“God,” he groaned. “What do women find so compelling aboutIreland? Let me guess, you’ve seenLeap Yeara few times? It’s a rainy backwater shithole, is what it is.”
I had, in fact, seenLeap Yeara few times. But obviously I wasn’t going to say that now. I thought randomly of a painting I’d studied as part of a twentieth-century art history class,The Liffey Swim, the way it put you as one of the spectators to an annual sporting event in Dublin. The colors had been all grays and greens, unexpected streaks of red in the water, and then the contrast of the pale clouded sky above. I thought of everything else I knew about Ireland—how green it was, that it rained a lot, yes, that it had a rich history of folklore and fairy tales and storytelling. I’d gone through my own phase of looking for four-leaf clovers, believing in them as a symbol of luck.
“That’s how some people would describe Florida,” I said with a smile, trying to show that I hadn’t meant anything more by the question than idle curiosity, something to talk about. “Sunshine State reputation aside. How long have you lived here?”
“Just over a decade.”
“It must’ve been a bit of a culture shock.”
“Not really.”
I was grateful when our drinks came and I could take a sip of my water just for something to do. There was no way I was going to tell this man that it was my birthday. I just hoped I could get home in time to read a few chapters of my book before I was too tired to keep my eyes open. It had been a long week.
“I’ve never been out of the country,” I said. “I don’t even have a passport.”
He made a face that had to be because of what I’d said andnot because of his Diet Coke, which had been meticulously formulated to be delicious. “That’s irresponsible,” he chided. “If you haven’t traveled, you haven’t lived.”
“Well, I’vetraveled,” I said. “I went to Washington, D.C., on a class trip. When I was a kid, we spent a lot of time in St. Augustine. My parents both worked a lot and couldn’t always take more than a long weekend off, so that was where we’d go for family vacations.” I brightened as I thought of something that might actually get his attention. “Oh, and I’ve been to Atlanta—we did the Coke museum and everything.”
“But that was all when you were a child,” Niall said. “And by car, which doesn’t count. I went on enough school trips to Carrowmore and you don’t hear me going on about it.”
I didn’t think listing a few cities wasgoing on about it, but I just took another sip of my water. “Maybe you should,” I said. “Do you still have a lot of family there?”
He stared at me for a beat, like he was trying to work out if that first comment was sarcastic or not. It weirdly lifted my mood, gave me a tiny sliver of hope. Before that, it wasn’t always clear how much he was even following my side of the conversation—so far, he’d either ignored what I’d said or seemed to want to debate a slightly different version of it. Maybe by the time dinner came, he’d be ready to ask me questions or reciprocate in any way.
“My older sister Kathleen,” he said. “Then after me, my sister Siobhán. My brother Eamonn. And then there are the twins, Rachel and Claire.”
That snagged my interest. “Oh wow. You have a lot of siblings.”
“Yes, well done,” he said. “Go ahead and make the joke. I’ve heard it before.”
I was sorry I’d gotten us down this path at all. Somehow, I seemed to have really offended this guy, but I couldn’t figure out how. “No, no joke,” I said. “I don’t know, I’ve always liked the idea of a big family. I’m trash for—”
“Stop,” he said, harsh enough that I flinched. “Don’t do that. I hate when you do that.”
His mouth was a tight line, and he looked genuinely upset. Not just upset…angry. I couldn’t believe the way he’d said that—I hate when you do that—like he’d known me for longer than fifteen minutes, like we had a relationship deep enough for him to have already developed a strong distaste for some pattern or habit of mine. I wasn’t even entirely sure what he was talking about.
“You hate when I…do what?”
“That self-deprecating kind of humor, I hate that.”
I still had to trace backward through what I’d said to piece it together. “I’m trash for? That’s just an expression. You know, a meme.I’m trash for iced coffee, that kind of thing.”
“And then earlier you said you weren’t good at first dates,” he pointed out. “Just stop it. It’s unattractive, putting yourself down like that.”
If anything, that had been a vulnerable confession in hopes of easing the early awkwardness between us. One that he hadn’t even bothered to respond to in the moment, so I was surprised to hear him bringing it up now. “I’m not very good at first dates,” I said, my voice flat. “Clearly.”
“Well, if I can give you some constructive feedback, youcould try being a little more positive. Smile more. You looked a lot happier in your profile picture.”
That’s because my best friend took the shot,I wanted to say,and she wasn’t in the middle of giving me any constructive feedback while she did it.
“So did you,” I said. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled at meonce, not even the reflexive one you usually give someone upon meeting them for the first time. “Any more feedback?”
His gaze flickered over me, and immediately I regretted asking. This was a man who’d take that kind of question literally, so I’d just opened myself up for it. “That dress looks like a bag on you. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your figure.”
I could feel my face growing hot and I really, really didn’t want to cry. I was, unfortunately, one of those people who cried for almost any reason. When there was a particularly gnarly paper jam in the printer at work and it was just thelastthing I needed that day. When I turned a corner in an art museum and happened upon an abstract painting with an evocative title that hit me in the gut. I couldn’t even hear the opening notes to “Fast Car” without my throat getting tight.
“I’m not ashamed of it,” I said. “I like this dress.”
