Page 71 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin

I cross over the road to Blended café, order a large Americano and start to calm down. I stare wistfully at the older couple sharing a pot of tea and a scone outside. It’s the simplicity of their synchronicity. He smears the cream for both of them, hands her the bigger piece. They are one. Content. My phone rings, it’s an Unknown Caller so I don’t answer and I send it to voicemail. Silently, I throw up a prayer it’s a work enquiry. I’m just not able to deal with anything right now. A new voice message beeps in as I pay for my coffee. I smile at the couple and walk the rest of the way home in unsuitable footwear, deep in thought about my shitty life.

When I finally reach 18 Old Camden Street, the appetising smells of the Saturday street-food vendors hits me – fried onions and flame-grilled meat. I buy a cheeseburger with onions from the truck parked roadside and take it up to the flat with me. It’s airless inside and absolutely roasting. I kick off my heavy footwear and drop the hot tinfoil-wrapped burger on the kitchen table. I push the rusty door to the rooftop open wide, and gasp for a fresh breath as I position my wooden footstool to keep it propped open.

‘I know it’s early but you know you need it,’ I mutter to myself as I upturn a glass on the draining board, go straight to the fridge, pull it open and pour myself a small glass of cold vino from the open bottle I’d bought myself. I add a splash of sparkling water.

With the white wine in one hand and the burger in the other, I step out onto the rooftop and flop onto my hot seat. My phonerings again from inside but I don’t move. I just want to wallow in my own stupidity. Logan’s Rolling Stones T-shirt is still drying in the sunshine. I’ll cut it into pieces and use it for rags, I decide with a warmth of gumption in my belly.

Unwrapping the tinfoil halfway, I grasp the cheeseburger with the rest of the foil, protecting my fingers from the heat of it. I let the sun beat down on me and I shut my eyes. I was just looking for the wrong type of love. My eyes weren’t open to what a great partner was. I didn’t know. How could I? I had looked right through the Donals of the world since I was a pubescent teen. Brainwashed by those Australian soap operas and American boy bands. I sip my wine. Someone drives down Old Camden Street with their windows rolled down and their stereo is so loud I can hear every word of Taylor Swift shaking it off.

I take another huge bite, the Swiss cheese melting on my tongue. That should have been my first warning. That very first pint of Guinness we had in O’Donoghue’s when Logan told me he hated Taylor Swift. His reasoning? She was a successful, self-made millionaire who moaned about men. But if Taylor Swift had walked into the bar that afternoon, Logan would have been the very first guy up out of his seat to ply her with compliments and tell her how amazing she was. He’d have licked her boots. Had Taylor Swift showed a romantic interest in him, he wouldn’t have given me a second thought. Of that, I have no doubt. Logan had no morals. Taylor’s voice fades away into the distance and I pop the pickle in my mouth then finish the rest of my burger under the glaring sun, licking my fingers clean of the ketchup and mustard.

I drain the wine and hip-hop in my bare feet across the burning rooftop. My kitchen smells of Mia’s perfume, sweet like apricot. I’m going to get my scissors and start cutting up Logan’s T-shirt.

Just as I put my glass in the sink, my buzzer sounds. I jump.

‘W-who the hell is that?’ Except, I know exactly who that is. Logan. Last chance saloon before he goes back to New York. Well, I’m done. He is not getting an encore this time! He won’t like one word of what I’m about to say to him. I slam the fridge so hard myDressmakers Do it Bestmagnet falls to the floor. I take the rickety stairs two at a time, reef the door open so hard the brown carpet doesn’t even get the chance to stick.

‘I told you no—’ I start, anger forcing my voice.

But it’s not Logan.

It’s Donal.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The sharp-dressed man. Standing there in his wedding suit. He looks handsome as hell, and he’s holding my orange wicker sewing basket in his hands.

‘Donal.’ I stare up at him.

He holds the basket out in front of him with both hands. ‘You left this at the church, it was under the seat.’ He looks so different but sounds the exact same. It’s very strange to get my head around.

‘Th-thank you.’ I reach for it.

Donal unfolds his hands now and makes his claw with his hand, looks at it and then opens it again, runs his fingers over his closely cropped hair. Wiggles them on top of his head.

‘Still feels weird,’ he tells me by way of explanation.

‘It suits you.’ I find my voice, lean my weight against the door frame.

He raises a grin, tugs hard on the jacket sleeves. ‘The suit suits me?’

‘Suit suits you,’ I reply, mustering up half a smile.

Donal looks down to his gleaming dress shoes, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black suit trousers. He sways on the edge of the rubber soles on the shoes now.

‘You do look different though,’ I tell him hollowly.

‘Good different?’ His kind, green eyes dart up, our eyes meet.

‘I miss your beard,’ I say truthfully.

‘Gas that, all my sisters said the same.’ He gently slaps theside of his clean-shaven cheek three times. ‘After the slagging they’ve given me for three years over my hairy image.’

‘I’m so, so sorry about Logan and what he did at Belinda’s wedding – there’s no words.’ Mortifyingly, I’m fighting back tears.

‘Quite the drama all right, but I’m used to it with four sisters. I’ll need a lie down for a week in a dark room after I get through today, I’d say.’ He can see my upset and is trying to make light of the situation.

‘Me, too.’ I swallow the emotion.