Chapter 15 #2
Rob starts up a low chant of "go, go, go" that Fiadh joins immediately, abandoning her earlier position without a shred of shame, and within seconds some corner of the pub has picked it up too, complete strangers pounding tables for a woman they've never met.
I've never been a beer person, but this is nothing like the watery, transparent stuff back home. It's creamy and rich, almost like an espresso, and smoother than I ever expected. I finally lower the glass, wipe my lip with as much dignity as I can locate, and check the damage.
A perfect fucking split.
"Oh!" Rob barks, slapping the bar top, and Fiadh dissolves into laughter, clapping her hands together. But it's Cillian I feel, his gaze fixed on me, dark and steady while everyone else is losing their minds, a slow smile curving his mouth as he leans in close.
"Well done there, Ace," he murmurs.
Cillian wasn't kidding about the legendary pace of an Irish lock-in. I'm learning that while plenty of the stereotypes about the Irish are wildly off, their love of a drink is not one of them. I can barely keep up with the rounds landing in front of me.
For a woman who has refused beer her entire life, I'm doing a remarkable impression of a convert, because something about the place, or the company, has me actively loving Guinness now.
Cillian keeps warning me it won't taste the same back in the States, so I might lose the taste for it the second I land at SFO.
The night's spiraled well into the small hours. The music's louder, the talk looser, the laughter a constant low roar around the edges of every conversation. I'm fairly sure it's the most fun I've had, and the most relaxed I've felt, in months. Maybe longer.
Cillian's stayed glued to my side the whole time, making sure I'm never on the outside of a joke, leaning in to explain every name and bit of history, a warm constant in the middle of the noise.
And right now, I'm one dart away from cleaning Rob out of his last ten euro.
We're playing 501, and I've picked my way down to a neat fifty while poor Rob is still stranded somewhere in the nineties. Which is precisely why he's behind me with both hands clamped to his head.
"No, no, no." He groans as I step up to the oche. "You're going to make me lose my last bit of beer money to a Californian, aren't you?"
"You should have thought about that before challenging a professional." I roll the dart between my fingers, lining up the shot. Fifty to finish. One throw at the bull and it's over.
The little crowd that's gathered laughs, but it's Cillian's face that's the real threat to my aim. He's watching me with a look so openly affectionate it's almost a distraction. Almost. Because like I warned him back in California, I'm a bit of a shark at this.
I settle my weight, steady my breath, and let it fly.
The dart thuds dead into the bullseye.
"Whooo!" Fiadh shrieks, and the corner detonates into cheers and clapping, the fiddle in the back swelling like it's in on the celebration.
I take a graceful bow and cross to Rob, who's dragging both hands down his face in mock agony.
I hold out my palm. "Alright, Rob. Pay up."
He shakes his head and drops a crumpled tenner into my hand. "A fair win. You're an awful hustler, so you are."
We shake on it, both laughing, and I weave my way back to Cillian, who's tucked into a quieter corner with two fresh pints and a look that makes my stomach flip.
"You weren't kidding when you said you were a darts shark." He smiles and hands me one of the pints. "Where the hell did you get so good at that?"
"My ex-husband fancied himself a darts man, so I took it up to spend time with him." I lean back against the bar and sip the creamy stout. "The fun rather dried up once I started beating him every match."
"Tsk, tsk." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "The man clearly couldn't handle a formidable woman."
I laugh. "Yeah, well. That tracks with most of his greatest hits."
We look at each other for a long moment, and that familiar gravity takes hold. Somewhere in the last few hours, everything else has gone quiet. My dad's text, the press circling, the constant worry for Cillian's career, all of it has drifted to the far side of the world.
He's watching me over the rim of his pint, and whatever's in his expression says he's thinking something dangerously similar. Which is exactly why one of us needs to say something ordinary, fast.
"Um." I clear my throat. "What was that phrase you used with Rob earlier, when you first saw him? It sounded like a different language."
"Oh, me auld segotia?"
I nod, leaning in.
"Just local slang for an old friend, more or less." His brow furrows. "I think it's just a Dublin thing, actually. I’ve never once heard my cousins up in Donegal say it. But aye, a term of endearment."
“Is it from the Irish language? Sorry, I don't even know what it's called." I give a sheepish smile and sip my Guinness.
"Don't be sorry. In English we just call it Irish. Gaeilge is its own name for itself." He tilts his head, then laughs. "And I don't think auld segotia is even Irish. Haven't a clue where that one came from, if I'm honest."
"Do you actually speak it? Gaeilge?" I ask, doing my best with the pronunciation.
"Some." He gives a so-so wobble of his hand. "It's much stronger out west where I grew up than here in Dublin. I used to speak it fairly well. But it's one of those things where if you don't use it you lose it. I'd say I can get by, but I understand more than I can speak these days."
"Hmm. And what about some of the other slang words? I heard someone say eejit and gobshite."
He lets out a low laugh at my attempt at the accent. "Those are basically just ways of saying idiot. Though they can be affectionately derogatory, depending on the tone. Honestly, most of our slang is derogatory. Anything we can do to put a friend down, really."
I burst out laughing. "Yeah, I picked up on that the more I listened in tonight."
We look at each other for a long moment, and the music and chatter seems to dim around us. He shifts his weight against the bar, his face going slightly more serious, like he's working up to something.
"You know," he says, voice dropping low, "the family's all having dinner together tomorrow night. You should come."
"I don't know, Cillian." I hesitate, the alarm bells starting up in the back of my head.
"Wouldn't that be a huge risk? If the press catches wind of us socializing like that.
Even being here tonight is dangerous. And we still haven't talked about what we are, or where any of this is going, or if... "
I bite my lip, unable to finish the thought. It's glaringly obvious what's happening between us, and I can't even bring myself to care about the no-athletes rule anymore.
"You don't have to," he says, his smile turning gentle. "But I think we could manage it discreetly. And as for what we are... let's just view it as a dinner between friends. Just two very good friends hanging out."
A laugh bursts out of me, loud enough that a couple of heads at the bar turn our way. "Friends. Right. That's the framing we're going with."
"Strictly platonic." He's fighting a grin now. "Wholesome, even."
"Mhm. Two upstanding professional colleagues sharing a wholesome family meal."
"Exactly. Anything else would be wildly inappropriate."
I laugh, shaking my head at him as he grins back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I look at him for a long, quiet moment, weighing the logic against the longing.
"Okay. I'll come to dinner tomorrow."