Chapter 4
Lo
Being the inspiration for a hit love song is my villain origin story.
It’s been said that if a man writes you a sonnet or two, he loves you.
If a man writes you a dozen sonnets, he just loves writing sonnets.
Aidan is a man who just loves writing love songs.
With lyrics so beautiful, it’s easy to assume he feels more for his muse than he actually does.
Our eyes lock mid-song and I hold my breath.
That voice, resonant and earnest. I used to believe the romance he’s singing about was true.
It sounds so genuine. Those blue-green eyes somehow always feel so warm when his attention is on you, but what is that worth when you’re left shivering and alone in the end?
Aidan is devastating, if slightly different than I remember.
Longer auburn waves hang over his forehead.
A dense new beard covers his square jaw.
A snug band tee stretches across his chest and broad shoulders, cotton softened by countless washes.
His usually light, freckled skin is tanned, which is weird, but Celtic ink still twists up the corded arms that used to hold me tight.
Those days are long over.
Without breaking eye contact, I take another long sip of my beer. Bitter foam brushes my lip, but it’s nothing compared to the bitterness I feel inside. I shoot daggers his way. If he’s gonna show his face around the Hare’s Breath, I’m making sure he knows he’s unwelcome.
At least, to me. The rest of the patrons are going wild at this impromptu show and I can’t blame them: His stage presence and talent are hypnotizing.
Aidan leans close to the microphone. “This is a song that means a great deal to me—”
“Just sing it already, ya spanner!” his brother, Fionn, calls out, bodhrán in hand.
“Don’t rush me.”
Aidan strums at his mandolin and warm sounds envelop the pub. It’s “Boys Don’t Cry.”
Just like that, I’m transported back in time.
This same pub, three years ago. Our first date. The first time I heard Aidan sing.
To celebrate earning my bachelor’s in biology, Lark had bought me a ticket to visit her in Galway.
It was my first time traveling alone. My first time on a plane.
Lark and Callum were in a rough patch, and Aidan had been the solicitor to simultaneously save Callum’s business and his relationship with Lark.
From the moment our eyes first caught in the law office where he worked, I haven’t been the same.
Aidan’s dimple popped as he greeted me with a slightly gap-toothed smile and that was it. Game over.
Aidan took me to a tiny pub called the Hare’s Breath.
What I didn’t expect was for him to borrow someone’s guitar and step onto the corner stage.
His rich tenor voice cut through the murmurs and clinking glasses, sweet and strong, and he watched me as if I were the only person in the room.
Nimble fingers picked at the strings so effortlessly, I wanted them on my body.
I’d never heard the song before, but he told me later it was “Boys Don’t Cry” by the Cure.
Our first kiss was in the high-walled corner snug.
I can still feel the warmth of his palm wrapped around my thigh under the table.
His wavy hair mussed between my fingers.
I’d wanted a vacation fling, and Aidan, with his lilting voice and inked arms, was more than I could have hoped for. One night that changed my life.
Now, from the stage, Aidan’s eyes remain glued to mine. Something unnameable is there. Regret and longing and…He’s always been an incredible performer, but even I didn’t realize he could be this emotive.
Aidan reaches the chorus of “Boys Don’t Cry,” about knowing there is no second chance.
No. I don’t want to hear him sing those words; it hurts too much.
I hop off the barstool, pushing my way to the door before Aidan can get the words out.
When the vestibule door shuts, I lean against the wall, suddenly unable to take another step.
I can just hear his voice, slightly muffled.
I watch bustling tourists and locals on the cobblestone streets through the glass door and let the sound wash over me.
And then, the song is over. The crowd inside, oblivious to the drama unfolding in my heart, breaks into a hearty round of applause.
Screw this. I open the door and a gust of September chill ruffles the bunting and flags over the busy street.
I wrap my sweater tighter around my waist. Going out had seemed like such a good idea a half hour ago.
I consider texting that Dev Patel look-alike, before deciding what I really want is a kebab from one of the carts on Quay Street and a night of uninterrupted sleep.
Ten minutes later, I’m on a bench not far from the Hare’s Breath and tearing into glorious, hot meat on a stick when a smooth, familiar voice speaks from behind me.
“You were watching me.”