Chapter 27
Aidan
“Come on, when was the last time you had a real meal?” I ask Lo during our lunch call.
Our heart-to-heart at the Long Walk was only the night before last, but I can’t wait to see her again.
Today she’s in class, not twelve hours of clinicals, and that feels like the perfect excuse to feed her a proper supper.
“Let’s just say, yesterday I fought Oisín over a beat-up granola bar he found in his coat pocket.”
“How was it?”
“You know, it’s really sexy how you assume I won.”
I move the mobile to my other ear as I rake the garden. Leaves fell around me all morning when I’d worked on songs under the yellowing canopy of a tree. “It’s settled, then. I’ll pick you up after your lecture. Oh, and my mam only serves fish on Fridays, is that all right?”
“Reminds me of home.” Nostalgia tinges her voice.
We haven’t talked about her father, other than my asking if she’d spoken to him since their argument. I couldn’t help but feel like her anger at him mirrored the anger she held for me. Lo’s afraid of abandonment. Understandably so.
At the end of our conversations, I love you stays lodged in my throat. We’re not there yet. A pause rests in its place where we can both feel its absence. It feels like an unfinished song.
My mobile vibrates in my hand again before I even put it down.
Martin’s rapid-fire voice comes through the line. “Aidan, how are you? I wanted to see if you need anything before the festival.”
“Can you please schedule some practice with the touring band? The new songs are really shaping up.” Fionn’s been providing a steady beat on the bodhrán while I experiment with different arrangements. Lyrics have been coming easier, too. I filled up my notebook and had to run to Dunnes for another.
“None of that sad bastard shit, right?”
“I think you’ll like them.” Why did the label even sign a singer-songwriter if they wanted to control what I wrote? I bet Glen Hansard never had to deal with this.
“We don’t have time to waste on something that won’t sell.”
I bristle at the idea that song crafting is ever a waste of time. Even if the song is never recorded or performed, the act of creation itself matters.
Nevertheless, I promise to record what I have so far and send it to him.
Breaking Lo’s heart got me to the top of the charts, and I’ve avoided writing a song about it for two years.
Mostly because I didn’t want to end up regularly performing something that would force me to confront my guilt.
I’m finally getting over my cowardice enough to articulate just how much regret I feel.
For the rest of the afternoon, until it’s time to pick up Lo, I work on a new song, tentatively titled “Apology Tour.”
Da practically leaps out of his battered La-Z-Boy when I bring Cielo home.
“Glad you’re here, love.”
“Thanks for the invitation to dinner, Mr. O’Toole,” she answers with a kiss on his cheek.
“James,” he insists. “I keep telling you.”
The smell of freshly baked bread, smoked fish, and garlic fill the house. Lo inhales deeply. “I literally just started salivating.”
“My mam’s trying to impress you.” I appreciate the sentiment; I want Lo to stick around, too.
“I’ve been thinking about her seafood chowder for the past two years.”
We turn the corner into the kitchen. Mam’s rapping a spoon against the shells of mussels gathered on the chopping board. They pinch closed except for one, which she puts atop a heap of potato peels.
“Oh my goodness. Cielo!” She pulls her into a hug that nearly crushes the autumnal bouquet she brought from Saoirse’s shop. Cielo isn’t a big hugger, but she can’t escape my mam. “These are brilliant.”
“Thanks for having me, Ruth; this smells incredible. Can I give you any help?”
Mam rummages through a cupboard until she finds a vase and drops Lo’s flowers into it. “You’re sweet, but I can manage the last few minutes on my own,” she assures Lo. “Aidan, will you hand me the dill, please? It’s in the press behind you. Then go tell Marie and Fionn supper’s almost ready.”
Distracted by the relaxed smile on Lo’s face and the way her shoulders have dropped, I reach into the press.
If only she felt the same ease around her own family.
When I turn to find the bottle of dried dill, soulless painted eyes stare back at me from among the spices and pantry staples. I recoil with a yawp.
One more ventriloquist dummy scare and I’ll need to be fitted for a pacemaker.
Mam chuckles heartily and Lo collapses in laughter. A lovely flush paints her cheeks. Marie pops into the doorway with a cackle worthy of a cinema villain.
“You’re a menace!” I yank the dummy from the press by its neck and shove it toward my sister. Mam’s outfitted it in its own Fair Isle jumper.
Batting her lashes, Marie cradles it in her arms like a baby and stretches her mouth into a sinister smile. “He just wants to be your friend.”
“Stop being creepy.”
Cielo throws an arm around her and examines the dummy. “I think he’s kinda cute. Maybe you can teach me how to throw my voice?”
Marie’s eyes light up. “Of course!”
“And he’ll sit next to me for dinner,” Lo jokes.
“No ventriloquism at the table,” I plead. “At least put that horrible thing in your room while we eat. Or better yet, the bin.”
We sit, my da taking the helm of the table.
Fionn bursts in through the back door and snatches a piece of bread, stuffing it into his mouth with a casual, “Hey, Lo,” before Da demands he wash up.
I pull out the chair for Lo and our eyes meet.
Mam proudly ladles chowder into everyone’s bowls. Da says grace, and we dig in.
They ask Cielo about her rotations, Da tells an exaggerated fishing tale, Fionn recounts a story wherein he was the hero in his team’s latest match.
It’s likely more exaggerated than Da’s fish story, but Lo is nodding along in between bites all the same.
Before long, our spoons clink the bottom of the bowls, and the last of the bread has soaked up the soup.
After Lo thanks my mom for the third time, I can tell she’s appreciative of more than home cooking. She attempts to gather the bowls at the end of the meal and my mam shoos her away.
The people I love most, all in one place. Moving back is the right decision—I just hope Cielo still feels the same way.
“I have something for you. Come here.” I lead her down the hallway.
She narrows her eyes. “Are you allowed to have girls in your room?”
“Only if I promise to keep the door open.”
The guest room is generic, but over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten comfortable.
Old clothes dug out of storage hang in the wardrobe alongside my London clothes.
Fionn is right, city folk dress to impress.
In Galway, being spotted at the neighborhood pub wearing anything designer will garner “fashion show” jokes and mutters of developing notions.
We relish the opportunity to destroy people’s confidence.
“Got you this.” I hand her an LP inside a paper sleeve, feeling ridiculous. “I know you’re a vinyl girl. Figured this would be the best introduction.”
She slides out the record to reveal the deluxe edition of Heaven-Bound . Gold foil on the title shines as she flips it over to read the track listing. Lo rises up on her toes to peck my cheek. “Thank you. I’m excited to finally give it a proper listen.”
Suddenly, I’m feeling shy. “There’s something else I wanted you to hear. A new song I’m still fine-tuning.”
“Oh my god, yes!” Lo sits at attention on my bed. It’s adorable.
I grab my mandolin and sling the woven strap around my shoulder.
To warm up my hands, I pluck out a quick chromatic descent, starting on the seventh fret and playing my way down to the first. “Fair warning, it’s going to sound better with the rest of the band.
The mandolin is really more a melody instrument.
It doesn’t have the full range for rhythm—”
“Just play the song already.”
“I’m trying to woo you here. Let me work up to it.”
Playfully impatient, she taps her fingers on my quilt.
Sure, I am stalling. But I haven’t performed for her in so long and Lo’s opinion matters.
Perhaps more than anyone else’s, considering the subject matter.
The advice I’d given to a nervous Callum rings true in this moment, too: It’s not a performance. It’s a promise.
I keep my attention on the fretboard. Fionn and I have tweaked the arrangement a handful of times and I’m working on developing the muscle memory to play it without focusing so hard.
The song is bright like Cielo’s intelligent hazel eyes.
Energetic to reflect the way my heart kicks my sternum every time she kisses me.
Fierce and battle-ready, yeah
You’re gearing up for war
But I kneel at your feet on my apology tour
Every beat, every song
All the times I’ve done wrong
Now I humble myself to the one who I adore
Our hearts beat in time
When our bodies intertwine
Babe I’m yours forevermore
Begging for forgiveness on the apology tour
When I dare to look up at her during the chorus, Lo is rapt.
I can’t help but grin right back. She brings out the best in me and I want to offer the same support to her.
But first, I have to convince her that we really are better off together—especially when it doesn’t match the vision of her five-year plan.
I close out the song and clear my throat. “It’s, uh, something like that.”
She springs off the bed and throws her arms around my neck.
“I take it you approve?”
“Wooing successful. It’s incredible, A.”
“Thank you for inspiring me.” I press my forehead against hers. “There’s one last thing I want to tell you. I gave my landlord notice to vacate today. I’m moving back to Galway. Officially.”
Hope flickers on Cielo’s face. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing worth writing a hundred songs about.
“I know how you feel about long distance,” I rush in before she can say anything, “but we aren’t your parents. We’ll put in the effort when I’m away on tour. We’ll make it work. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Aidan. Let’s prove it to each other this time.”