“Technically, I already owe you,” I said, even though I realized it was only undermining myself to point it out here. I’d told him to tally up everything he’d spent on me so far, and I was going to hold him to it.
“No,” he said. “I mean, you owe me a request of my own, down the line.”
My brain definitely went in one very specific direction with those words. Something likeKiss meorTouch meor evenSit on my lap and let me play with your hair.I didn’t know if any of those thoughts showed on my face—I hoped not—or if Eamonn just heard how his own words might’ve sounded, because he rushed to clarify.
“Of a similar type,” he said. “If I’m going to embarrassmyself now, later I reserve the right to make you do karaoke or something.”
I liked the idea of alater, that he was already thinking of our hangout going into the night. “Deal,” I said. I lifted my hand to shake on it, but shoved it in my jacket pocket instead, my fingers closing around that folded receipt still in there. “So start singing.”
“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty…” His voice was low, meant just for me to hear it, but I saw a couple tourists turn their heads. He had a nice voice, I thought, smooth and deep, even if I couldn’t tell from that one line if he could actually carry a tune. “I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone. As she wheeled her wheelbarrow, through streets broad and narrow, crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
I could tell he’d started getting into it a little bit, by the end of that verse, but also that he was going to stop and claim that he’d filled his side of the bargain. And technically he had, even if I knew there was more to the song—I’d never specified he had to sing the whole thing. I started to protest, to point out that if he expectedmeto do my part later, then I really deserved the entire song, when I heard another voice come from behind me.
“Alive, alive, oh!” the man sang, gesturing with his hands for others nearby to join in. “Alive, alive, oh! Crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
The man looked expectantly back at Eamonn, less like he didn’t know how the next verse was supposed to go and more like he thought Eamonn was leading this performance, and he didn’t want to take any of his spotlight. The man was clearlyanother American tourist, wearing a football jersey for a team I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to recognize.
Eamonn gave me a sideways smile, and I could practically feel him saying something like,This fucking guy…I really did read the wordfuckinto so much of his body language, but not always in a bad way. Like now it felt easy and light and a little silly, like we were in this together.
“She was a fishmonger,” Eamonn picked up, more of his accent coming out, as if he was putting it on a bit. “But sure ’twas no wonder, for so were her father and mother before.”
Some people had their cameras out now, I realized, like this was a staged performance. I felt momentarily bad—Eamonn had barely wanted to sing at all, much less serenade a growing audience on the street—but when I glanced back over at him, he didn’t seem to mind. He was still putting on that overexaggerated accent, adding little flourishes to the words of the song, and he’d even lifted his hands as if miming pushing his own wheelbarrow through the street. I covered my mouth to keep the laughter from bubbling out. He was being so ridiculous about it, so outrageously over the top. He couldn’t all the way carry a tune, it turned out, but that made it better.
“And they both wheel’d their barrow,” he said, still pushing his own imaginary cart, “through streets broad and narrow, crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
The crowd was fully into it now, and by the time the chorus kicked in again, they were all singing along. “Alive, alive, oh! Alive, alive, oh! Crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
This entire experience was Eamonn’s to control. He had them in the palm of his hand, and they looked to him for thenext verse, wanting to see what to do. His face looked lit from within, his eyes two bright blue sparks of laughter even as he tried to put on a somber expression.
“Now on to the sad part of the song,” he said. “Let’s sing it quiet, show Molly some respect.She died of the fever…”
Most everyone seemed to know the words, which made me feel like I was out of the loop. How was I the only person who’d never heard this song before?
“…and no one could save her, and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone. But her ghost wheels her barrow, through streets broad and narrow, crying…”
One person tried to keep things going, but Eamonn had stopped, waiting expectantly before finally dropping the last line. “ ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
“C’mon, you know this now,” he said, and I realized he was talking directly to me as the crowd launched back into the chorus. I did know this part, and it was fun to sing along with everyone, to be part of this moment. “Alive, alive, oh! Alive, alive, oh! Crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’ ”
He leaned in close enough that I could hear him over everyone singing, the slight tickle of his warm breath on my cheek. “NotHawaii Five-O,” he said. “Common mistake with Americans.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing. “I wasn’t saying that.”
“I have very good ears,” he said. “I know what I heard.”
You do have good ears, I thought, and could feel my own prickle with heat. He was near enough. I could kiss him right now. I could put my hands on his jaw and pull him toward me, pressing my lips to his. He’d kiss me back, I thought. If only for a second, long enough before he came to his senses, or I did. Iwas stuck in this strange liminal state, with no business lusting after anybody, much less this man I’d met only hours ago.
“You all right?” he asked. “I warned you about my singing.”
The crowd had mostly dispersed by then, making way for a few new tourists to approach the statue. Two men wearing matching fleeces came up to flank Molly and touch her chest, laughing and holding hands as they walked away.
It was a little easier now, to picture Eamonn the way he might’ve been at nineteen. Fun-loving and pleasure-seeking and a bit wild. The way he’d instantly risen to the occasion of that song, knowing how to get people involved and what they most wanted to see, trying to show them a good time. I thought about him as I’d first met him, practically throwing that sandwich at me, like he didn’t want me to read it as generosity, or didn’t want himself to.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bit cold.”
His eyes searched my face, like he knew there was more to it than that, but in the end he let out a long breath, almost like he was trying to see if he could make out its vapor in the air. There was nothing—maybe a slight shimmer, a bit of movement, but no visible breath. Still, he made a show of giving a shiver, like he was cold, too.
“Let’s get some tea, yeah?”
