I love elephants. Always have. Seeing the stuffed animal, I was reminded of an elephant sanctuary I’d visited in Thailand. And suddenly, I had this overwhelming need to tell you about it. And then just as quickly, I realized I couldn’t. In fact, I would never share that memory with you.
On a whim, I bought the elephant and thought I’d send it to Maryann as a birthday gift for you. But once I got home, I came to my senses. I had no right to interfere in your lives, no matter how innocent the gift felt. Not after what I’d done.
But the next year, as your birthday approached, I found myself noting the day weeks in advance. I started searching shops for a gift. When I found a small jigsaw puzzle of Ireland, perfect for a toddler, I bought it. This time I wrapped it up and left it out on the table for a week as I debated whether to send it. In the end, I didn’t.
Come your third birthday, I searched the internet for the perfect gift. I researched best presents for three-year-olds. I read up on your development and settled on a book to help encourage you to start reading early. Once again, I set the wrapped present out on the table, this time with the other gifts I had bought, thinking I’d send the whole lot.
I didn’t. But I didn’t stop buying you birthday presents either. On your fifth birthday, I came clean to my father about you. I told him everything I’d done. I expected him to be furious, but instead he reinforced that I made the right decision (though went about it the wrong way). In his estimation, by giving you up, I had given you the greatest gift I could—two loving parents. He patted me on the shoulder and said one day I’d have a family of my own. “When the time is right,” he said.
But when you turned ten and I bought you nail polish, I was still single. Thirty-six years old. Thought I had time. On your fifteenth birthday (a Coach purse), I was forty-one and your grandfather was just starting to show signs of what would a few years later deteriorate into Alzheimer’s. When you turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Ireland, I threw a party at the pub in celebration. We had so much fun that the next year I did it again. And soon it became tradition. We even sang you “Happy Birthday.” In an odd way, you gave this island a reason to gather. You created a closer bond for us all, simply by existing in the world.
And every year, I bought you a gift, wrapped it up, and set it out on the table with the others. Every year, I considered sending them. And every year, I didn’t.
Two months before your twenty-fourth birthday, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I knew this would be the last birthday present I’d ever buy you, the last birthday party I’d ever throw. Everyone on the island came. The Moorings was packed full. It was one of the best nights of my life. This pub that had felt like a prison when I was younger turned out to be my paradise, and the people in it my family. To have them all together was as good as seeing my own funeral. Again, you had given me a gift simply by existing.
I thought one last time about contacting you, but it would have been unfair. How could I come into your life as mine was ending? How could I ask you to love a dying man when I hadn’t loved you when your life began?
Well ... if you’re reading this, you know how my story ends. I’m sorry I never sent the birthday gifts, Maeve. Forgive me. I thought I’d have more time. They’re yours now. This is my small offering in return for the abundance of love your existence granted me.
Love,
Liam
As she looks into the box, Maeve can barely see through the tears pooling in her eyes. Inside are the wrapped presents, just as Liam said. On top, with a red bow around its neck, is the elephant. Maeve presses the soft stuffed animal to her nose, hoping that maybe it’ll smell like Liam. But she can’t tell.
Now it makes sense why everyone on the island knew her. Every birthday she celebrated in America, he celebrated here. People she didn’t know were gathering because of her. And now all that’s left is this box in an empty apartment. The vacancy of it all physically hurts.
Maeve sets the elephant aside and texts Briggs.
I’m moving.
He responds right away. Maeve, where the hell are you?
At the pub. Second floor.
Don’t move. I’m coming.
When Briggs races up the stairs fifteen minutes later, Maeve is still sitting among the pile of presents spread around her. He appears in the doorway, out of breath. “What do you mean, you’re moving?”
“You’re not supposed to run,” she squeaks.
“Answer my question. Are you leaving?”
“I can’t stay at Ivy’s anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Liam lived here,” she says. Briggs nods, because of course he knows where Liam lived. “Did you ever go to one of my birthday parties?” He nods slowly. “The last one?”
“No one missed that one.”
“So you knew my birthday before you knew me,” she says.
“Aye. November fifteen.”
“I don’t know yours.”
“April nine,” he says.
Maeve picks up the final birthday present. “He bought me a planner.”
“Maeve . . .”
She flips through the crisp, blank pages. “It has organized tabs and color-coded stickers.” Briggs kneels in front of her, and the last dam holding back her tears finally breaks. “Do you think he somehow knew?” she whimpers. “Like somewhere deep down, he knew me?”
Briggs wipes a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He gave me all of this, and I can’t even thank him, Briggs. I just feel so ...” She sighs, her body unbelievably heavy. “Broken.”
“Oh, love.” He scoops her up off the ground, and she clings to him, stuffing her face into the nook of his neck, smelling his familiar scent of salt water and earth. She grabs at his shirt, pulling him as close as possible, wrapping her legs around his waist. If she could melt into him, she would.
“He’s gone, Briggs. I’ll never get him back.” Every emotion Maeve has ignored from the time she set foot in Ireland rushes her at once. The ghost of Liam fills the space all around her, which echoes with her unanswered questions.
Briggs holds her tightly, as if he can hold her together as she falls apart. His warm breath on her skin is her only comfort.
“This hurts so bad,” she sobs.
He kisses her neck, her cheeks, her eyelids, soaking up her tears, replacing the pain with remnants of him. Only when his mouth comes to hers does she feel the smallest ease in her heart’s pain. She dissolves into the kiss, searching for relief, trying to pull it from Briggs’s body.
She takes off his shirt, and then her own. Tiny pins prick her skin, and she clings to Briggs again, needing his warmth, his touch.
“Maeve . . . ,” he whispers.
“Please, Briggs,” she begs, her lips warm and swollen with need. “Just make this go away for a little while. I know it’s not right to run from it, but I can’t handle all of this. Make me feel good so it hurts less.”
He obliges, filling the emptiness with his body, easing the pain with pleasure, until the presents and the ghost of Liam fade and Maeve is left shaking, not with sadness, but anticipation.
“I know you want me to make this pain go away,” Briggs says, his grasp never faltering. Maeve’s fingers claw at his bare back, desperate for him to continue. “But you don’t need to be afraid, because it hurts for the best reason. You didn’t get to know the man, but he loved you with all his heart.”
Maeve cries out, feeling her whole being release. Sadness, joy, longing, passion, pain mingle in one burst. Tears pour in waves that she couldn’t stop if she tried, from her chin to her chest, too many for Briggs to make disappear. He holds her to him as she cries. This apartment is so empty, so vacant, like no one ever lived here. Like Liam never existed.
“Don’t let go,” she whispers.
“I won’t.”
They stay in each other’s arms until Maeve finds the strength to hand Briggs the letter and say, “Liam said he was proud of me.”
Aoife knocks on Maeve’s eco-pod that night, carrying a canvas bag. She pulls out a bottle of white wine. “A little birdie told me you might need this.”
Knowing Briggs talked to Aoife makes Maeve smile until her cheeks hurt, and after all her crying today, smiling feels pretty damn good. Aoife marches straight into the pod and opens the bottle.
Maeve goes to get glasses, but Aoife produces another bottle from her bag and says, “Why dirty dishes when we each can have our own?”
They toast with a laugh, and then Aoife dumps the rest of the bag onto the bed.
“Holy hell.” Maeve examines the impressive booty.
“You can’t have a proper girls’ night without the essentials.” Aoife has them covered: nail polish, homemade seaweed face masks, wax strips, candy and chips of all kinds, even a DVD of Sweet Home Alabama . “It’s been a while since I had a proper girls’ night. I may have gone a little overboard.”
Maeve picks up the wax strips. “I definitely need wine before we attempt this.”
Aoife relaxes back on the couch. “God, it feels good to have a girlfriend. To Hugh and Briggs, girl talk is a deep discussion about breast size and comparable fruit.” Then she eyes Maeve. “Not that Briggs has done that with you.”
Maeve examines her chest. “What do you think? Grapefruit?”
Aoife busts out laughing. “Definitely.”
Maeve grabs her phone and sends Briggs a text with two grapefruit emojis and a question mark, then shows it to Aoife.
She laughs louder. “He’s going to kill me.”
“Not if he ever wants to touch my grapefruits again,” Maeve says, inducing another fit of giggles. God, she needed this. Living with Sonya for two years, Maeve got used to having a girlfriend around. She’s missed that. She picks up the magenta nail polish and taps it against her palm. “I better paint your nails before I get too drunk.”
Two hours later, Sweet Home Alabama is over. Most of the wine is gone. Maeve’s face is covered in a seaweed mask that makes her look like Michael Myers from the Halloween movies. Aoife applies a wax strip to her leg.
“Can I ask you something ... personal?” Maeve says, the wine having loosened her tongue.
“Oranges at best.” Aoife displays her chest with a smile. “But probably lemons.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Oranges, for sure.” Maeve blows on her painted nails. Unsurprisingly, Aoife cares little for staying in the lines. Polish sticks to Maeve’s skin and cuticles. In the past, she would have raced for the nail polish remover, but seeing the mess now, knowing that Aoife made it, only makes her smile. She sips her wine, her tongue practically numb from all the candy they’ve eaten. “So ... what’s the story with Eoin?”
Aoife’s attention drifts up from Maeve’s leg. “Well, shite. If I’d known you were going to ask me that, I would have brought another bottle.”
“Never mind. You don’t have to tell me.”
“No,” Aoife says. She settles back on the couch and places the open bag of Hunky Dory Cheddar Cheese and Onion chips on her stomach. “Classic story, really. Girl falls in love with boy. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl gets pregnant. Boy decides he doesn’t love her anymore.”
“Pregnant?” Maeve sits up straight.
Aoife nods. “Summer before we all left for uni. I told Eoin, thinking he’d help—we were supposedly in love—and instead he yelled at me for screwing up his future. I was panicked, so I went to Briggs, hoping he could talk some sense into his best friend ...”
“Best friend?” Maeve blurts.
Aoife nods. “From the time they were little. It was always Briggs and Eoin getting into trouble, and because they’re both gorgeous and charming, they got away with it.”
“Briggs didn’t tell me any of this.”
“Don’t blame him, he did it to protect me,” Aoife says. “Plus, he was worried that if he told you, you’d go straight to Eoin, and Eoin would manipulate the story, like he always does. Then you’d trust Briggs even less.”
Maeve sits back, realizing that she would have played right into Eoin’s hands. “So what happened when you told Briggs you were pregnant?”
“He went to Eoin, of course, but that only made it worse. Eoin claimed I was telling everyone on the island, trying to trap him into being a father so he couldn’t dump me when he went to uni. All I really wanted was help.”
“What did you do?”
“I couldn’t think straight. It was Briggs who came up with the solution. I couldn’t have a baby at eighteen. I knew that. His older sister, Cecelia, was in England at the time, so we told everyone we were going to visit her for a week, and ... I had an abortion. We came home and pretended it never happened.” Aoife shakes her head. “You’d think Eoin would have been pleased. Briggs solved his problem. But Eoin hated that Briggs sided with me, so he told everyone on the island that we were having an affair. I was a cheater, and Briggs was a horrible friend. In the end, we looked like the villains, and Eoin looked like the brokenhearted victim.”
“What a fucking asshole.”
“Among other things.” Aoife chuckles.
Maeve shakes her head and grabs a handful of chips out of the bag on Aoife’s stomach. “I can’t believe I trusted him.”
“Don’t blame yourself. He hides it well. Rumor has it he left London after he was caught cheating with his boss’s wife. He got blackballed there, so he ran back to Cork to hide out for a while.”
“Really?” Maeve recalls the brokenhearted story Eoin told her about the girl. He had failed to mention she was his boss’s wife.
“I actually owe you,” Aoife says. “I’ve been waiting ten years to return Briggs’s favor. Thanks to you, I finally got my chance.”
Maeve eyes Aoife, confused.
“Who do you think was responsible for talking some sense into him?” Aoife explains. “He didn’t abandon me when I needed him, and I wasn’t going to let him walk away from the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
The best thing that’s ever happened . That takes Maeve’s breath away. She goes to swig another gulp of wine, but her bottle is empty. “Thanks for telling me about Eoin,” she says.
“That’s what girls’ night is for, right?” Aoife smiles and sets the chips on the table. “Now, I think it’s time.”
Aoife pulls the wax from Maeve’s leg, inducing a loud yelp.
“Sorry!” Aoife says, giggling. “It’s best if you don’t see it coming.”
They fall over in a fit of laughter fueled by wine and honesty. But too soon, the ache in Maeve’s chest from early in the day is back, and she fears tears coming on again. She glances at the clock. It’s almost eleven. Aoife notices the change and offers to bring Maeve to Briggs’s house.
Within minutes, they are on their e-bikes. Briggs’s house is dark, but the back door is open. Maeve flips on the kitchen light and slowly makes her way upstairs. With the lack of furniture and personal decorations, the house looks practically unoccupied. Upstairs Briggs’s room smells like him—salt water and earth. The bed is neatly made, and a few articles of clothing are cast on the dresser. His swim trunks hang drying on a hook. Just being here calms Maeve down, and she crawls into his bed, pulling the comforter up to her nose and inhaling all that is Briggs.
She must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing she knows, Briggs is whispering her name, his gentle fingers on her cheek.
“Maeve, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were with Aoife.”
She smells hops and barley on his skin. “I was. But then I came here.”
“How was girls’ night?”
Maeve holds up a finger. “Cardinal rule of girls’ night. No one talks about girls’ night.” Briggs chuckles, and Maeve yawns. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
For sending me Aoife. For being my boyfriend. For this. For existing, she thinks.
“You promised me a bed,” she says.
“That’s right. I did.” He takes off his shirt, his muscles lovely in the moonlight coming in the window, and climbs in, curling his body around Maeve’s. She rests her head on his chest and listens to his heartbeat.
“Briggs?”
“Maeve?”
She props herself up on her elbow, takes his hand, and places it on her breast. “Grapefruits, right?”
He laughs. “I think I need a closer inspection.”