Chapter Three
Two Americanos, half a bar of Skelligs and a shared cinnamon roll later, completely unexpectedly we’re still talking.
Well, to be more exact, I’m still talking!
I’ve filled this strange man in on my entire life.
I’ve told him all about Emma Stark and how she swooped in and robbed me of my hard-fought-for internship at Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs.
I’ve given him the low-down on Mia’s upcoming divorce party from Moaning Michael, and now I’m drowning him with my Logan saga.
I know I should stop, but it’s like I’ve opened a well inside me and I can’t stop talking.
It’s why I should have gone to therapy. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken out loud about Logan, and now I can’t seem to contain myself.
‘Believe it or not, my wedding morning to Logan looked idyllic.’ I roll out a sarcastic laugh, turning slightly to avoid the glare of the sun through the long window, and cross my tanned legs.
‘Oh, yeah?’ He lifts a ginger brow in curiosity.
‘Glorious, bright-blue skies, just like today, but there I was, like a dope, obliviously sipping mimosas with Mia, while she helped me get dressed into the gorgeous wedding dress I’d designed for myself.’ I engage my toes to grip my flip-flops.
‘Best laid plans and all that.’ He swings his impossibly long top leg on his high stool and I see the white tissue wrapped around his skinny bloodstained shin.
I shift on the stool again, my legs are sticking with the heat, I uncross them again.
‘Right? But despite being just hours away from the ceremony I couldn’t shake the feeling that something might still go wrong.
My gut was roaring, but I ignored it.’ I confess this to him knowing I’ve barely confessed this to myself.
A sharp snap of his fingers jolts me. ‘Always trust your gut,’ he says rolling his shoulders down.
‘Horse. Bolted. Stable door.’ I hook my feet onto the low bar of the stool, snap off another square of chocolate and offer it to him. He accepts it.
‘Thank you. So what happened then?’ He slides it into his mouth and sucks. When he’d ordered the cinnamon bun a while ago, he’d cut it and given me the larger half.
‘I got a text!’ I do my best Love Island impression.
‘Logan decided to send me a text one hour before our wedding that said – Gracie, I won’t be at the church.
I can’t marry you today and I’m so sorry.
I’m going to New York to follow my dreams, don’t hate me.
With a kiss and the one-tear crying emoji at the end.
’ I feel my stomach churn as it always does when I think of that text.
That text I still read over and over and over, I’m just not able to delete it.
He takes a minute. ‘Fuck. Sorry. That’s so fucking shitty.’ A sympathetic face as those long fingers gently tip-tap the ceramic on his cup.
‘C’est la vie.’ I need to shut up, I know; let him talk. I’m not this socially unaware. I re-do my unruly hair, re-twist it into my claw clip, thinking about how to change the subject as I let the clasp snap shut.
‘And before that text?’ He tilts his head at me so that his hair falls over one eye; he shakes it back.
I crinkle my nose in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What happened that a guy can do that to a woman, leave her on her wedding day? I have sisters.’ His lips purse, he looks positively annoyed now, swirls the coffee cup with more vigour.
But this is his first question and it catches me off-balance. Niall Horan sings ‘Slow Hands’ above me. I have to think for a minute. ‘In his childhood, you mean? Nothing, Logan was adored by his parents, the golden child.’
He pinches his chin, the thick bristles in his wild beard covering his fingertips.
‘No, I mean, that’s a personality trait – surely there must have been signs that he was capable of something as utterly selfish as that?
’ As he talks his beard catches the light to reveal strands of light-chestnut woven throughout.
I notice now how the beard seems to enhance his features, adding dimension to his jawline and drawing attention to those expressive eyes.
I’m thrown for a split second before I answer him.
‘W-well, yeah. I mean . . . Logan was a struggling actor when I met him. By nature, I think most actors have to be a little selfish because they have to be incredibly self-driven and have tunnel vision, ya know. I supported us both by making communion dresses in our flat while interning at Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs so he could fully focus on his career. I burnt myself out pretty much getting his career started. I paid for the rental of a theatre space in town for the show and he directed his first production of Macbeth. He cast himself as Macbeth . . .’
Donal gives me a side grin. ‘Of course he did.’
‘Ah, now.’ I throw my head back and laugh, it’s the most fulfilling laugh I’ve felt in ages.
‘You had the two jobs, so what was his contribution?’
My eyes dip for a second and I shake my head. ‘I gave him all my savings. I’d been saving for years for a deposit on a bridal-wear premises, but I gave every penny to him to pay for theatre hire, costumes, actors’ fees, crew fees, props, set, per diem . . .’ I taper off.
‘He paid it all back, right?’ Donal asks but there is a definite knowing in his question.
I just shake my head again, from side to side.
‘I also designed all the costumes – and they were great if I say so myself – but it cost me my internship at Ferguson Brophy Bridal Designs because I was overworked and exhausted, and eventually I messed up and they fired me. That’s when Emma Stark was right there to step into my shoes.
The play opened the doors for Logan, though, and the more successful he got, the more I thought I was losing him and the more I pushed for us to get married.
Pathetically, I hung onto him for dear life but I love .
. . loved him so much.’ I catch myself, but not quickly enough.
I see his eyes dart, he’s watching me closely, and they narrow to near-closed. ‘You’re still in love with him?’
I deflect. ‘It was a lightning-bolt of instant attraction. An arrow to the heart.’ I clutch my chest, hang my tongue out one side of my mouth, making light of it.
I pick up my coffee cup, it’s empty but still I pretend to sip.
‘Anyway, then followed five years of constant drama, cynical attitudes, suspense, jealousy and often tears – mine, not his.’
It feels good to admit my pathetic-ness to this strange man.
He nods so slowly and so intently, it’s like I can see he fully understands.
I give him a half-smile. ‘You look like a man who can relate to my ranting?’
A customer steps in between us to borrow our milk jug.
‘I’ve had heartbreak.’ His long fingers dance across his heart; again, the claw is made and the hair is swept back off his face.
I pause, give him the opportunity to rant, but he doesn’t take it.
Instead, ‘Go on,’ is what he whispers, kindly.
‘Well I dunno. Like I said, I loved him so much I pushed for the ring. I pushed him to set a wedding date. I shouldn’t have.
His proposal had been nothing more than trying to keep me happy.
Deep down I knew he didn’t want to get married.
I really only had myself to blame. That was the hardest part.
’ My flip-flop slips off the low bar of the stool and I jerk.
Donal is quick with his hand to steady me.
It’s an unusual feeling, his touch. It’s been a while since I’ve been this close to a man.
‘I disagree.’ He leans forward on his stool, his words a soft whisper. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ He leaves a beat. ‘And now?’
I don’t move my position. ‘Who knows?’ I raise an eyebrow.
He raises one, too. ‘So now he’s coming back. Have you plans to meet up before Mia’s party?’
I love how he listens so intently that he remembers Mia’s name. But before I can answer him, the waitress steps in, stacks our empty coffee cups onto a heavily laden brown tray. ‘I’m sorry but we’re closing,’ she says and I gasp, looking down at the time on my phone on the counter.
‘Oh my God! I’ve been bending your ear for over an hour!
’ I slap my hand over my mouth, standing up swiftly, appalled at myself.
He’s the loveliest man but I’ve taken up far too much of his time.
Never in my life have I done this sort of impromptu thing but I feel a huge sense of relief and I’m not entirely sure why.
‘Don’t worry. Hope it helped. But, yeah, I better get the bike and head home.
I need to drop this suit off and grab a shower before my date tonight.
’ He uncrosses his legs and stands up tall, reaches down to check the tissue still wrapped on his shin.
His vibe is so chill as he hums along to ‘Boys of Summer’, his head nodding and his shoulders shaking to the beat.
‘Of course. Thank you, I don’t know what to say, I’m .
. . well, it’s kinda out of character for me to just ask a stranger to have coffee.
Just one of those days. But honestly, I feel like I’ve taken a load off by talking to you.
I feel lighter!’ I hand him his suit bag and gather up my belongings, still in shock at the length of time we’ve been talking for, because it felt like minutes.
He performs a mock bow. ‘Glad to be of service.’
‘How’s your shin?’ I look down at the tissue paper now unravelling over his sock.
‘I’ll live.’ He laughs and those green eyes shimmer in the glare of the sun seeping through the window.
‘Put a drop of Dettol into some warm water and bathe it,’ I suggest as he bends and fixes the tissue.
‘Yes, nurse.’ He looks up at me now, fixes his eyes on me, then straightens up tall; stuffing one hand in his jeans pocket, he pulls out a tiny key.
‘Well, nice to meet you, Grace.’ He extends his large hand and I take it.
‘And you, Donal.’ My own hand is completely lost in his.
Although he definitely isn’t my usual type, there is something about him and I tighten my grip. He tightens his. We shake for longer than is normal or necessary. Finally, he takes his hand away and I curl my fingers into my palm.
We make our way back out onto Exchequer Street.
The air is humid, the heat stifling, and seagulls squawk, circling above our heads.
The outdoor-seating areas are jam-packed.
Window ledges used as makeshift tables to rest drinks on.
The rattle of ice cubes. People saunter past, scantily clad and sipping iced drinks, the smell of sun cream permeating the air.
I wait as Donal unlocks his bike, placing one hand on the seat for balance, his fingers wrapping around the lock as he inserts the tiny key and turns it.
The click of the mechanism echoes softly.
I swing my bags. ‘Going anywhere nice on your date?’ It’s incredibly nosy of me, but for some reason I have an overwhelming desire to know more.
‘Not sure. It’s one of those dark, trendy bars I will probably hate.
Stare far too long at the sign on the toilet doors to make sure the symbol applies to me.
The music will be instrumental and too loud.
I’ll leave still hungry. Ah, look, I’m more of a beer and pizza guy than a cocktail and nibbles one. ’
It’s none of my business, but I go on. ‘Is it a first date? Or are you like, ya know, dating regularly?’ I redirect my gaze to my flip-flops to appear less nosy.
He laughs lightly. ‘Grace, I’m on a blind-dating app, therefore almost all of my dates are first dates.
I don’t get many returning customers, if you know what I mean?
’ The claw is out and the red hair is pushed back off his face.
Again, the sunlight catches the lighter chestnut hairs in his wild beard.
‘I’m hardly the poster boy for blind dates. ’
Suddenly I’m lost for words. It’s so sad. I just stare at him. He holds my eye for a few seconds.
‘I doubt that’s true,’ I say then. But I look away.
He secures the thick black bike lock around the iron bar of the saddle. ‘I’m a big boy, I’ll survive.’ He swings his leg over the crossbar, holds the handlebars. ‘I know my self-worth.’
Suddenly, I feel a little light-headed. It must be the heat of the sun and the caffeine consumption and the news about Logan’s return. I slide on my shades. ‘Bye.’ I snap the word, step down off the path.
‘Right, yeah sure . . . See ya, Grace.’ He pedals away standing up from the seat, his long, lean body swaying left to right as he picks up the pace and vanishes around the corner onto Drury Street.
‘Yeah, see ya, Donal.’ Slowly I wiggle my fingers around the handles on the bags, slightly raise them to the empty space he’s just occupied.
A slight furrow forms on my brow as I absentmindedly tug at the frayed threads on my shorts, and a vague sense of unease settles in my stomach as I spin around and walk towards my flat on Old Camden Street.
This has been the strangest day. I just need to buy that bottle of wine on my way home, finish the train and hemming on Belinda’s wedding dress, pour a large glass and decompress.
I click onto my Spotify and select Lily Allen as I tramp the pavements back to Old Camden Street.