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When I hold out my hand for a pinkie promise, he takes my arm instead, making me squeal when he pulls me into his lap. He kisses my chin, then grabs my arm and kisses my elbow.
“What are you doing?”
“Just making sure I haven’t missed anywhere,” he says, and kisses my other elbow. When he pulls back, he pins me with a stern glare. “No more being sad.”
“Or what?”
“Or else you’re fired,” he says.
“Oh, please.”
I want to make the most of the time we have together, even if itisn’t much. Being with Jack reminds me of my very favorite days. Perfect ones with perfect weather. When I look up at him, his arms loosely wrapped around my waist, it feels like tilting my face up to the sun, like standing in the middle of a new city that somehow feels like home.
Twenty-Four
I spend my last night in Cobh at the Local, perched on the very same stool I took my first night here. I’ve hardly left it since my shift ended, and that was nearly four hours ago now. Aoife, who took over behind the bar when Ollie went home at five, has been talking my ear off since she arrived. I try to pay attention, but then my phone buzzes on the bar top with a message from Jack.
Jack
Running late. Be there soon.
“You good, girl?” Aoife asks.
I stare at the text for a moment, then click the screen dark without replying and look up at Aoife, who sets yet another pint in front of me. I’m starting to suspect she’s trying to get me drunk so I’ll miss my flight. When I suggest as much, all she says is, “Someone certainly thinks they know everything about everyone,” and winks.
All evening I’ve tuned in and out of the conversations around me. The toppling of the Jenga tower sounds from the game room,followed by a wave of laughter. I think of that first night in Cobh and how the first thing I noticed when I walked in here was the music playing overhead and can’t help but get a little emotional at how much this place has changed. I haven’t been here long, but I know this place. I know the origin of every item on these cluttered walls. I know which games are missing pieces. Which customers will drift in when. I know exactly what song Dave will play first when he pulls out his guitar and the look on Aoife’s face that says she’s just remembered a particularly good piece of town gossip.
I know how it feels to sit on the floor in front of the fireplace, my boots in a heap beside me, and not get any strange looks. I know that when I tear a napkin into little bits that form a pile on the bar top, I can just set them on the nearest empty plate, whether it be mine or someone else’s. I know to expect someone will join in when I’m singing to myself and that I’ll hear my named hollered from across the room as soon as I walk in the door.
I know what it feels like to be here, not as a tourist or passerby, but as someone who belongs.
The later it gets, the more I feel like crying. When Róisín calls for Aoife from the kitchen, I slip from my stool and step outside, hoping a quick loop around the block will keep me from making a fool of myself in public again. With every step, I try to remind myself that this was all part of the plan. I was only supposed to stay here for a little while. I was never supposed to stay here at all.
I turn a corner, and when the cathedral comes into view, I slow to a stop and watch it glow above the town. I don’t stay for long. It’s just a moment. One small, brief pause in a bigger journey to somewhere else.
Jack is waiting for me when I reach the door to the pub again. “There you are. It’s almost last call and everyone is waiting for you.”
“Why is everyone waiting for me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I squint at him. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, then takes my hand in his and leads me inside. I’m surprised to find that Jack wasn’t kidding.Everyoneis here. And not just Aoife and Róisín and the regulars who were already here when I went for my walk. Dave and Nina and even Ollie (who already spent his entire day here) sit beside each other at the bar.
“There’s our Raine,” Aoife calls when she spots us. “I was wondering where you ran off to, girl.”
“What’s everyone doing here? Aren’t we closing in five minutes?”
Jack doesn’t get the chance to answer my questions because Nina jumps up from her stool and races over.
“I’m stealing your girl,” she tells Jack, then loops her arm through mine and drags me to the bar, despite the fact that Jack and I were already headed in that direction.
I’m not sure what all the fuss is about, but when Nina makes me take the empty barstool beside her, she waggles her eyebrows at me and whispers, “Are you ready for your first lock-in?”
“Really?” I spin around to look for Jack, who is busy locking the door and shuttering the windows. I’ve heard about lock-ins of course, but I’ve never experienced one. Last call at the Local is at eleven thirty during the week, as it is in most pubs here in Ireland. But sometimes, when folks aren’t quite ready to go home for the night, the owner or bartender will keep the party going. Once closing time comes and anyone not in the know leaves, the door is locked, the windows are shuttered, and everyone inside enjoys a few more rounds. My grandfather used to tell me about them, and I’ve always wanted to be a part of one. But they happen rarely and are mostly reserved for locals.
