Chapter 2 An Experiment in Flirting with Brad Pitt #2
I shot a glance up at his face and looked at him for the first time.
Goddammit. He was pretty good-looking. Probably a good decade younger than I was, but pretty good-looking nonetheless.
Oh God. This whole flight is going to be one endless, excruciating date.
I felt trapped. I looked around for the emergency exits.
He laughed and smiled. I wondered if it was a real smile. “Sure! Why not?”
Why not? Maybe because it sounds terrible, Chad. The last thing that you’re going to want when you’re getting wasted on Guinness and flirting with gorgeous Irish women is a forced, awkward guilt drink—or, God forbid, a dance!—because you were emotionally blackmailed for free cookies.
“Oh, no, thank you.”
His smile dropped and I realized that I had been rude. Shit! Fix it!
“I mean . . . I’m just a terrible dancer.
I’m, you know . . . just thinking of your feet.
” He looked confused. “I mean . . . not thinking of them because I have a foot fetish or anything, I just don’t want to step on them, that’s what I mean.
” I laughed uncomfortably and then turned away and stared at the screen, which was flashing up the flight map of how much longer we had to fly as some sick kind of torture.
But, as if forcing two complete strangers to dance together were no big deal, Sheila forged onward before I could press the “call flight attendant” button to feign a medical emergency.
“How are you both gettin’ over? It’s an hour or two from Shannon. Maybe you could go together?”
My blood chilled.
“Well, a couple of buddies are meeting me at the airport, renting a car, and driving up. But yeah, I’m sure we could give you a ride, Maya, if you want. The more the merrier!”
This is getting out of control. Shut it down!
“Nope.” Don’t be an asshole! “I mean, that’s just .
. . the nicest! But no, I really. Shouldn’t.
I already have a driver arranged, and . .
.” I didn’t. I’d be taking the bus. “It’s .
. . you know . . . can’t cancel it!” I looked at my phone and pressed some random buttons as if I could somehow magically call Ireland in the middle of the night from forty thousand feet in the air to cancel my imaginary limousine.
“But damn. You know, too late. Grrrr!” I clenched my phone in my fist and shook it in the air.
What. The actual fuck. Are you doing right now, Maya?
Okay. Section 3a of Protocol for Awkward Conversation Extraction: Where full and permanent extraction is not possible, initiate temporary self-removal procedure and return only when it can be deduced that the conversation has moved on without you.
Note: A small lie may be necessary. Mention bathroom stuff.
“Would you . . .” I stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry, Sheila, but could you? I suddenly have to pee. Like real bad.”
When I had returned from pretending to pee, I smiled, said I was feeling sick, put in my headphones, and politely ignored them for the rest of the flight. Thank God for protocol.
AS THE BUS made its way slowly northeast, I caught my first real glimpse of Ireland. And it was every bit as green as they say.
The fattest black-and-white cows I had ever seen seemed to be everywhere.
Masses of sheep slid across huge swathes of land like cotton balls in a hurry, somewhat haphazardly contained by crumbling stone walls.
It was gorgeous. I reminded myself that I liked getting out of my comfort zone and smiled.
I took a B-roll video from the window and sent it to Simone.
Two hours later, I arrived at the bus stop in Lisdoonvarna. Jackie the matchmaker had promised to be there to pick me up, but he wasn’t. This struck me as perhaps not the very best of signs. I called him, but there was no answer, so I left a message.
The village itself looked adorable. Colorfully painted stone buildings huddled around small streets and squares, all decked out with bright bunting strung across the street from shop to pub. Music played somewhere nearby.
When I finally got a text from Jackie, it was in all caps.
BE UP IN TEN IRISH MINUTES.
I smirked. What a ridiculous thing to say. I was sure he’d never say that to a local. It was just something to charm the tourists. But it worked. I was charmed.
I recognized him instantly, of course. His pictures and videos had been all over the Internet.
There was even a pub here called the Matchmaker with a giant mural of Jackie’s face right on the front of the building.
He was a short man, a little bit round in the middle, with a wild, unreasonable amount of dark gray hair that he either had not bothered to tame or was incapable of domesticating.
It stuck out in all directions to match his eyebrows. I stood and smiled wide.
“Is that yourself, Maya?”
His stride didn’t slow as he walked right in and grabbed me for a swift, tight hug that I hadn’t seen coming.
I wasn’t usually a stranger hugger, but somehow I found I didn’t mind.
Then he pulled away and held me out to study me.
“Well, you’re the spitting image of Angelina Jolie.
” A laugh burst out of me. I was absolutely no such thing!
I wouldn’t look like Angelina even if she got stung in the face by a bee and then fell off her bike into an electric fence.
“They’ll be lining up from here to Ballyteige. Easiest money I’ve ever made.”
“Ohhh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” I grinned, and he clapped me on the back with a laugh, grabbed my suitcase, and started walking. I followed along, but despite having the longer set of legs, I had to work to keep up.
“Now, what kind of shoes are you wearing?” He looked back and nodded. “Good. I like a sensible woman.”
Oh boy. That gave my intuition a prickle of unease. “Why? Where are we going, Jackie? To your cottage?”
“Oh, no. It’s after five already. Sure, why would we want to waste time with driving all over the county just to escort your luggage home and drive all the way back here for the festival?”
I stopped short in the middle of the empty street. “Oh. But I’ve been traveling all day, and it was a lot, and there were a lot of people, and I was kinda hoping to have a shower before I . . . you know.” I nodded in the direction of the music but couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Don’t you be worrying about yourself, now. Most of these young fellas have just come in from working in the field, and they didn’t bother themselves with showers either.”
That sure doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Don’t you want to . . . umm”—I swallowed—“ask me some questions first or something?”
“Now, Maya, listen.” He stopped walking and gave me a serious look. “I’ve been making matches for a fair few years now. And the best thing is just to strike while the iron’s hot.”
I grimaced. It was absolutely not what I wanted to hear. But I nodded seriously and decided to go with it (see fig. 1).
I had to stop letting Simone help me with my decision trees.
We walked past a statue of a couple dancing and made our way to the square, or more like Jackie grabbed my hand and pulled me along behind him.
For such a tiny village, it was packed. I couldn’t see through the crowd, but as we wove through, space opened up, and with a twist of trepidation in my stomach, I saw what everyone was watching. Good God, no. Dancing.
Was I going to have to dance?
“Shall we go to the bar first and purchase ourselves some courage?”
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “Yes, please, Jackie. That is actually exactly what I need right now.”
“Glad to hear you say so. The bar is a great place to meet a fella.”
I gulped. So. We’re just doing this. Right now. Like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do, and I should definitely not run screaming.
The pub was much darker and cooler than the square, but there was music and there were enough people to lend the bar a buzz without being too crowded. I put on my Loop earplugs to cut a bit of the background noise.
“First one’s my shout. What’ll you have?”
“Oh, thank you. Well, I think I sort of have to have a Guinness, don’t I? It’s my first drink in Ireland.”
“I’ll join you, then. Two pints of Guinness, please, Bobby.” The bartender nodded and started to pull a velvety pint, tipping each glass until nearly full, then putting them down to settle while we waited.
Jackie was a magnet. It seemed that everyone knew him, and they all had a hello or a handshake or a story. He was a celebrity here.
“There’s himself! Can I buy you a drink, Jackie?”
“Oh, hiya, Ronny. Let me introduce you to Mira here. She’s only just arrived from the States and is looking for a husband.”
Holy fucking shit!
Four gentlemen at the bar craned to look my way, their smiles stretching, and I took an involuntary half step back.
“Nice to meet you, Mira. I’m Padraig.” One man shamelessly stepped around Jackie and squeezed in next to me at the bar with his hand out.
“It’s Maya, actually. Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand, but he didn’t let go.
“So, you’re looking for an Irish husband, then, is it? And you would move over, like?”
Holy crap. Please let go of me. I’m not ready! How were we talking about husbands? I had asked Jackie for a few dates. No one said anything about husbands!
I laughed nervously. He still didn’t let go of my hand.
My eyes darted to Jackie for rescue, and he gave me a smile and nodded encouragingly. He couldn’t be serious. I was thirty-eight, and while I didn’t know the age of this gentleman, I could tell that computers were probably still newfangled to him. His hand was so hot and moist.
Don’t be rude. Don’t be rude! “Oh . . . I, uhh . . . You never know!”
“Stop hogging all the girls, Padraig.” Another man came up to interrupt, and I was relieved to have a polite reason to break the handhold.
“Hello. I’m Maya.” I guess this is just how things are done here. I shook the new man’s hand with a smile and then stole my hand quickly back.