I've taken walks along the cliffs. Tried reading by the fire. Cooked something that tasted awful. Everyone knows I'm not the best in the kitchen.
Nothing helps.
My thoughts are just all over the place with family stuff, my dad's death, and now apparently, a certain smooth-talking man who's made himself hard to forget.
I lie here on the couch, my fingers tracing the edges of the napkin in my hand.
It's soft now, not crisp like when he handed it to me. The ink has even started to fade, the numbers bleeding further into the fibers.
"This is ridiculous," I say aloud.
How would I be the one who regrets anything? The nerve of him.
But I unfold it again, staring at his handwriting.
I've been lying here for what? Ten minutes? Twenty? The fire has died down a bit, which means it's been longer than I care to admit staring at this stupid cocktail napkin.
"Fuck this," I say, standing up abruptly, tossing the napkin onto the coffee table like it's burning my fingers.
I change out of my pajamas in ten minutes flat. Jeans, boots, an oversized sweater, and a lightweight jacket. I grab my phone and head out the door before I can overthink it.
The rain's let up and everything is damp. It's not cold enough to be uncomfortable, but I look forward to getting indoors.
My boots crunch against the wet stone gravel. The smell of grass fills my lungs.
This part of Ireland is really beautiful.
The small village is only a fifteen-minute walk from the cottage. I follow the lane until I see a cluster of buildings.
The pub sits at the end of the main street. Keira told me it's "proper Irish," whatever that means.
The sign above my head says "The Crooked Harp." A cute name.
I push open the heavy wooden door and the warmth hits me immediately, not just the physical heat from the fire, but the atmosphere. Low ceilings with dark wooden beams. Stone walls lined with old photographs and local rugby memorabilia. There are a few people inside, scattered throughout, and the way they look at me tells me they know I'm not from around here.
I make my way to the bar, sliding onto a stool that gives me a view of both the door and the fire. My shoulders drop for the first time in days.
"What'll it be, love?" the bartender says as he comes up to me. He's all brown hair, freckles, and an easy smile. Late twenties maybe, with bright blue eyes. Cute.
I sigh.
"Umm. Something local."
He smiles. "Whiskey?"
"I don't usually, but I'm here," I say, placing both my hands on the bar and shrug. "So why not."
"Woman after my own heart," he says.
His accent rolls over the words, making them sound like music. He sets a glass in front of me, pulls a cork from a bottle, and pours amber liquid into a glass.
"First time here?" he asks, leaning on the bar.
I swirl the liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light from the fire. "That obvious?"
"We don't get many beautiful American women in here alone." He winks, but it's playful, not creepy. "I'm Connor."
"Calli," I say, raising my glass and taking a sip. It burns sweet and strong down my throat and I cough. "Oh my god."
