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Ian’s older and younger brothers, Sean, and Aiden, owned a renowned Irish Pub located in the heart of the parade route. On any given day, the pub was bustling with activity, but on parade day, it was bursting at the seams. Their wives and children joined them, either watching from the large bay windows or from their two-story apartment above.
The pub itself stood out with its black exterior and bold letters spelling out THE GREEN KNIGHT in bright green paint. Intricate hand-carved woodwork framed the windows and entrance, accented with gold trim that glimmered in the cold, sunny day.
Ian entered first, holding Kira, followed by Tyler, me, and Chance.
“HEYYYY!” the crowd shouted as we waltzed in.
“De elusive Ian Knight in Southie?!” A man at a table of four held his glass up and shouted in an Irish accent. “‘ell has froze over!”
The older gentlemen erupted into a fit of laughter. Ian let out a small chuckle, but I suspected it was simply to be polite. His niece, Keavy, rushed by, holding six full beer mugs at the handles. He moved aside to let her through, and she hurried over to a table near the window, placing them down before rushing off again.
“Hey!” Ian grabbed her arm with his free hand as she sped by.
She stopped, spinning around, smiling at him and Kira.
“You can’t say hi to us?” he teased.
Giggling, she leaned over and hugged him, then Kira, before embracing Tyler, Chance, and me. “Hi, you guys.”
“Since when are you eighteen, kiddo?” I asked.
“Three months ago.” She rolled her eyes. “Now I get to help my parents and Uncle Aiden.”
“Keavy, table eight!” Aiden, Ian’s youngest brother, shouted from behind the polished mahogany bar, then lifted his chin at us. “What’s up?”
“I gotta go.” She waved, then bent forward, kissing Kira on the cheek. “See you later.”
“She grew up so fucking fast,” I scoffed at the audacity she’d become old enough to work in a bar now. It made me feel old.
Chance stepped up next to Ian. “She’s old enough to come work for her Uncle Ian–”
“If you finish that fucking sentence?—”
“Heyyy!” Shannon, Ian’s sister-in-law, waved us over to where Jacob and Sierra were sitting at the side of the bar near the back, drinking pints.
Shannon had been married to Ian’s older brother, Sean, since she won Miss Northern Ireland at eighteen. He met her while on vacation in Belfast. The night she won, she lost her virginity to him and ended up pregnant with Keavy. They married five months later and had been going strong since, now with three kids.
We filed through the packed pub to Ian’s family, greeting everyone on the way who were both happy and shocked to see both Ian and Chance. I scanned the enormous room to see if they’d added anything since we were last here.
One wall was adorned with signed, framed photographs of mostly local celebrities. Natural light flooded in through the windows and entrance, balancing out the darker hues of walnut and emerald that made up the interior. And just in case people forgot where they were, a large neon Boston Celtics sign was prominently displayed among the portraits.
“The crowd never changes, I see,” Ian joked as we came to a stop at the bar, giving Sierra a hug and shaking Jacob’s hand with a pat on the shoulder.
“A lot of new people this year, though.” Sean reached for a pint glass and positioned it under the Guinness tap, letting the dark liquid fill it up with a perfect, foamy head. He placed it on the bar and continued to repeat the process with the other glasses.
Shannon leaned over and took Kira from Ian, showering her plump cheeks with countless kisses. Aiden, who was the spitting image of Ian, waltzed over with a cluster of Jameson shots, setting them down in front of us. He pressed his hands on the counter, hopping up effortlessly, then picked up his own shot of whiskey and pint.
“Yooo!” His voice boomed over the lively crowd, commanding their attention, and causing the noise to die down. The clanking of dishes could still be heard, echoing throughout the bustling restaurant.
“Aiden!” a younger gentleman in a Celtics coat, matching scarf and beanie called out. “Every fucking year, bro! Every fucking year!”
“Damn right every fucking year, Adam!” he laughed, holding up his shot glass and scanning the crowd. “May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow and may trouble avoid you wherever you go!”
“YEAHHH!” the bar crowd shouted.
Aiden continued, “May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty!”
“AND OUR ALE NEVER TURN MUSTY!” everyone howled again.
