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Saturated in the true and often talked about Irish charm, it’s not just a melody to the eyes. The friendliness and hearty welcome of the locals are unlike most other places I’ve visited. I felt at home the moment my feet touched land, and being lost on the juxtaposition of the cold climate and warmth in people is something my heart has searched for my entire life.
The cobblestones of the streets are uneven under my feet. Some loose enough to shake under my step. I smile, knowing Brooks will fall as heavily in love with this country as I have.
I smile at locals as I pass them, their ruddy cheeks not unlike my own. I’ve been spending my days exploring. For a population of just over two thousand, Dingle is home tothirtydifferent bars. Thirty different opportunities to learn, to observe, to soak up knowledge I’ve yet to discover. I’m determined to make my way through them all.
Day by day.
Tasting cocktails and losing myself in conversation with the men and women tending bar.
Brooks and I agreed on a hiatus from work over the next few weeks. Time together was to be exactly that. No distractions. No complications. Hours spent with only one another. Exploring not only Ireland and its beauty, but one another. We wanted the time to become lost in each other the way we longed to.
I smile at the soft bell that sounds as I step through the door of the coffeehouse only doors down from the bed and breakfast I’ve rented for my time in Dingle.
“Mornin’, Henley.”
“Morning, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Tea for you this morning?”
“Please.” I hand over a bunch of coins which she picks up without counting, dropping them into the register before sliding it shut with her hip.
“Where to today?”
“Dick Mack’s,” I answer from the seat I’ve claimed as she makes my tea.
“Popular one that one.”
“Hmm.”
“When does your man arrive?”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the mere mention of Brooks. “Three days. Though, I thought I would’ve heard from him by now.”
“Ah, from what you’ve told me of ‘im”—she places the teapot down with a beautiful teacup—“he probably wants to surprise ya.”
“Thank you.” I gesture to the tea. “He knows how much I hate surprises,” I joke. “But maybe you’re right.”
I sip on the tea as I watch locals come and go from the coffee shop, the familiarity Mrs. Doyle greeted me with similar to those she’s known for forty-plus years.
I let the fantasy she planted in my head expand as the citrus of my Earl Grey dances along my tastebuds. Maybe Brooks surprising me wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I smile in spite of myself, my feet tapping against the floor in time with the old Irish tune drifting from the small radio Mrs. Doyle keeps behind the counter.
The problem with happiness, I’ve come to learn, is that it clouds your better judgment. It shelters that nagging feeling in your stomach that tells you that life is about to fall apart around you. And when unprepared, the fall from delirium is more painful than the depression of everyday life.
It took only two weeks of me shaking my head when I’d ordered my tea for Mrs. Doyle to stop asking when Brooks would arrive.
A month longer for her to start trying to marry me off to her friend’s sons.
And only a day longer for me to find a new coffeehouse out of sheer embarrassment.
31
BROOKS
THREE MONTHS LATER
Walking into the bar,I should be cautious of the anger that boils under my surface. This is the last fucking place I wanted to be tonight. I’m exhausted, and I miss my girl.
I haven’t seen her in eight months. This last shoot was a clusterfuck. Delay after delay held me hostage forelevenweeks longer than my schedule planned. I know it pissed her off. We had plans. Plans that I dropped the fucking ball on.
