I looked over at her transiently throughout the run. I found her to be one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met and that included Kelly, I was loath to admit. I couldn’t deny it anymore, not when every male within a five-mile radius could sense her coming and would have jumped in front of a bus to make way for her. Every guy we passed, I wanted to punch in the gut for glancing her way. God, I’m a mess. For her, I was a slobbering mess. I hated it and loved it all at the same time.
She was a good five feet ten inches, possibly taller. She met my chin, which was practically unheard of. She had ridiculously long dark brown hair and blue eyes the color of the Atlantic. She was lean and beautiful and apparently talented according to Jason. He said she’d given up a full scholarship to Berkeley for piano. I was beginning to become enthralled with her and I absolutely hated it. I had to fight it. Had to.
When we reached Anchor House, we both leaned against the wrought-iron railing to catch our breath. We sat for a good five minutes before we were able to acknowledge each other.
“You’re kind of a hoss,” I admitted.
“So are you, actually,” she said, wrapping the cord of her earbuds around her iPod. “Hear anything good?” she asked, gesturing to my own iPod.
“Maybe. I was partial to a couple of indies who were too good to want a label’s interference, I think. There was one,” I said, thinking, turning her way. “A band in Paris. Feel like crossing the channel?” I asked with a slight smile.
“Uh, um, of course,” she said too cheerfully, even for January.
“Okay,” I said, skeptical.
“What’s their name?” she asked, changing the subject.
“All The Pretty Girls,” I admitted.
“Lame,” she said, laughing.
“Yeah, but if all bands with terrible original names were turned down, we wouldn’t have The Beatles or even Led Zeppelin.”
“Yeah, Johnny and the Moondogs and the New Yardbirds would probably be playing pathetic hotel lounges right about now,” she said, then snorted, shocking the shit out of me.
“You - how did you...?”
“How did you?” She rolled her eyes and jogged up the steps into the Anchor House and up to her room, leaving me with my jaw flush on the concrete below.
Zap.
After dozing off a bit after my run, I woke flustered to someone pounding on my door. I turned on my back, tired as hell from the time difference, and pulled my cell out. Eight-thirty. Damn. Wait, I wasn’t supposed to meet January until nine. I dragged myself off the bed and threw the door open.
January stood at my feet, absolutely breathtaking and in one of the sexiest outfits I’d ever seen. The kicker? She was practically covered from head to toe, go figure.
“Is this okay?” she asked, frantic.
“What?” I asked, dazed from her sheer presence.
“Is this okay? For tonight? I have no idea what’s appropriate anymore. People in the city don’t dress like we do in Austin, Tom.” I got a kick out of the fact that she associated me with Austin although I’d lived in New York my entire life. “So, I figured it was the same for Dublin.” Her face bunched. “Help me?”
“This is fine,” I said, not exactly telling the truth. The truth was, she made me want to rethink wanting to be alone. If she were my girl, Temple Bar could suck it and I’d just stay here, in this room with her, memorizing her face with my fingers and mouth.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I stepped inside and she followed, shutting the door behind her.
“Why aren’t you ready?”
“Truthfully? You woke me up. If you hadn’t stopped by, I would’ve probably missed meeting you downstairs.”
“I’m sorry. Did you want to bail?” she asked. “I don’t mind going alone.”
Not if you paid me a million dollars, I thought, sinking another nail into my coffin.
“No, I’m cool now. I want to get out and listen to a few bands.”
“All right, I’ll meet you downstairs then.”
I closed the door behind her and showered and dressed for Temple Bar quickly. I sat in front of the small mirror above my sink and wondered what the hell I was doing. I had no intention of looking for bands that night. I just wanted to stare at January. Oh, yeah, and make sure Ailin or anyone else for that matter, didn’t. I took a long look at myself in the mirror. I was twenty-two years old and appeared thirty, but that wasn’t because I physically looked thirty. It was because I wore my bitterness on my face like a second coat. I briefly thought for a moment if January could help me shed that coat but shrugged it off. I needed to remember that January would more than likely hurt the hell out of me and then I’d be an even bigger jerk than I already was and, to be honest, I was tired of being a jerk. It was wearing.
I took the stairs into the lobby below. The friendly desk clerk pointed outside. I opened the door and found January sitting on the stoop below me so I joined her.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Yup.” She stood and wiped the dirt off her black skinny jeans. She carefully balanced herself down the steps on her ridiculous black heels.
“You’re gonna break an ankle,” I observed before grabbing her arm. A thick, syrupy heat spread through my hand and laced its way up into my chest, making another icy layer crack and spit in anger.
When she reached the walk, I let go like my hand had been at a hot stove. We walked in silence to Gogarty’s, my hand repeatedly wanting to guide her by her lower back around potholes or stumps. I had to ring my arm in every time it reached out.
Gogarty’s was packed even for a Friday from what I could remember, all tourists, but the unbelievable traditional music there was enough to wrangle even a few locals. The door swung open and we were hit with the fragrance of classic Irish cuisine, in other words, a bunch of meat and potatoes, and yeast but the music, the music that filled the pub was truly tangible. It rang in the air and swept over each expectant ear, swirling to the rooftop and guided back down. It was beautiful, incredibly beautiful.
Ailin saw us from across the bar and waved us over. We weaved our way through and he gestured to two empty seats beside him. January sat directly next to him and I next to her, but I got right back up.
“What’ll you have?” I asked.
“Uh,” she said, looking around, unsure.
My brows narrowed. “Do you drink, January?”
“Not really,” she shrugged sheepishly. “Just get me whatever you’re drinking.”
I laughed. “I don’t think you want what I’m having, sweetheart.”
“Condescension. Nice touch.”
“Fine,” I said, lifting my hands in surrender. “I’ll get you a pint of Guinness.”
“Good,” she said smugly, making me smile like a dumbass.
I leaned down into her ear. “Whatever you do, January, don’t take a damn thing from these clowns. You hear me? We don’t really know them.” Her eyes were round in her head but she nodded. I sat back up and gestured to the others. “Pint, boys?” They shook their heads, their glasses over half full. Not half empty. Twenty-two years of Tie-Dye Tom couldn’t be erased so swiftly after all.
I approached the bar and ordered two pints of Guinness instead of my usual McEwan's Scotch Ale. She would have been toe up from just the smell of it if I’d ordered her that. I gathered the pints and made my way back to January, setting the stout in front of her face and waited for her reaction. She smiled widely and picked up the pint. She hesitated, looking at me before bringing it to her lips.
“Drink up, baby girl.”
“I am,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows. “Stop ordering me around.”
I sighed deeply.
She took a long, deep swig of the stout and her face contorted to impossible angles, making me laugh my ass off.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I - I like it,” she answered, her face still slightly knotted.
“I can tell.”
She gave me a dirty look and I backed off, deciding to finally focus on the band playing that night.
They were just finishing up a lively tune when they shifted things a bit and started a deep, dark lament. January shot upright in her chair and grabbed my arm. “Molly Bán,” she whispered to me, never taking her hand from my bicep.
Molly Bán is a song of sad fates, a warning of sorts, meant for all young men.
Come all ye young fellows
That handle a gun
Beware of night rambling
By the setting of the sun
And beware of an accident
That happened of late
To young Molly Bán
And sad was her fate
She was going to her uncle’s
When a shower came on
She went under a green bush
The shower to shun
Her white apron wrapped around her
He took her for a swan
But a hush and a sigh
'Twas his own Molly Bán
He quickly ran to her
And found she was dead
And there on her bosom
Many salt-tears he shed
He ran home to his father
With his gun in his hand
Saying "Father, dear father
I have shot Molly Bán"
Her white apron wrapped around her
He took her for a swan
But a hush and a sigh
'Twas his own Molly Bán
He roamed near the place
Where his true love was slain
He wept bitter tears
But his cries were in vain
As he looked on the lake
A swan glided by
And the sun slowly sank
In the gray of sky
“How do you know it?” I whispered into her ear. Her body shivered. Did I do that?
She swallowed before answering. “My, uh, my Maimeó used to sing this to us when we were small.” A small tear threatened from her glassy eye making me uneasy.
“What’s a Maw-mo?” I asked, curious as hell.
“Maimeó is what we call my grandmother. She’s born and bred Irish. Came to the United States, Jersey, in the sixties carrying my father.”
“That explains the name MacLochlainn,” I said, a slight grin tugging at my lips.
“Yeah, Americans assume I’m Scottish because of the whole ‘Mac’ thing but I’m one hundred percent Irish. My mother’s family is Irish as well, but they came to the U.S. during the potato famine.” That’s when I realized that this must be like coming home for January.
“It also explains the red highlights,” I blurted out without realizing. I almost slapped my hand over my mouth.
Her mouth began to form the question, but out of nowhere a man lifted me from my seat, saving me...possibly.
“Ah, it is you!” He exclaimed loudly for the whole pub to hear. He slapped me on the back, making me choke. “Right! Let’s get pissed, ya’ bastard!” He bellowed making everyone cheer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as he pushed me toward the bar, “do I know you?”
The guy had about ten seconds before I lost my cool.
“I’m sorry, friend! I know your band! The Ivories! Ah, right, see this here, I know your music. You were here, were ya’ not, two years past?”