Chapter Eleven
Aidan
“So, maid of honor, what’ll it be?”
“You knew?” June sets the leftovers on the counter, her head cocked to one side in surprise.
“’Course. Cara texted me earlier today asking if I’d mind sharing the responsibilities with you. I’ve dreamed of standing up as best man for her my whole life, so I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed.”
“You should’ve said no.”
“I’m teasing you,” I say, wishing my joke landed better. “The more the merrier.”
“Oi, Danny! Two pints of the good stuff, would you?” one of our regulars shouts from the other end of the bar.
“On it,” I mumble back, wondering if inviting June to the pub had been an error in judgment. But if I hadn’t filled in for the poor fella who got food poisoning, Da would have—and what if he’d had a night planned with Mam? At least drink orders will slow down once the event upstairs kicks off.
After handing the drinks off, I mosey back to the spot across from June. “That’s classic Cara, by the way.”
“Asking people she just met to take part in one of the biggest days of her life? I’m impulsive, but this is next level.”
“Charmingly spontaneous is how I’d describe her,” I say, chuckling to myself. “She’s the type of person who loves making others feel loved. She can come off as overeager sometimes, but she knows what she wants and has the best intentions.”
With an exasperated sigh, June leans on her elbows and rubs both temples.
“Why shouldn’t you stand with her at the altar?” I don’t understand why she seems so upset. Maybe she’s shy in front of crowds too. “You’re her half sister, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re her closest friend who’s known her for her entire life. I should have said no. This would all be way easier.”
“I’ll be up there too, so there’s less pressure. We walk down the aisle, we both give a speech, that tops it.”
“Don’t remind me about the speech.”
“No need for any of this to be complicated.”
June’s expression tells me she remains unconvinced—her eyebrows are stitched together, and her mouth is puckered like she’s bitten right into a lemon. This reminds me of the first time we met. She looked nervous as anything then, and she’s the same now. Like a wild animal preparing to flee.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ll take your strongest pinot noir.”
I wink. A wink? Christ, hopefully she doesn’t notice. June’s presence makes me bold, makes me do dumb things.
She goes into detail about dinner, speaking with an electric passion that vibrates in the air around her. Every emotion shows on her face as she relives the meal, the laughs, and the big question at the end of the night.
June’s lovely, I admit, but fancying her is just inconvenient. New York’s her home, and even if she lived here, I don’t know if I’m her type. Sure, I saw her looking at me that morning at Max’s—the way her eyes flitted up from the bulge in my sweatpants sent a jolt of satisfaction through me—but she seemed preoccupied on the ride back. Lost in her own world.
So I invited her here tonight to let her unwind. A chance for me to get distracted by the elegant curve of her neck, the faint brown beauty mark on her left cheek, and the way she tilts her body forward to close some of the space between us…well, that’s a nice bonus.
“Yasmine and Cara are really compatible,” she muses. “Like, they complement each other. Yaz supports her and she has this solid presence, and Cara is a sparkly ray of sunshine.”
“They’re a smart match. I’m happy to see her with someone who loves her so much, because Cara is one of the best people I know.”
“How’d you two become friends?”
“Our mams were pregnant at the same time, so we grew up together. My mam’d watch us in the mornings and afternoons, then we’d go over to Cara’s when the pub shifts got busy at night.” From the corner of my eye, another regular, Rory, approaches the bar and points toward his empty glass. I turn to fill up a fresh pint for him but keep my focus on June. “Cara’s boisterous and loves life, and I was a bit more of a shy kid. Didn’t make friends too easy, and Cara made me feel like I fit in. Opposites attract sort of thing.”
“She cares about you a lot.”
Rory can evidently no longer wait for a drink because he sways over and clangs his empty pint glass down on the bar next to June. “Yertha’mericangirl?” The sounds slur into a long one-word question.
She looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. “I guess I am,” she says.
“Hm.” Rory puts one hand on his heart. “I loved an American girl once. Esme. Esme Williams from New Jersey. Loveamylife, you could say. Gorgeous soul, that woman had. Gorgeous…everythin’.”
June’s mouth turns up oh-so-slightly at the corners. “Special lady.”
“She was. Her hair went past her shoulders in these long, flowin’ waves, and ’er blue eyes were as mesmerizin’ as the sea itself. An’ she had absolutely enormous—”
“Here’s your drink. Thank you.” I shove the ale along with a glass of water toward him, and his face lights up. He slaps some money onto the bar top and teeters back to his seat.
“Sorry about him.”
June shakes her head. “It’s fine. You must get interesting stories like that all the time, working here. I enjoyed hearing about the love of his life and her enormous…personality?”
“Feet.”
“Yeah, that was it.”
We laugh. Our eyes meet over the bar as she swirls her wine glass, and Christ, is she pretty. I can’t get over the fact that someone like her is sitting here, all with the purpose of talking to me.
June sighs and takes a generous gulp of pinot. “I’m worried.”
“’Bout what?”
“Screwing up the wedding. Saying or doing something that would upset Cara.”
“No world in which that could happen.”
“You two have had to disagree sometimes, right?”
“Sometimes, sure.”
We never agreed on Mary. I didn’t understand why, but even before the emotional infidelity came out, my best friend never totally warmed to her.
“Why’re you asking?” I lean back and rest my hands on the edge of the counter. June’s attention flickers to my arms for half of a second.
“To understand her better. I’ve gone from stranger to half sister to maid of honor in her wedding, but we’re still getting to know each other. What if including me ends up being one big mistake?” The words come out frantic. She pauses to chug the rest of her wine and wipe her berry-stained lips with her fingertips.
“I don’t see that happening.”
“Yeah, well…”
June looks at her empty glass, and I hold up the bottle of wine with my brow raised. She accepts without hesitation.
“You have a habit of asking for life advice from bartenders.”
“You’re easy to talk to I guess.”
It’s a simple compliment, but I latch onto it with a content pride. I drink in the toasty brown of her irises, which send a jolt through me, like caffeine to my veins. I’ve really no business getting involved with someone Cara’s so fond of. I can’t believe I’m even letting a thought like that cross my mind.
But I can still enjoy her being here.
“Danny, m’dear,” a familiar voice calls me from the entryway. “We set for upstairs?”
Maureen and Adam have arrived. I give them the go-ahead, and they walk up the staircase to get ready. Some of the bar patrons grab their glasses and head up as well.
“What’s going on?” June asks.
“You’re in for a treat. If you thought Rory’s story from before was good, wait ’til you hear this.”
I bet I could hear a butterfly’s wings flap in the room upstairs. Everyone migrated up here, so I asked the barback to keep an eye downstairs and say something if he needed me. Maureen and Adam are sitting on stools in front of the fireplace as Adam finishes his tale to a rapt audience.
“The king was horrified. Reluctantly, he stood before the court, lifted the crown off his head, and let everyone see his horse’s ears.” Adam gestures to remove an imaginary headpiece, which he then reverently sets down on his knee. “And the people, well, the people didn’t respond the way the king had feared they would. Rather than yell or run away, they clapped. They admired his honesty and his ability to show his truthful self. From that day on, the king never hid his ears ever again.”
Satisfied applause and whistles fill the room as Adam bows his head in gratitude. They’ve music next, an upbeat tune with him on guitar and Maureen on the accordion, and from the first note, people’s toes tap and heads bob side to side. The upstairs of McCarthy’s Pub may lack in size, but the energy here shoots through the roof.
“This is so interesting,” June says, her face shining with delight that I’d like to bottle up and drink. She stands close enough to me that our arms touch, and both of our backs rest against the wall by the stairwell. “This happens every night?”
“No, just time to time. Maureen and Adam are local but travel all around, so whenever they swing by we have ’em. They’re friends of my da’s, and I remember listening to them when I was a lad. Music nights happen downstairs, but with storytelling, we host up here for a more intimate space.”
“I didn’t know storytelling like this was a thing in Ireland.”
“Not so common anymore.” I lean in close so we can talk beneath the guitar strums—close enough that I can smell that flowery shampoo. “Ireland’s got a long oral history, with stories being passed down for generations. There’re some well-known folks who do this, absolute legends. But formal storytelling nights like this are rare. Makes them memorable, though.”
“Guess I’m pretty lucky then,” she replies as a smirk skates across her lips.
Maureen wraps up the song on a high note, stands, and touches her chest in thanks. “Now, we’ve got someone here who I know will need some coaxing, but I won’t take no for an answer.” Her eyes land on me and my pulse breaks out in a sprint.
She wouldn’t.
“Danny, why don’t you come up and share with us?”
Oh, she would.
“I’d—I would rather not.”
“Ah, go on up there!” Rory shouts from the corner. I make a mental note not to give him a generous pour anytime soon.
But when June’s face lights up with the anticipation that I’ll be next onstage, I decide to tell a quick one.
Storytelling was a useful tool for me to become a better speaker and more sure of myself. I don’t stutter anymore, although now and then, I trip over words when I’m nervous. As a kid, though, I struggled with talking out loud and was painfully shy, so my granda used to tell me stories and patiently sit while I recited them back to him. At family gatherings, he urged me to share in front of everyone. Nothing changed about how I disliked standing up and talking to a crowd, but I stopped getting bullied.
The audience offers some encouragement and a few jovial taunts. Not a soul in this bleedin’ room’s going to let the night pass without hearing me. I take a swig from my water, wishing it were whiskey, and then drag my feet to Maureen’s seat. A whoop comes from somewhere in the crowd and heat crawls up the back of my neck.
“Didn’t expect to be up here tonight.” When no one laughs at my nervous chuckle, I indulge in another hearty sip.
“We’ve known Aidan since he was a lad about this high.” Adam holds his hand at his side, about mid-thigh. “A lot of you probably do too. He’s shared some incredible stories with us before, when he was young. What’ll it be tonight, then?”
I scratch my chin, going through the rusty Rolodex of my mind. The panic of choosing a story to tell replaces the dread of standing up here—in front of June.
“How ’bout Finn and the oak tree?” Maureen offers, and a weight lifts from my body. If there’s one tale I’ll never forget, it’s Granda’s all-time favorite.
“Right. Well, like most of you, I grew up listening to tales from my family,” I say. “This one’s from my da’s da, Niall McCarthy. He told it to me so many times that after not thinking about it for well over two decades, I can still remember every detail.
“The 1840s weren’t exactly kind days for Ireland. And Finn O’Brien was a lad wise beyond his years—he sensed the worry in his parents’ voices, and with no crops on the family farm, he knew they had no chance of surviving the long, cold winter.”
The room appears more packed from this vantage point—every stool has an occupant, and people stand in the rear. No one speaks, though many nod along knowingly as I begin my tale. Every single person has their eyes locked on me, including June. She’s given me her complete attention, and she looks angelic, almost out of place against the aged wooden walls.
“Um,” I say and clear my throat. “And so, right—Finn. One day, Finn sat underneath an enormous oak tree, resting his back up against the scratchy trunk, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to do, or how to help his parents or his siblings. He had to think of something.
“‘What are you doin’ out here on such a chilly afternoon?’ a dainty voice asked him. Finn was shocked to see the prettiest young woman standing in front of him. Her hair shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, and freckles dotted the bridge of her nose.
“‘Are you a fairy?’ he demanded, fearful. It seemed like the logical question to ask, since Finn had never seen one before but had heard plenty of tales of their treacherous deeds. ‘No, I’m no fairy,’ she responded. ‘I’m a girl!’”
A steady laugh spreads through the crowd, and I savor the grin on June’s face too.
“Well, this young lass, Rose O’Sullivan, didn’t live far from Finn, but her life was as far from his as two lives could be. She lived in one of the nicest estates in town and wanted for nothing. Finn couldn’t believe she’d sit under that oak tree and talk to him, but she did. He listened as she told him about her day, and he explained the troubles at his family’s farm.
“Rose looked him up and down. ‘Will you wait for me here tomorrow?’ she asked, and to that he said, ‘I’ll wait for you.’
“They met every day under that tree and shared stories. Rose brought him food—oats and such that could get him and his loved ones through the harsh winter.” The audience hangs on every word, and I gulp, hoping no one can catch the thud of my heartbeat or the drips of sweat on my brow. “Finn appreciated what Rose had done for him, but more than that, he enjoyed seeing her, hearing her voice. It was the brightest part of his day.
“Throughout the year, he fell in love with Rose, completely. But he knew if he were to walk into her home and ask her da for her hand in marriage, he’d be laughed right out. So instead, he didn’t say a word and settled for their daily meetings, all while knowing one day he’d have to let her go.
“Two years passed like this, every day with the same question and answer. ‘Will you wait for me here tomorrow?’ ‘I’ll wait for you.’ Finally, Finn didn’t want to wait any longer. He’d never be good enough to ask for Rose to marry him, but he needed to tell her how he felt. So the next day, he picked some wildflowers and walked to the oak tree and he waited. And he waited. But Rose never arrived. And she never would again. She got sick that autumn and passed away before Finn could tell her of the love he had for her.”
Faint tsks of disappointment float through the audience, and Mrs. Abernathy dabs a balled-up tissue at the corner of her eye.
I can’t remember the last time I told this tale, and the despair of its ending resonates with me in a new way. How Finn was content with every day looking like the one before. How he never chased what he wanted. That’s a kind of regret I hope to never experience.
“Finn married years later and had two children. But he didn’t stop loving Rose. And if you look at the tree on the top of the hill, right off the entrance to the trekking route, you might see a shadow, a figure sitting at the base. That’s Finn, waiting for his love. Forever waiting.”
The room fills with claps and some hoots and hollers, and a few folks dry their cheeks. “Thank you,” I say as I stand. “Now Christ, can we get Maureen and Adam up here for something more upbeat?”
When the entertainment ends, everyone funnels back down to the bar. I pour next rounds and move to stand across from June like she’d called me there herself.
“You were amazing! The many talents of Aidan McCarthy.”
My full name on her mouth feels like an itch being scratched. “That’s kind of you,” I say.
“You were. And getting up in front of a room of people all so close they could touch you. I could never do that.”
I hold back a broad grin as I refill her water glass.
“And that story…my god, so sweet. So sad . I can’t believe your grandpa told you that as a kid. So depressing.”
“Suppose it is. I grew up with it, so there’s nostalgia there.”
“Well, you were fantastic.”
With her watching me over the bar, I’m unsure how to respond. I hold up a bottle like an eejit. “Another glass?”
She considers the offer, and after a beat, shakes her head. “No, I shouldn’t. I have to answer some work emails.”
“Of course.” I should have guessed she wouldn’t spend the entire night here, but already, the pub seems dimmer. I grab at the cup of water where she was sitting and spill some. “Get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Thanks for tonight. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
She walks out the door—and while I have a thousand reasons to feel otherwise, I can’t wait for tomorrow to come.