The Half of It
Chapter One
Juniper
During the three-hour ride, I focus on the raindrops forming tiny tributaries on the train windows. The lush countryside zips by in blurred lines of emerald, and I zone out. Flying over an entire ocean worked up my nerves so much that I couldn’t close my eyes on the plane, let alone rest. Watching scenery pass by at ground level feels therapeutic, and this is the most at ease I’ve been since getting the results two weeks ago.
A garbled announcement jerks me back to reality, and my body tenses.
“Next stop, Ballygrá.”
A stout ticket inspector walks by and nods toward the silver train door as a reminder to depart. “S’your station, miss.” The man has a sing-songy accent, which I barely understand, and cheery, twinkling eyes. “On holiday?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Don’t get many tourists stoppin’ off here. What brings you to the South-West of Ireland?”
“Work. And family.” That word tastes foreign on my tongue. Family.
“Business and pleasure.”
I match his excitement with a weak smile, because I’d describe this trip differently. Stressful. Anxiety-inducing. The pleasure will happen in a couple weeks when I’m back in the office, filing my article.
We lurch to a halt, and I ungracefully take my leave, throwing on my jacket in such a rush that I knock someone sitting by the aisle. I apologize in a hurry, tugging my phone from its charger and crumpling my notebook into my backpack.
“Here, I can grab this for you,” the oblivious train inspector offers as he reaches for my worn-in canvas duffel. He means well, but my hand swoops in before the offer leaves his mouth.
“No, I’ve got it. Thank you.”
Growing up in homes that never felt like homes helped me master the art of packing everything important to me in a single bag. I prefer to carry the weight on my own.
He nods and leads me over to the doors as they open. A brisk October chill greets me, and two other people exit onto the damp, empty platform. What a stark contrast from the crowded subways on my daily commutes. The train screeches away and fills the atmosphere with the excruciating sound of metal scraping metal, but once it’s gone, there’s an emptiness, like the air is missing something. No blaring taxi horns or curses from bike riders vying for space on congested streets. Instead, the hollow sound of a church bell in the distance marks fifteen minutes past the hour, although I don’t know which hour, thanks to jet lag.
And what is that smell?
Shit. Literal shit. The dense, earthy scent of what I assume is animal manure from a nearby farm invades my senses, and I grimace. I’m definitely not in New York anymore.
The other passengers have already disappeared as the wind picks up, spitting icy rain droplets on my face. I dodge the miniature lakes forming between the uneven cobblestones, crossing the road as instructed by Cara’s exclamation point-filled texts ( Hi Juniper! At the cafe until you arrive!! Can’t wait to meet!!! Xx ). At the end of the block, past a row of colorful homes, I turn onto the main street. Sun-weathered wooden signs protrude from the rainbow of building facades, including a clothing store with knit items on display and a rustic pub with a red awning. Ballygrá looks exactly like the photograph I stared at online so often that I bookmarked the page. I’m there. I’m here , and this town lies before me in all of its charm and glory.
Then I see it: Cara’s Cafe. Golden twinkle lights hug the door frame, and a thin layer of steam has accumulated on the windows. A standing figure comes into focus at a table near the front.
Is that her?
It’s one thing to send messages back and forth, but something else entirely to meet this woman I’m connected to by blood. The blurry human form stills, and I want to bolt. I didn’t even care about that damn DNA kit. I only used it because I arrived home pissy and spiteful after my editor passed me up for yet another promotion. There also may have been happy-hour cosmos and venting to my best friend Lissie involved. My buzzed brain imagined taking the test as a cosmic middle finger to my workplace.
Gutted with panic, I twirl, race across the street, and shoulder open a weighty ornate door. Inside, I find a different world—an Irish pub, but not like the ones in the city. To my left is a sophisticated oak bar top, and a hazy late-morning glow shines through the stained-glass windows. The room smells musty, like this very space was packed with patrons only hours ago. An elegant banister that looks hand carved leads upstairs to my right. The sign above the old-timey cash register says McCarthy’s Pub: Cash Only.
A little liquid courage can’t hurt, so I check the time. 11:19 a.m. I usually reserve morning booze for weekend brunch, but considering the circumstances, I’ll make an exception.
A tinny guitar solo blasts from a speaker in the back. At the far end of the bar, a slim bartender faces the wall while bobbing his head to the song. He holds what looks like a professional camera, and the LCD screen has him so transfixed that my unceremonious, soggy plop onto the closest barstool doesn’t catch his attention. Only once I plunk my bag and backpack on the ground does he shift his gaze my way, thrust the camera to his side, and scramble to lower the volume of the music.
He is not some rotund middle-aged man, which is sort of how I envisioned all Irish bartenders. This guy appears to be a couple years older than me at most, with a wispy mop of dirty blond hair and an angular face. As he moves toward me, his mossy-green eyes meet mine mid-stride.
“Anything,” I blurt out before he has the chance to ask me what I want. “Well, maybe something strong. Please.”
His mouth half opens as if he’s about to speak. The man sizes me up, and I wriggle on the seat under his attention. An abrupt wave of self-consciousness hits me. What do I look like—or worse, smell like—after a transatlantic flight and getting drenched on the walk from the train station? I finger-comb my wet bangs and pray I’m not a complete walking disaster.
“Whiskey for breakfast?”
The man’s thick brogue almost knocks me off my chair. I’ve heard all varieties of accents in the city, but nothing could have prepared me for this Irishman’s smooth lilt.
“Not quite,” I say, straightening up. The last thing I need is someone judging me for requesting hard liquor before noon. “I ate, so this is more like a digestif.”
“Posh.” He turns to grab a glass, and my gaze drags down his broad back. Yup, he’s just as good-looking from behind. I could definitely have fun with this guy in the bedroom.
My phone vibrates as if it knows I’ve forgotten the reason I flew to Ireland. Work. And Cara. I don’t have time to leave a trail of one-night stands in my wake, as much as I would like the release. I look at the screen, half expecting to see my editor demanding an update on the piece already.
LIS: Proud of you bb. You got this 3
I’d love to jump through the phone and tackle her with a hug. Whether she’s bringing a bottle of wine back to the apartment to celebrate work wins, or we’re binge-watching the latest reality TV shows to forget some terrible date, I can always count on Lis.
JUNE: Why are you awake right now? Isn’t it the middle of the night there?
LIS: This was a test. I set an alarm for 5am to see if you’d message when you arrived and you did not, so you have officially failed the test
Lis needs to give me some credit. Just because I’ve never traveled overseas doesn’t mean I’m a clueless tourist. Living on my own since I turned sixteen and spending nearly a decade in Manhattan count for something.
LIS: Remember the travel advice I gave you, but most importantly, enjoy your time with Cara. Nervous?
JUNE: Not really
LIS: You know she’s going to love you, just be yourself 3 She didn’t have to invite you to her wedding, but she did because she wants you there
JUNE: You are too good to me
LIS: I know
“Here.” The bartender slides a short broad glass filled with tawny liquid toward me. “Put it on the rocks for you. I think the cold’ll remove some of the bite.”
The way he says “you” seems almost like he’s cut the word in half, shortening it to a brief soft tone, and his “think” comes out sharper, more like “tink.” His manner of speaking is melodic, with valleys and mountains of sounds.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Rough morning then?”
“You could say that,” I answer with a rueful smile, grateful to have a hot guy to distract me. While meeting newly discovered half sisters in a foreign country is not my forte, flirting with cute guys in bars most definitely is. Not that I don’t want to meet Cara, but her enthusiasm intimidates me. We’d talked on the phone for about three minutes tops before she invited me to her wedding. My editor overheard me talking about the call the next day, and if not for that mistake, I wouldn’t be here.
Family has never done any good for me. While I wished for a real, normal household with all my heart growing up, at twenty-six years old, I’ve given up on that dream.
DNA tests don’t lie, though.
The whiskey tumbler jitters in my hand, so I release it from my death grip. All I have to do is walk across the street, go into the restaurant, and meet the sibling I never knew existed. Easy enough.
The thought flicks on a job-related light bulb in my head, and I use my Notes app to jot down my ideas.
“Sorry,” I tell the barman. “Quick work thing.”
He nods, giving me some space but not turning his back to me. He rolls up one of his sleeves to wipe down his workspace, and the veins tracing up his arm make my mouth go dry.
I rip my eyes away from him to type out my note. All I have to do is walk across the street, go into the restaurant, and meet the sibling I never knew existed. Perfect. This is the slice-of-life journalism my editor has requested lately. I’m here to prove I can write more than fluffy roundups of celebrity photos and bogus astrology quizzes. And if this goes well, Ethan promised me a recurring column on any lifestyle topic I want.
My own column.
It’s almost enough to make me forget that they gave us DNA tests as bonuses in lieu of something more useful. I would have preferred a Starbucks gift card, but Starbucks didn’t move into the same building two floors above us. The Starbucks CEO also didn’t start dating our editor in chief.
“So.” I stash my phone away, and my eyes glide over the empty seats. “Busy morning for you then, huh?”
“You could say that.” The corner of his mouth turns up in amusement, and he gives me another quick up-and-down. “Haven’t seen you here before. Just get in?”
“Yeah. About ten minutes ago on the train.”
“Welcome. I’m Aidan.”
We shake hands, and I admire the sculpted curves of his forearms up close. I don’t know what I like more—the strength of his hand or the rolling musicality of every word he speaks.
“Marissa,” I reply. He seems harmless enough that I could give him my real name, but old habits die hard. Lis and I have a pact to not share personal information with anyone whenever we go out, for safety’s sake, no matter how disarming their accent. Not like I’ll run into this guy again. Ballygrá is a small town, but really, how small can it be?
“Marissa.” A grin appears amid his five o’clock shadow. “Pleasure to meet you.”