13. Finn
THIRTEEN
Finn
PAST
One of my favorite stops on any of the tours I lead is Galway.
While Dublin will always be home, I can easily see myself in Galway one day. It still has that city vibe, with enough culture and variety to keep it interesting, but it’s open enough that sometimes, when you’re walking down the streets, it almost tricks you into believing you’re in a small village.
The walking tour in Galway is long, but it’s thorough, and the guide is always excellent. I usually opt out, preferring to stay with Collin and help with the luggage and check-in, but today, I needed the walk and some fresh air.
Being there to intervene on Aisling’s behalf to help her escape his presence? That was just an added bonus.
Clint seems to finally be taking the hint and keeping his distance from Aisling. Unfortunately, his interest in me appears to have doubled, and I spend most of the walking tour with him and his friends while they ask all about my rugby days and chat about various football players. The only interest they seem to have in Galway itself revolves around their evening plans and where their next pint will come from.
By the time we make it back to the hotel, I’ve given the guys a few recommendations, and they’re already disappearing back down the street. I doubt they’ll be back tonight.
I finish answering a few more questions from some guests about tonight’s group dinner in the hotel restaurant and pocket a couple tenners, and just when I’m about to enter the hotel, I notice Deidre and Aisling engaged in a somewhat heated argument by the lobby doors.
“You should go grab something, just in case,” I hear Deidre say. I recognize the motherly tone in her voice: a blend of concern and authority, with perhaps a hint of helplessness.
“It’s fine, Mom. A hot shower tonight, and I’ll be okay.”
Normally, if I heard the words Aisling and shower in the same sentence, my mind would already be halfway into a lewd fantasy, but the tone of their conversation has me taking a step forward. I try to convince myself it’s because I’m their tour guide and it’s my job to help, but even I know that’s bullshit.
I’m worried about Aisling.
Deidre sees me coming. “Finn might know,” she says to Aisling. “You should ask him.”
She lets out a huff of annoyance before her cheeks flush pink as she looks up at me. “Hi, Finn.”
That blush reminds me of the first night we met, and I smile. “Hi, Aisling. Something I can help you with?”
Biting the inside of her lip, she finally relents. “Do you know of a pharmacy nearby?”
“That sells Advil?” Deidre chimes in.
“There’s a chemist a few blocks from here,” I tell her and then add because I’ve worked with enough American tourists now. “They won’t have Advil, but there will be something similar.”
“Could you give me directions?” Aisling asks.
“I can just take you,” I offer.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. Thank you, Finn.” Deidre nods, patting me on the shoulder before turning back to Aisling. “I’ll see you back here in a bit for the group dinner.”
She’s already headed inside, seemingly pleased with our arrangement. Aisling and I stare at one another for a moment before she starts to say, “You don’t have to?—”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to,” I tell her. “What kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t show you a proper Irish chemist?”
“And how does it differ from an American pharmacy?”
I ponder that for a moment. “I wouldn’t actually know. I’ve never been to an American pharmacy.”
“Well, ours are basically like a small convenience store that sells drugs.”
“Oh,” I say and then shrug. “Then no. Fairly similar. Although our drugs probably look different, which is why I thought coming along might help.”
That is not the complete truth. I really just like spending time with her, but I keep that to myself.
“You seemed to enjoy the walking tour today,” I say. Everywhere we went, even as I walked toward the back with Clint and his buddies, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She listened and engaged as the guide led them through Galway. Watching her absorb the sights for the first time was almost magical.
“This city is insane.” She grins, her eyes sparkling with contagious excitement. “There’s an ancient city wall in the food court of the mall. I mean, who does that?”
“Ireland,” I answer with a laugh.
“At first, I thought it was sort of sad,” she says as we walk across the empty street. A few college students sit on a stone wall, smoking and carrying on. The quiet one at the end with green hair and tattooed knuckles glances over as we get closer. His eyes rake over Aisling from head to toe, and I feel my fists tighten.
I take a deliberate step closer to her, and he finally notices me—all six feet, three inches of me. I hold his gaze until he looks away.
Good choice, dickhead.
“Sad?” I refocus on our conversation, not bothering to recreate the distance between us. There might be other creepers. She could stumble…
Even I know my excuses sound pathetic at this point.
“At first glance, viewing an ancient city wall that once protected a medieval town directly across from a J.Crew feels kind of…”
“Weird?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. I try not to focus on the way her cheeks dimple when she smiles or the faint pink hue that seems to permanently stain them whenever I’m around. “But I’m honestly just glad it’s still there, you know? In the US, they probably would have just torn it down or relocated it and then built a museum around it so they could charge an exorbitant admission fee and sell overpriced T-shirts.”
“I’m sure some people in the city would have jumped at that idea. Much like the rest of the country, tourism is paramount here. But they’re doing just fine. People love Galway.”
“I can see why. Up until now, I didn’t know much about it, other than Ed Sheeran wrote a song about a Galway girl and Claddagh rings came from here.”
“But, if you were paying attention to the walking tour, you know that’s not entirely true,” I tease.
The ring actually originated in a fishing village called Claddagh (hence the name), but since it was now within the city limits of Galway, everyone kind of lumped the two together.
“Which part? The song or the ring?” She glances at me, an amused grin tugging at her lips. Now she’s the one teasing me, following it up with, “I just remember thinking it was really romantic—the ring. Not the song. I always thought it would make a great…wedding ring,” she says, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink as she suddenly seems embarrassed. “But that was before I was single and apparently prone to oversharing.”
I laugh. “I like the rare moments when you overshare. I get to learn the most interesting things.”
“Learning I’m a little bitter isn’t interesting. That’s just sad.”
“No, it’s just real. And for your information, I know a lot of people who buy Claddagh rings for themselves.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Traditionally, if you’re ‘taken,’” I say, using air quotes for the last word, “you point the crown outward. If you’re single, you face the crown inward.”
“So, the crown points to the holder of your heart?”
I hadn’t thought of it that way, but— “Yeah, I guess, and to the person you’ve chosen for lack of a better word—your person. So, instead of being this sad declaration that you’re essentially ‘waiting’ for someone, it’s now a symbol of independence. That you’re choosing yourself.”
She appears to ponder this as we reach the entrance of the chemist. I pull the door open, and a bell rings above, signaling our arrival. The shopkeeper smiles from behind the counter and greets us as I guide us toward the back wall where the pharmaceuticals are located.
“Can I help you find anything, love?” the woman asks before I have a chance to point anything out to Aisling.
“Oh, um—I was looking for Advil,” she says, then corrects herself. “Ibuprofen or naproxen.”
The woman smiles again, fine lines appearing around her aged eyes. “I’ve had plenty of Americans come in. Not to worry, dear; I know what Advil is,” she assures her. “I have both. Which would you prefer? Naproxen lasts longer and works well for aches and pains. Not that I imagine you need to worry about that at your age.”
“The naproxen will work just fine,” Aisling says quickly. “Thank you so much for your help.”
Feeling completely useless in this endeavor, I trail behind her to the counter. She picks up a bottle of water and pays for everything, and soon we’re headed back.
The numerous sounds of the city surround us, but the heavy silence between us drowns them all out. Finally, after she opens the medication, takes two pills, and swallows a drink of water, she turns to me, a sheepish expression on her beautiful face. “Sorry,” she nearly whispers.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I typically carry medication, but everything about this trip was last minute, and I forgot to throw a bottle in my carry-on. And with all the walking—I have rheumatoid arthritis,” she finally says. “I was diagnosed in college.”
I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t this. I just figured she had a headache.
My mouth opens to form a response, but nothing comes out. I studied business and accounting at uni, and the only real exposure I’ve had to the medical world is a few broken bones and losing my grandparents when I was little. I try to comprehend the words she’s just thrown at me. Rheumatoid Arthritis . Isn’t arthritis something you get when you’re older? My granda had arthritis before he passed.
Rather than ask a dozen questions, I just stay silent and let her continue.
“It’s an autoimmune disease. I keep it mostly controlled by meds. But I still have flare-ups every now and then, particularly when I’m stressed.”
“Are you stressed now?” I ask, the worry clear in my voice.
“No,” she answers, warmth spreading across her face. “No, just a little too much walking. Stress can manifest both physically and emotionally.”
She’s right; the number of times I’d worked my body to the point of exhaustion should have clued me into that fact. There were times when I could barely walk after particularly grueling matches growing up.
“I’ve gotten used to it. It’s been five years, after all. But I still struggle with certain things.”
“Like your mam telling you what to do?”
She laughs. “You caught that, did you?”
I nod, and she continues.
“I know she means well. I just don’t like being coddled. I’m usually better about taking care of myself, not pushing my limits, but life has been a little rough lately, and I’ve let things slip.” I don’t think it’s possible for her to ever appear weak, but I doubt that telling her that would make a difference in her self-image. “On the other hand, I hate when people make assumptions. Like with the shopkeeper,” she explains.
“Does that happen often?” I ask.
“Not as much anymore, but in college, yes.” Her expression darkens, and I sense there’s more to the story she isn’t saying. “It’s hard being young and having an illness that isn’t always visible. People think you’re faking it or being overly dramatic. Especially when—” She swallows her words and offers a tight smile. “Well, let’s just say it can be a bit of a downer.”
All I want to do at that moment is pull her to a stop right here in the middle of the street and demand that she tell me who hurt her so I can track him down—because at this point, I know it’s a man—and slam his head against a wall.
She looks so haunted, her eyes filled with memories of a painful past, and I want to erase it all.
But I can’t.
Because all we have is a few days.
In a few days, this will all be over.
* * *
Aisling
“You look nice,” my mom comments as we step off the elevator and head toward the hotel restaurant.
“You literally saw me put this on.” I give her a look that says I’m onto her bullshit, and she just raises her arms, playing dumb.
“What? Can’t a mom compliment her only daughter?”
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell her.
“I’m not doing anything. I merely said you look nice. Did you dress up for someone special?”
“And there it is.” I should have known better. When I was rummaging through my suitcase after returning from the pharmacy (chemist?) with Finn, I found the one and only dress I had packed. It was slightly wrinkled but otherwise in good shape. I nearly left it at home, but the heavy corduroy-like fabric and long sleeves won me over. That and the fact that when I pair it with tights and my Doc Martens, it makes me look wicked hot.
“What?” She extends her arms again, as if she has no clue what she’s doing. “I’m just asking. You seemed like you were in a good mood when you came back from your walk. I was just curious if the dress might be for him?”
I look away because the honest truth is that Finn Larkin might have crossed my mind once or twice when I was admiring myself in the mirror a few minutes ago.
As we enter the dining room, the hostess guides us to the back, where everything is set up. Five long tables have been arranged along the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the water. About half the group has already arrived, and I quickly scan the room to see if a particular tour guide is among them. Unfortunately, he isn’t, so my mom and I choose a random table, where she immediately strikes up a conversation with the couple across from us while I pour myself a glass of wine.
I try not to stare at the entrance each time someone walks in, but it’s difficult. My eyes immediately go there whenever there’s a flutter of movement, and I find myself growing impatient every time a new person arrives and takes one of the few precious seats left at our table.
Finally, when the waiters are just about to bring out the salad course, Finn walks in, looking fucking edible in black jeans and a black button-up. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Celtic knots, a few numbers—jersey numbers, maybe? Since when did rolled-up sleeves become one of my instant turn-ons?
Our eyes meet, and he gives me one of those tiny smirks.
My stomach flutters as I wait with bated breath for him to walk into the room and take a seat…on the other side of the room.
The fuck?
I look down at our table. There is one seat left at the end, and while logically, I know it’s a ways away, it’s still closer than where he’s at now.
He can’t sit with you all the time , I remind myself.
It does little to improve my mood.
Unfortunately, when my phone buzzes in my lap, whatever was left of my decent mood takes a nosedive. Reaching for it, I turn the screen around, and my heart starts to pound as soon as I see the caller ID.
“Aisling?”
I look up at my mom, eyes wide. “I’m going to take this,” I tell her.
“Don’t,” she begs, but I’m already out of my chair, headed for the door. Even after all this time, I can’t seem to be able to let him go.
I press answer the second I step out of the dining room.
“Hello?”
“Aisling?” His voice twists my stomach. It’s both comforting and painfully sharp. I want to envelop myself in the sound like a warm blanket, yet I can’t forget all the hurt he’s caused.
So fucking confusing.
“Theo,” I manage to say. “How are you?”
“How am I?” He lets out a haunted laugh. “Why would you even ask me that, Ash? This week especially?”
I steel my spine and let out a frustrated huff. He’s been doing this for months—acting like he’s the victim, as if I were the one who caused him pain. All this time, he has played himself off as the wounded party because I was the one who walked away.
“How could you do this, Theo? How could you do this to me?” I’ve been crying for what feels like ages. Sobbing so violently that my ribs ache and my throat is raw.
“You don’t understand what it’s like.” His voice carries a mixture of anger and pain. He flew home to surprise me, and what a surprise it has been. “What it feels like to be thrown into the spotlight like that.”
“I don’t know what it’s like?” I let out a haunted laugh as I look at the man I’ve loved since I was sixteen. I used to think he was perfect—flawless. Perfect body, amazing athlete, the best boyfriend. Now, I know there’s no such thing as perfection. “Are you being serious right now?”
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and I silently wonder just how honest he is being with me. “Maybe we just need some time, you know?”
“Time?”
“Yeah, maybe we rushed into things. Maybe we should postpone the wedding for a while until you’re moved in and settled, and then we can, you know—reevaluate.”
I just stare at him. Blink. Blink again. “I’m not still moving with you, Theo.”
“What, no. Yes, you are. You’re my fiancée.”
“No.” I shake my head, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Not anymore.”
* * *
Utter fucking bullshit.
“I know what week it is, T.”
“Is that why you’re in Ireland?”
I’m pacing now, trying my best to wear a path into the sapphire blue and gold carpet that runs between the restaurant and the lobby. “How do you know where I am?” It sounds a bit more accusatory than I intend it to.
“It’s all over your Instagram feed.” Oh, duh. “And we still have location sharing enabled for each other,” he says matter-of-factly.
Location sharing? Has he been tracking me for months? Have I been able to track him? Does this mean I could have tracked him the entire time he was?—
I let that thought go as quickly as it came because, honestly, no good can come from it anyway.
“Why are you there?”
“I’m with my mom,” I explain, looking out toward the bay. “I needed to get away for a bit.”
“So, you’re not there with someone else? You’re not seeing anyone?”
My jaw drops, taken aback by his bluntness. The sharpness in his voice does nothing to mask the jealousy in his tone as well. “No,” I reply. “But even if I were?—”
“I don’t know how to do this, Ash.” He lets out a deep sigh.
“What do you mean? You don’t know how to do what?” But I know. I’ve known. It’s the same thing he’s been telling me since I gave him back the ring. Since I walked out of our apartment. Since the moving trucks arrived.
“I don’t know how to be me without you. I miss you. I miss us.”
His words would be sweet if they were genuine. He doesn’t need me like he needs air or like his heart needs to beat. He needs me because I give him significance. What he’s really saying is that he misses the validation I gave him. The support. The hype.
In Theo Vasquez’s world, everyone has a role: his coach, his agent, even his fiancée. I was just another part of the team.
Team Vasquez.
And for a long time, I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world—to be by his side.
God, I was dumb.
“There is no us, Theo,” I tell him. I’ve told him this before. He doesn’t want to hear it. He never does.
“There will always be an us, Ash. Always.” His voice has become harsher now. “You don’t just throw away a six-year relationship over a?—”
“A what?” I wait to see if he can even say it, to see if he can own up to it. But he never does because that would mean admitting he was at fault for all of it.
“So your mom’s back in Ireland, huh?” he asks, changing the subject. “What is this, her fortieth visit? Is she still doing those bus tours?” he asks, his opinion on the matter clear in his tone. He would never step foot on a bus unless it was taking him to a game.
“Yep,” I answer. “She loves them.”
“Are there just tons of old people on your tour?”
“A decent number, yeah.” And one very hot Irishman.
“I guess it probably works out nice for you. Not a lot of walking. Slow and?—”
“Listen, I’ve got to get going, Theo. We’re in the middle of dinner.”
“When do you get back?” he asks, ignoring me altogether.
“Next week.”
“Can I see you? We can talk face-to-face. I’ll check with my coach, and maybe I can miss a game or?—”
“Stop,” I say because there is no point. His schedule won’t allow him to get away. It’s why we started having issues in the first place, and as much as I still hate him for screwing that up, I can’t let him ruin his career. He’s worked too damn hard for it. “We have nothing to talk about. Certainly, nothing that requires you to fly half around the world.”
“Ash—”
“No.” I push back. “We’re over, Theo. We’ve been over for six months. You need to move on. It shouldn’t be too difficult for a soccer star like you. Women literally throw themselves at you. Remember?”
“That’s a low blow, Ash.”
“Is it? I seem to recall that being the excuse you used for cheating on me, but perhaps I’m confused.”
“I can see we’re not getting anywhere tonight, so I’ll let you go.”
As I say goodbye and end the call, I can’t help but wonder if Theo Vasquez will ever truly let me go.
After all, if there’s one thing he doesn’t do, it’s lose.