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He looks up, the tenderness in his eyes leaving me with stupid thoughts—thoughts like I wish he’d adopt me. I wish he’d be my granddad. There’s nothing quite like feeling you don’t belong. Floating rootless on this planet, without anyone to fight for you. Well, there’s Mom, but she has a weird way of showing her love.
“Show me unfailing kindness like the Lord’s kindness as long as I live, so that I may not be killed. Samuel 20:14. We all owe each other a little kindness, Rory. A little kindness goes a long way.”
His teeth are as yellow as the shards of light cutting through the tall church windows. I swallow, not making a move for the money.
“Now, go before my grandson’s finished. Malachy rarely stays in one spot. There’s always a lady friend or two lurking, and they always drag him into hell-knows-where doing God-knows-what.”
I have a pretty good idea as to the what part. Anyway, his playboy grandson’s sex life is not something I want to talk about in a church. Or, you know, ever.
“How will I know who he is? There must be more than one singer on Drury Street.”
“Oh, you’ll know.” He folds the money between his fingers and hands it to me.
I hesitate, but take it. “And if I don’t?” I furrow my brows.
“Just yell his name. He’ll stop everything at once. Malachy never could resist a pretty girl or a stiff drink.”
I already dislike this Malachy guy, but if he can give me closure, I can ignore the fact that he sounds exactly like my father: a flirt, a drunk, and a man who avoids responsibility like it’s the plague.
“Can I take a few pictures of his grave before I go?”
He nods, looking at me with sheer pity, the type that crawls under your skin and takes residence. The type that defines you.
“You will prevail, Aurora.”
Aurora. I never told him my name. Only Rory.
“Aurora?” I lift an eyebrow.
His smile vanishes, and he clears his throat. “Your father told me, remember?”
Yes. Of course. So why does he look so…guilty?
Two things hit me in that moment as I regard Father Doherty:
The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up.
I will meet him again, someday.
Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.
I shoulder past the thick wall of female bodies that crescents the street artist. Drury Street is an explosion of colors, scents, and sights. Red, exposed-brick buildings covered with vibrant graffiti. An Asian market peeking from a corner, a parking garage, a bus stop, and little hipster shops. It looks like a picture, and I can’t help but stop everything and make it one, capturing the beauty of the street with my old camera.
A bus, passing in a blur, slicing through the colors like the stroke of a brush.
Click.
Two suited men walking past FUCK CAPITALISM written on a wall.
Click.
A lone beer bottle lying on the pavement, tucked between junk food wrappers like a sad drunk.
Click, click, click.
When I finally come face to face with the street artist standing on the side of the pavement, his guitar case open and full of rolled-up notes and change, I understand why his grandfather told me I’d recognize him with the self-assurance of an avid believer.
I’ve never seen someone like him before.
He is beautiful, true, but that’s not what stands out to me. He is radiant.
It’s like his presence has a presence. He sucks the air out of everything in his vicinity, making it impossible not to look at him. Malachy is tailor-made for a huge, colossal heartbreak. Everything about him—his tattered jeans, filthy boots, white shirt, and leather jacket that was broken in decades ago—screams trouble. He looks like a seventies heartthrob. An icon. A Terry Richardson muse. Bruce Springsteen pre-fame.
His voice is like honey and warm spices. It lulls me into a place in my mind I’ve never been before, even though it’s far from beautiful. It is gruff, throaty, and smoky. When someone bumps my shoulder to get closer to him, I snap out of my reverie and realize what I’m listening to.
“One” by U2.
The coincidence is strange. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. This is Ireland. U2 is a national treasure.
His eyes are squeezed shut as he sings. It’s like no one exists other than him and his guitar. Something warm rushes through my skin, like a heat wave, and I shudder in delight.
Warmth.
I always thought there was something melancholy about street performers—the way people walk past them, ignoring their music, their art, their passion. But this guy, he’s the one doing the ignoring. The tables have turned. He’s got the crowd eating from the palm of his hand. Every woman here is under a thick, sweet spell. He’s got that Harry Styles quality that makes girls want to bed him and older women want to adopt him. The men are a cross between impatient, annoyed, and jealous. You can see it in the way they tap their feet, check their watches, nudge their wives and girlfriends to move it.
