Chapter Two #2
He swings a long leg over the crossbar with a side grin.
‘You’re so very welcome.’ His voice is smooth, low, with a soft, even timbre.
I find it soothing, and as he smiles at me, those green eyes light up.
He fishes for the flat part of the pedal and rests his foot on it.
I notice his bright yellow socks with a Trinity College Dublin imprint.
Tourist socks. But he has a broad Dublin accent.
‘Going to a wedding?’ I point at the bag. I know the rental shop well. ‘You better get a move on,’ I say, before realising it sounds like I’m trying to get rid of him.
He narrows his eyes at me, opens his mouth to say something and drags his free hand down his wild beard.
‘ I – I didn’t mean . . . It’s just . . . if it’s not returned by midday they charge you an extra day’s hire, I know the place well, I work in the industry.’ I take a step sideways so he has room to move the bike.
‘I actually just bought the suit outright,’ he says. ‘Saves me the hassle. I have an upcoming wedding.’ He spins the pedal again with his left foot, supports himself and the bike with his resting leg.
‘Right, yeah, of course. They sell them, too,’ I say.
He spins the pedal with his foot again. ‘I needed a suit anyway, you never know when someone might die . . . Oh! Oh, ow!’ The pedal smacks him hard on his shin and he doubles over the handlebars. ‘I deserved that!’ he moans lightly.
I wince. ‘Ow. That hurt me! You okay?’ My eyes dart to his shin and those socks. I see a trickle of bright red blood run down the walls of Trinity College. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘Ah, I’m grand.’ But he grimaces as he presses his hand to the cut that’s spouting blood. ‘Bloody thin socks. The sharp edge of the pedal just nicked me in the wrong spot. Serves me right for wearing tosser’s socks, I just love that building.’
Without thinking, I blurt, ‘Here, why don’t you park your bike up with those other bikes and let me buy you a coffee? Go to the bathroom and clean up your leg.’ I nod to the open glass doors behind me as the aroma of freshly brewing coffee oozes out.
‘Oh, erm. Yeah, o-okay,’ he stammers, steadies himself, throws his leg over and dismounts.
‘Follow me in,’ I tell him as I jerk my head towards the doors.
I duck straight into Fallon I re-secure my claw clip to tidy myself up a bit.
I’ve asked him now so I can’t take it back.
Quick coffee and I’m out of here. I’ll buy a bottle of wine on the way home to celebrate my Logan news and calm myself down.
‘What can I get you?’ I ask when he wanders in aimlessly, looking around him for the gents.
‘Americano would be great, thanks, if you’re sure?
Good drop of milk. One sugar.’ His arms seem so long, dangling down by his sides.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as I point to the toilets sign down the stairs.
I can read the slogan on his T-shirt now: it says ‘Born to be mild’. ‘I’m Donal,’ he says awkwardly.
‘Grace,’ I reply. ‘I’ll get our coffees. You crack on.’
Donal disappears downstairs and I join the queue.
Thankfully it’s short. I order two Americanos and add a king-size bar of Skelligs orange chocolate, and ask the server to drop the drinks over, then make a dash to a recently vacated window seat.
I dump my bags at my feet, still pushing down the acute jealousy that comes with the visual of Emma Stark and that glossy ivory dress bag.
Peeling back the silver paper I snap off two squares. I let the chocolate melt on my tongue, working its magic as I roll my eyes in appreciation. As the two coffees arrive, all I’m thinking about is that Logan will be back in Dublin.
‘Oh, you got them to have in here. I thought you meant to take away?’ He’s back, towering above me, confusion in those striking green eyes.
‘S-sorry,’ I start. What am I doing? I don’t know this man!
My cheeks flush with heat. Of course he thought I meant to take away!
He asked for milk and sugar. This news about Logan has sent me totally out of my mind.
If I was in my flat I’d have ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift on repeat.
Followed by Gracie Abrams’s ‘That’s So True’.
I’d be in a marvellous musical meltdown.
He’s still drying his hands with a paper towel. ‘Yer grand.’ He rolls it into a tight ball.
‘No, here, let me get you a takeaway cup.’ I jump up.
‘I’ve just had a really bizarre morning and I .
. . I . . .’ I tug at the loose threads on my frayed shorts with one hand while gesticulating erratically to the counter with the other.
But before I can finish, he’s pulling the stool out and sitting himself down on it, patting the one I’ve just got off, signalling for me to sit again.
He aims the balled-up paper towel into a nearby bin and the aim is perfect.
The towel falls right down into the centre.
It’s almost too cool a move for a guy like him.
He places his suit bag on top of my pile of bags, lifts his coffee cup.
His long, lean fingers wrap around it, nearly covering the entire pink-and-red striped pattern, and focuses those kind eyes on me.
‘So what’s really going on is you just need someone to vent to right now, and a stranger with a bleeding shin seems perfect?’ He makes that claw again with his free hand and pulls the long red hair back from around his face. ‘Man I Need’ by Olivia Dean plays from the overhead speakers.
‘I’m not a lunatic. I promise.’ Still adjusting my shorts, I sit back down slowly.
He taps his fingers in time to the music. Then shakes out a sugar sachet. And in that soothing voice, he says, ‘Spill.’