Page 91 of Experiments in Offline Dating

It was a short, chilly walk to Dick Mack’s. We found a couple of tall stools at the bar. Tadhg said he was going to end the night with a whiskey, and I decided I was too full of beer and dinner to fit in another pint, so I followed suit, allowing Tadhg to choose an Irish whiskey for me.

There was music here too, though it was quieter—only three musicians playing unplugged in the corner. It was nice. I was a little grateful that we could turn and watch them and didn’t necessarily have to make conversation if we didn’t want to.

But the mood had shifted. I didn’t feel awkward anymore. Things were easier between us. Maybe even, dare I say, warmer.

We commented on the neat interior of the pub, talked about the whiskey, had a taste from each other’s glass then decided to trade, we tapped our feet to the music, and Tadhg even made a request for a tune with a tip in the guitar case. Finn, for her part, was the star of the Finn Show, where everyone in Ireland came to ruffle her ears and talk to her.

And did she bite their insubordinate little fingers off? Did she collect a bloody stack of arms and knuckles under her muzzle to chew on later, when she was peckish? No, she did not. She pretended to be a lovely little dog who loved pats and loved all the humans. Like an asshole.

Eventually, I started telling Tadhg about my dates that day. It felt like safe ground now.

We laughed together. He laughed so hard and so easily that his whole body shook, and it transformed his face entirely. I hadn’t known this was a Tadhg who was available to the world. I hadn’t known this Tadhg existed and that this had been a thing he kept from me. Before I knew what was happening, I was leaning in to tell him every excruciating detail of being asked if I was still waiting for marriage, of Peggy’s horror over the horse poop, of listening to the worrier talk about the importance of flossing, of being advised about Bitcoin, oh so eager to pull more of those throaty laughs from him.

He teased me as easily as an old friend, and I slipped right into my usual comedy routine, like I was talking to Simone, like a comfy, worn-in pair of slippers.

“You know what, Maya Davis?” Tadhg looked at me sideways and drew a sip from his whiskey. “I don’t hate you nearly as much as I thought I did.”

I smirked back. “That so? Verdict’s still out on you, I’m afraid.” His grin stretched a delicious centimeter, and my eyes snagged on it.

We were having such a good time that when our new friend the bartender told us we shouldn’t leave Dingle without checking out Foxy John’s, which was not only a pub but also a hardware store, we made the tipsy decision to go for one last one. We could handle it.

And whoa! The cobbles were uneven here. Absolutely nothing to do with my blood alcohol level.

Tadhg grabbed my hand and put it in the crook of his elbow. And I kept it there. Also nothing to do with my blood alcohol level. We arrived intact, without skinned knees or bloodied hands. As a matter of fact, most of my blood had left my extremities entirely, on its way southward. But I was resolutely ignoring that.

Foxy John’s was cozy as hell, with a counter and loads of tools and hardware for sale, and Tadhg looked right at home set against the manly backdrop.

“Slainte.” Tadhg clinked glasses with mine, and I repeated the word, liking the way it felt on my tongue.

“Crap. Now I really feel like I’m in Ireland.”

This is the trip people dream of. Right here.

“Good. Because this is officially a respectable pub crawl. So you can mark that one off your list.”

“Oh yeah? This makes four pubs in four hours. Is that enough to be respectable?”

He grinned down at me. “Yeah. That’s respectable. Your Simone is going to be proud of you.”

“You know what? I think she will. I’m going to send her a text right now! Actually, even better, could I send her a selfie with the two of us and the tools in the background? Not for professional use or public distribution, of course.”

“Nope. Don’t do selfies.”

“Yeah, but you’d do one for me, wouldn’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes, all grump, but I could tell that I’d already won.

“Ugh. Fine, you big tourist. But don’t embarrass me in front of the locals, will ye? No selfie sticks.”

“Well, you take it, then, with your three-foot-long concrete arms.”

“Fine. But only because I’m half cut. Don’t think I’m going to be making a habit of selfies now. I hate all this. The whole world would be better off without mobiles! Look what it’s turning us into.” But his brow was unfurrowed, and he had the ghost of a smile, and I liked this new version of grumpy.

“Bah humbug, Scrooge. Just take the damn photo!”

We smooshed closer together, and he put one huge arm around my shoulder, and we angled it to get all the wrenches and saws in the shot. I cozied in and took a long-drawn-out inhale of his delicious Tadhg scent. Don’t you snuggle! Don’t you dare snuggle!

“Just two tools in front of the tools. Oh my God. Just look at us. Adorable.”