Chapter Twelve
Then I remember to breathe. I point at him from across the table. ‘Clamper . . . uh-huh, that has to be the worst!’ But my heart’s still racing a little faster. That was so weird is what I’m really thinking. We are so alike.
‘How do they sleep at night?’ His lip curls again, then he nods to the plate of wings.
‘Don’t let them go cold,’ he says, and we happily tuck into the chicken wings in a lovely, comfortable silence.
I don’t feel any need to fill the stillness as we people-watch and eat.
The restaurant is filling up to capacity and a chatty queue forms behind the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign.
The famous secret-wings-recipe sauce is utterly delicious but hot and spicy so I drain my water.
Donal sees my empty glass and puts down his pint to pour me another, but there is only a dribble of water left.
‘You’re almost out of wine, too. Oh, sorry, I’ve been having such a good time I hadn’t noticed.
Forgive me, won’t happen on the next date,’ he says, but as he twists in his seat to get the attention of the busy staff, I feel riddled with guilt.
I stare at the ground. I need to tell him this isn’t a date-date.
‘Grace? Hello? Grace? I said are ya all right?’ Donal’s waving his hand slowly in front of me. I jerk back to the moment and focus on him as a look of pure concern washes over his face.
‘Um, yeah, sorry. Yeah, I’m f-fine.’ I uncurl my hands, I feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead. ‘I-I just had a busy day . . . eh, long, ya know.’
‘I was just checking. It was a Pinot . . . but . . . I saw . . .’ he trails off.
I dip my fingers in the bowl, wipe them in my stained napkin and crush it into a ball.
‘You’re tired.’ He shakes his head at the approaching waiter.
‘Full,’ I say as he makes the sign for the bill. Then, ‘What? No. No!’ I protest. ‘Finish your wings, please! And are you getting the bill? W-why?’ Again I stutter, confused, fumbling to grab my glass for the end of my wine.
‘It’s fine, I can see . . . you’re tired.’ His eyebrows squish together as he fidgets with the metal cord ends on the uneven strings on his hoodie. He pulls them so that the toggles are even.
‘Oh, um . . . do I look tired? No, it’s just, I was busy today but a bit, yeah, just a little bit.
I’ve been working so hard with this client, you see.
The wedding date is nearly upon us and there are three bridesmaids and I’ve one flying in from America .
. .’ I’m thrown and babbling. ‘But don’t .
. . you don’t have to get the bill, we can finish the dinner?
’ Now I’m not sure if he wants out or if he genuinely thinks I look tired.
‘Can I say something to you?’ Donal’s voice is now soft and very low as he leans over almost face-to-face with me. I can see the muscles twitching in his neck.
‘Sure.’ I’m more than a little baffled at all this and his change in tone.
‘I know I overstepped the mark mentioning a second date, because now I’m not sure you even consider this a date, and that’s all on me.
Let’s call it a night? Why don’t you take the wings to go?
Be a shame to waste them. I’d a lovely night, thank you, Grace.
I loved spending time with you. You were so refreshing to talk to—’
Olivia is back now, fast with the bill and she drops it in the centre of the table on a little silver tray with two wrapped mints.
‘Can we box these up to go, please?’ Donal asks her, pointing to the wings, and I’m completely flummoxed that he’s cut the date short. I never got to ask him to Mia’s divorce party. But somehow, suddenly I don’t really care about that. I do care that I’ve hurt his feelings.
‘No . . . I-I didn’t. I don’t . . .’ I hold my hand across my chest to steady my breath again.
‘You don’t want me to box them to take away?’ Olivia asks me.
‘Not for me . . . No, um, you take them, Donal,’ I mumble.
Donal nods at her and she picks up the bowl. ‘Sure, yeah, I hate to waste food, ya know.’
‘Aye, I’ll just grab a wee box.’ She heads back towards the kitchen, clearly reading the room.
‘I mean . . . I want . . . please, let me go halves on the bill, at least.’ I twist in my chair to reach back for my bag.
‘Not at all. Please, let me pay, if that’s okay? I asked you out, after all . . .’ He tilts his head as I raise my eyes to meet his.
I stand up. ‘Donal, I—’ He unfolds his tall frame to stand, too. He moves behind my seat and helps move my chair further back.
‘Grace, I understand. I know you aren’t over Logan.
I saw that moment you had there when I mentioned a second date .
. . Well, although I’m no Romeo, I’ve had my heart broken, too.
Shattered, actually. It took me a long time to get over my ex – I mean, I’m there now but it took a hot minute.
’ He pulls his ancient wallet from his back pocket, tears open the Velcro and drops his credit card onto the little tray. I’m struck by the vintage nature of it.
‘I’m so sorry.’ My voice is small but I don’t lie to him.
‘I get it. I really do. Can I call you a cab on my app or walk you to a rank or just . . .?’
Olivia returns with the credit card machine, Donal keys in his four-digit pin, his hair masking his face as he thanks her and tells her he prefers to tip cash, folding a twenty euro note into her hand.
Olivia beams at him. ‘Ach, nice one!’
‘It’s okay, thank you, though.’
Throwing the thin strap of my bag over my shoulder, it falls and Donal attempts to help me retrieve it. I struggle to get it to stay, our fingers touch, it’s strangely and unexpectedly electric. He snaps his hand away. We are beyond awkward now.
‘Well, thanks so much for dinner,’ I tell him quickly, my eyes looking at my slouchy boots before I look back up.
‘Not at all. My pleasure.’ He stuffs his hands into the small pockets of his grey hoodie, his elbows pointing to the roof.
‘If . . . well . . . you know where to find me; well at least Rebecca does.’ He pulls his hands out, zips up the hoodie and then swipes his oxblood boot along the vinyl flooring.
‘Yeah, I do.’ I cast my eye to the door, then smile up at him, but with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
He extends his hand towards the door. ‘You’re really great, Grace.’ He smiles at me. ‘Really something . . . Don’t give up on your bridal-design business, keep at it, yeah? You can do it. I know you can.’
‘I will.’ There is a knot in my throat and I don’t know why.
‘I’ll just wait for Olivia to come back with the wings, take care,’ he tells me, and I turn and walk out of the restaurant trying to swallow this emotion.
*
Outside, I pick up the pace. The night air is sticky and humid in Temple Bar, thick with the smell of vinegary chipper chips, the lingering aroma of kebabs and stale beer.
The pavements are heaving with tourists.
The iconic opening guitar-riff of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ rings out from The Quays bar as I clutch my bag strap tight.
I weave in and out through the heaving crowds and keep my head down.
A lovers’ quarrel gains traction. Although I love living in town, I’m not a fan of walking through it alone at night.
I’ve an ache in the pit of my stomach and feel like bursting into tears.
I was really enjoying myself with Donal and it was completely unexpected.
God, I really hope I didn’t hurt his feelings.
I stride on towards 18 Old Camden Street, still thinking about him.
Donal is great. Brilliant company, a fantastic, attentive listener; funny, charming, smart, full of personality and so emotionally aware.
But he’d read me like a book. I put my earbuds in and click into my Walking Down the Aisle playlist, the soft rhythm of ‘Somewhere Only We Know’ kicks in and, as I head up South Great Georges Street, the lyrics make me pine for Donal.
‘Stop being an idiot,’ I hiss under my breath. ‘Logan is still the love of your life and you just need him back.’