“Oh, that’s—”
“It’s not too far,” he said. “And not much else to do.”
I remembered him saying something about his shop being closed, about the power being out. It still seemed like a really big favor to ask someone I barely knew, who was also the closest thing I had to a friend right now. But I felt like I was at another decision point, and last time I’d chosen to walk the road alone. This time, I chose him.
“In that case,” I said. “Sure. Take me to Dublin.”
Six
It was a funny littlecar. If this was a dream—and it was feeling like less of one as time went on—I didn’t know how my subconscious would’ve conjured it up. It looked like something out of the ’80s, all boxy gray dashboard and analog gauges. The two seats in the front were also close enough together that I could tell Eamonn waited for me to buckle first, so he could fasten his own without the risk of our knuckles brushing.
When he turned the key in the ignition, the car immediately filled with an assault of loud punk music before he ejected the tape and turned the volume down on the radio. Now it was just the sound of two Irish voices talking about some sports matchup, so low I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What year is this car?” I asked, becausea tape deck?
“Eighty-seven Renault Five,” he said.
That meant nothing to me, but still I said, “Ah. Cool.”
“It’s a bit of a project,” he said, almost like he was trying to apologize for it.
And for the next ten minutes, that was all we said. I stared out the window at the passing scenery—squat little buildings tucked up against each other, scraggly trees that were starting to get some spring growth on them, the occasional cyclist that Eamonn had to navigate around on the side of the road. We passed some water on the right, a group of colorful boats docked there, and I wanted to look closer, but it was outside Eamonn’s window and I didn’t want to risk staring at him.
I had so many questions for him.How long have you lived here?andDo you like it?andWhat do you mean the power’s out at your shop?But he didn’t seem particularly inclined to talk, so I didn’t break the silence. Maybe he had his own questions for me, most of which I wouldn’t want to answer or wouldn’t even know how to start.What brought you to Ireland?orHow long were you planning to stay?orTell me a single detail about how you got here and make me believe it.
The car in front of us came to an abrupt stop at the back of a line of traffic, and Eamonn had to hit the brakes hard enough to make me pitch forward a little. “Sorry,” he said again. He didn’t curse the driver or make a comment about how terrible the traffic was, which I didn’t even know I appreciated until I’d braced myself for something like that and it never came. Angry men had always unsettled me, made my heart rate kick up, and in my experience driving had often been one of those times when it became socially acceptable to unleash some of that.
But Eamonn gave no outward sign that he was bothered by the traffic at all. He just flexed his hand over the stick shift,reaching up to rub the knuckle of his thumb against his mouth before traffic started moving again and he shifted the car back into gear.
“How old are you?” I blurted. Which, I definitely could’ve come up with a better opening question thanthat.
He glanced over at me, registering a moment of surprise. “Twenty-nine,” he said. “Why?”
Oh, fuck. Not even thirty? Niall had been right. Hewastoo young for me. Not that it mattered, or that I’d even been thinking of him that way, a few momentary lapses aside. TheI wish I was on a date with your brotherhad been a reaction to Niall being such a jerk, hoping to knock him back on his ass a bit. It wasn’t like I actually wanted to be on a date with his brother, even if we were spending time together in some bizarre twist of fate. This was a ride to Dublin, that was all.
“Aren’t you going to ask how old I am?”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he ran his hand over his chin and covered it up. “I know better.”
“I’m thirty-seven,” I said.As of yesterday. “I don’t mind being asked. It’s funny, how weird we get about age. Especially for women. Even when someone says something that’s clearly meant to be a compliment, likeYou don’t look your ageor whatever, it’s like, how do you think that age is supposed to look?”
I leaned back against the headrest, stealing a glance at Eamonn out of the corner of my eye. I wondered how differently he might drive if it had just been him alone in the car. Blasting his music, maybe singing along, maybe he would’ve muttered something about the traffic as he got snarled up in it. There was a stiffness to him now like he was sixteen with hisdriver’s ed teacher in the car, and something told me that wasn’t how he usually was.
“Then there’s the question of whether Ifeelmy age,” I went on, because it felt good to talk, even if I didn’t know if I was improving on the silence. “Sometimes I guess I do, but again you have to wonder how a specific age is even supposed to feel. Like if I stand too long at the sink doing dishes, my back will hurt, and I’ll think, god, surely thirty-seven is too young for this to start happening? Is it?”
There was a pause before Eamonn seemed to understand that my question wasn’t rhetorical. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think pain discriminates.”
“But then something stupid will happen to hurt my feelings, and I’ll think, okay, you are way too old to be lettingthatget to you. Like at work, they didn’t get me a birthday card. Which is so silly, right? Who cares about a birthday card, especially one where I know it would just have the same messages written in it that are always there.Happy birthdayand a name,Have a great oneand a name, that one partner who just puts his initials and that’s it. ButI’mthe person who handles the birthday cards—I keep them in my desk, I pass them around with a folder of names to check off so the person knows who to give it to next, I make sure they find their way to the recipient’s desk with a couple pieces of candy the morning of their birthday. I guess I just thought that someone else would take it over, when it was my turn, and it really bummed me out when they didn’t.”
I was embarrassed that I’d said all that. The only thing more mortifying than caring about a birthday card, probably,was caring about it enough to rant to a stranger. “I bet you don’t dwell on these things as much. Age, time, whatever.”
“Because I’m twenty-nine?”
I tried to give him a smile to take any of the sting out of it. “Or because you’re a man. I don’t know.”
It was hard to talk about without it seeming like you did care too much. How those little lines by my mouth did make me feel self-conscious, when I looked closely at them in the mirror. How I worried that I should’ve achieved more by this age, how I thought I’d be some great artist by now instead of patching calls through and drawing doodles in birthday cards for lawyers who could afford to go to Europe. I even thought about what the woman at the bus stop had said, about how being in love was an out-of-body experience in and of itself, when you were young.
