Page 91 of Weekends with You

“Safe to assume we’re hungry, then, are we?” Finn asked, looking from face to face.

“Starving,” Jan said, and the rest of us agreed.

“I’ll go put in an order with the bartender for the table, if that’s all right with you lot? I know all the best bits here, and you’ve never been the picky type.”

“Finn, you are really going above and beyond, mate,” Henry said. “Five-star service.”

“I aim to please,” he said, shooting Henry a wink, at which Hen rolled his eyes. “Back in a min.”

Cal and Henry took drink orders, following Finn to the bar. Before long, the table was covered in hearty bowls of Irish stew and family-style plates of shepherd’s pie, corned beef, and boiled cabbage. We’d all worked up quite an appetite from wandering around town and spending money we didn’t have in little shops all day, and the warmth of the food brought comfort in the cool rain. I relished every salty bite, washing them down with a Guinness.

Somewhere under the cover of the laughter, the banter, and the storytelling, Henry slipped a hand under the table andsqueezed my knee. I felt the warmth of his palm through my jeans, and traced the knobs of his knuckles, memorizing the feel of his hands. Though this weekend was making me feel like I might not have to memorize it at all. He might be available for me to study, to admire, to embrace whenever I wanted. It was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid getting my hopes up, but with every sip of every pint and every glance at his wide smile, I was powerless to stop myself.

As we finished dinner and got ready for another round, a folk band began setting up across what I hadn’t realized was a dance floor. Made up of six large men who dwarfed their tiny string instruments, the band settled into an old routine on the makeshift stage, bows in one hand, beers in the other.

As soon as the band started to play, Finn and Raja ushered us out of the booth, demanding that we dance.

“Raj, I don’t think any of us know the first thing about Irish dancing,” I laughed.

“What better time to learn?” She took a parting swig of her drink and grabbed me by the hand, dragging me from the safety of the booth. I managed to scoop my pint from the table and chug the last bit before we hit the dance floor. Everyone else stopped at the bar on the way, bringing us pints when they’d made their way back to us.

“My lady,” Henry said in an accent far posher than usual, handing me the beer. I knew he was joking, but the thought of being “his” anything warmed me in a way a strong pint never could.

“Everyone can do this one,” Finn shouted over the music as it began to pick up. “Just grab each other’s hands and feel the music.” At our confused faces, he added, “Just jump around a lot!” He was already bouncing around the dance floor, linking elbows with various partners, twirling old ladies, swingingother dancers around by the hands. The rest of us shrugged at each other and jumped in, each doing our own version of a little “feeling the music” and a lot of “jumping around a lot,” sloshing beer all over the floor all the while.

The crowd of dancers heaved together like one pulsing body, and the band sped up, feeding it. We were open-mouth laughing as we bobbed around strangers, dipped in the arms of old Irish men, lost our drinks as soon as we put them down, and slugged pints that weren’t ours. Despite the wet chill outside, sweat dripped down our backs and forced our hair into sloppy buns.

Time stopped in this pub. It smelled of warm bodies and pine needles. There was no personal space. No boundaries. Everything the Irish may have lacked in communication, they made up for on the dance floor. The combination of the music, the drinks, and the movement made the room spin, and it was only when Henry swooped me into his arms that everything slammed to a halt.

The band sounded like they were playing underwater, and the bodies around me warped into nothing more than a blur of dull spring hues. Henry’s hand on my lower back was becoming an increasingly familiar sensation, only this time, the heat of his gaze outweighed that of his hand. With our eyes locked on one another, we spun in circles with the crowd, somehow managing to stay on our feet. His lips were parted just enough to take panting breaths, and the heady energy between us sent a welcome chill through my veins. I shook my hair loose from its perch on top of my head and let it fall all the way down my back.

In the midst of the chaos on the dance floor, things between us were easy. It didn’t matter where we lived, what would happen with our jobs, where we’d find ourselves in the future. Itdidn’t matter if this was going to work. What mattered was that itwasworking, right now, under the spell of this Irish pub. We were pressed up against each other, drunk and uninhibited, spinning wildly under the dim golden lights, falling through space and time.

Every song thereafter sounded like a record spun too slow, warm and full and just a bit lopsided. One by one we stumbled back to the booth, out of breath and knackered from the dancing.

“I told you you could do it,” Finn said when the eight of us had collapsed into our seats. “Good craic, that, isn’t it?”

“Who knew the Irish countryside could be so fun?” Liv sighed.

“Me,” Finn said, deadpan. “I’ve literally been saying that to you lot since I moved into the flat.”

“Oh, Finny,” Liv said, ruffling his hair. He shoved her off, then immediately pulled her back in when he saw her pouting.

“Are we ready to get out of here, then?” Henry asked, nodding in the direction of the road. We exchanged a few tired groans, agreeing that it was time to be getting back.

“Finn, give me the keys, mate,” Cal said, hand outstretched.

“Yer just as hammered as the rest of us,” Finn said, squinting one eye to see Cal clearly. “We’ll call a taxi.”

Cal snatched the keys from Finn, laughing at the sight of us. “Unlike the rest of you, I can stop myself after one drink and live to tell the tale. Let’s get you lot home, shall we?”

We followed Cal’s directions, and once more piled into the Grand Scénic, rumbling down the unpaved back roads that had gotten us there, this time to a soundtrack of drunken snoring inside the van and howling wind outside its open windows.

Upon our return, we spent a few minutes in the kitchen pouring massive glasses of water and shoving a few cookies inour mouths to soak up the alcohol, then most of us found our way to bed. We had an early flight, so no one was particularly interested in oversleeping.

Hen and I lingered the extra minute, pretending to tidy up but really stalling while we inwardly debated which bed I’d be sleeping in. He broke the silence first.

“Well?” he said, running a dish towel around the rim of a drinking glass. “Are you coming to bed, then?”

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