Chapter 3
Aidan
The Hare’s Breath is, by far, the smallest venue I’ve played in two years.
In fact, there’s hardly a stage at all, just a platform elevated a couple steps up in a corner, but that’s part of the appeal.
During the right songs, it’s like the crowd and I are one.
Experiencing the elation and heartbreak of each lyric together.
I’ve played across Europe, but there’s nothing like a pub gig in Ireland.
Garlands of orange and yellow leaves drape around the vintage Guinness ads and Jameson signs lining the wooden walls, and the pub’s carved logo of a Celtic rabbit hangs above the bar. Memories also reverberate throughout the cozy space.
Tonight, I’m wearing my own clothes. My stylist would probably turn up her nose at the well-worn Rory Gallagher tee, but Fionn reminded me that only a pretentious prick would show up in a hometown pub in designer gear. I’d almost forgotten how flashy my wardrobe is now.
Fionn waves to me from a corner snug and tilts his head toward the two women next to him. They’re pretty, and he looks extremely proud of himself. That particular snug is the last place I want to sit. Still, I ought to say hello before he makes arses out of us both.
“Grab me one, please?” I ask Saoirse as I pass her on her way to the bar.
Her long black hair swings as she nods and disappears into the thick crowd. She played the fiddle on the “Come Here to Me” EP and on Heaven-Bound . Despite my shameless begging, she refuses to abandon her florist business to accompany me on tour.
Tonight is an impromptu show, but thanks to the wonder of a couple social media posts from fans who spotted me, the audience has already ballooned to three times its original size. I’ve never seen the Hare’s Breath so busy, and Saoirse and I played it weekly for years.
Bodies are packed in, making it difficult to shuffle to the corner snug. Most nights, peat still burns in the fireplace, but it’s not needed tonight. The earthy aroma lingers anyway and mingles with the faint scent of beer.
“I’ve listened to Heaven-Bound a hundred times,” one of the women says when I arrive at the snug. “When’s the next album out? Does it have a name yet?”
“We won’t tell,” her friend adds, voice silky with suggestion. “Promise.”
Usually, I’d flirt right back. Maybe even spend the night with one, to help stave off the loneliness of touring off and on for the past year and a half.
But being back in this city—in this particular wood-paneled snug in this ale-soaked pub—has me out of sorts.
Too many memories linger here. The first time I kissed Cielo.
Her cheering for me as I performed. Our heated discussions about what makes a film a “Christmas movie” (I say a single scene set during the holiday qualifies; Lo said more than 30 percent needs to be Christmas-centric), acceptable popcorn toppings (I’m a butter purist; she drowned the kernels in caramel and chocolate), or which Radiohead album is superior (obviously it’s OK Computer, but Lo made a compelling argument for In Rainbows ).
“I’m afraid I can’t share anything yet,” I reply. There isn’t much to say about my upcoming album. Everything I’ve written in the last year has felt too shallow. The label wanted me to pivot to a more poppy sound if the best I can give them is mediocre material.
“Thanks for coming out,” I tell the women. “Enjoy the show.”
They share a disappointed glance as Fionn jumps in.
“We’re brothers. Full brothers. Not step or half.”
“That’s nice.” They already look bored. I push through the crowd toward the tiny stage where Saoirse is waiting and Fionn follows.
“Jaysus, the way they were looking at you, I thought they’d both go back to your hotel,” Fionn says, sounding torn between resentment and awe.
“You have a vivid imagination. Most of my fans only ask for a hug,” I say, stepping onto the raised platform. “Besides, I’m not at a hotel. I’m staying with Mam and Da. You know that.”
Fionn scoffs. “I know Mam has been running around the place like mad and had me up on a ladder to clean the gutters for your visit. The gutters, Aidan. As if you would notice. I told her rockstars prefer to trash hotel rooms anyway.”
“Oh yeah, this one’s Jimi Hendrix reincarnated.” Saoirse snorts.
I smile. Some rockstar I am. Turning down a night with a beautiful woman to stay at home with my mam.
“How long are you in town?” Saoirse asks.
“Till mid-October. Going to Callum and Lark’s wedding in two weeks, of course,” I answer. That’ll give me about a month to spend with my family and write some new material. “Come on, let’s get at it. Fionn, will you join us this time?”
He scans the crowd for the fans from earlier. He’s a lot like I was at twenty.
“Don’t worry about them.” I wrap an arm around his shoulders. “I want to enjoy a ceílí with my brother.”
Fionn’s brow bounces as he picks up his bodhrán drum. “Women love a musician, don’t they?”
Not the one I wanted to love me back. I force my mouth to mimic his smile. “Sure do.”
Saoirse starts us off, drawing the bow across her fiddle in a tune from my latest EP. Fionn thumps the painted skin of his bodhrán in time. Under my fingers, the mandolin is soft and pliable, filling the pub with sweet notes.
It’s simple. It’s brilliant. It’s home.
Caught in the electric buzz of performance, I grin at Fionn.
“Ah, look.” He gestures toward the bar with his chin and mouths, “There’s yer wan.”
Can’t he focus on the music for a bit, instead of women? My gaze drifts across the bodies packed in front of the stage to see what he’s on about now. My jaw drops when I notice who is seated at the bar.
“Lo,” I murmur, my hands on autopilot through the familiar song. But I can barely hear it now.
Even sipping a drink at the local, Cielo Valdez carries herself with a sense of sophistication and confidence.
Lush, shoulder-grazing brunette hair frames her full cheeks, and an elegant top hints at her dangerous curves.
She’s a gorgeous mirage. If I dare blink, she’ll disappear.
Countless times before, I’ve spotted her in an audience, but it was only a trick of the stage lights and wishful thinking. This time, she’s real.
Our eyes meet and I nearly lose my place. Arched brows raise in surprise, then form a scowl. If looks could kill, Cielo would cremate me on the spot. Unflinching, she stares me down, lifting her glass to the juicy lips that had kissed me softly and cut me deep.
Emotions knot in my chest. Nostalgia, the ache of longing, the pain of rejection…regret.
Two years have passed since we’ve spoken.
I knew I’d see her soon what with the wedding, but I wasn’t prepared for it to be tonight.
Her life has been a mystery to me since we broke up.
Callum never mentions her, good man, and I’ve never worked up the courage to ask.
It’s over; Cielo cuts ties to anyone who hurts her.
The way I really feel about her remains unspoken, but maybe I can put it into music for the sake of my own sanity. Not one of my original songs, that’s hitting too close to home. Something else. After we finish the song, I lean close, whisper the next title to Saoirse.
Her attention darts to Cielo at the bar. “It’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
“Maybe it is. So?”
Lo will know it’s for her. She won’t forgive me, but maybe she’ll remember what it used to feel like, coming here together.