Page 105 of An Irish Summer

Applause filled the room, and Collin thanked his audience with a raise of his hand, handing his banjo to someone backstage and disappearing behind the curtain. I swallowed the rest of my beer in one gulp, trying to prepare for his reappearance on this side of the stage.

As I turned to put my empty glass on the bar, I heard his voice behind me. Normal volume, no microphone, inches from me instead of miles. “I guess he has to follow through on that promise to buy the maiden a pint, then, doesn’t he?”

“Collin,” I said, turning to face him. We were both breathless, like we’d run a marathon to get here.

“Hi, Chels.” He signaled to the bartender for two more beersthen slid onto the stool beside me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, inhale his familiar scent, feel his heartbeat against me, and see if it was pounding the same way mine was. Instead, I kept to my barstool, following his lead.

“You’ve become a knight in my absence, have you?” I thanked the bartender and took a sip, hoping the light banter would soften him.

“Hardly,” he said. “I didn’t quite think I was going to become the subject of that one.” I nodded, taking another sip. He did the same. “Why are you here, Chels?”

If he was going to get right to the point, I might as well do the same. “Why’d you send the portfolio?”

“Because you wanted the gig.”

“But you wanted me to stay.”

“But you wanted to leave,” he said. “All we wanted was to see you happy. And if that meant going back to Boston and getting that job, we wanted to help you get there.”

I was overwhelmed with both gratitude and that same selfish feeling I had that day in the kitchen with Flo, momentarily speechless. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said eventually.

“It doesn’t seem like it did you much good, did it? Not if you’re back here, anyway.”

“It’s actually exactly what got me back here,” I said. “It was in the interview when I realized that job wasn’t at all what I wanted. The concrete city, the trendy new hotel job, the endless extension of the only life I’d ever known. And then as soon as I saw your name on the bottom of that email, it was over.”

“But you didn’t want to be here,” he said, staring into the darkness of his pint. “You said a million times that this life wasn’t for you.”

“It wasn’t for an old version of me,” I said. “It wasn’t for theversion of me I was when I arrived. But now, I’m not even sure who she is anymore. That version of myself is unrecognizable, and I have no intention of bringing her back.”

He lifted his eyes to mine, and the tangle in my chest loosened just slightly.

“What version of you is here now, then?”

“The one you fell for,” I said. “Hell, the one I owe to you, in fact. The one who jumps off cliffs and dances without knowing the steps and speeds down coastal highways. The one who’s learned to love Galway more than Boston, and who’s learned stability does not equal success. And that happiness doesn’t have to look anything like a corporate job and a white picket fence.”

“I quite like that one.” He swirled the beer in his glass, and I willed him to look at me. “So, what?” he asked, still apprehensive. “You’re here just for another season, then?”

“Coll, I’m here for good,” I said, letting the words settle between us. “I don’t have a return ticket. There’s no date of termination on my contract. No replacement lined up for when I leave. I’m staying this time. I mean it.”

For the first time since we locked eyes during his story, his expression softened completely. No ridge between his eyebrows, no suppressing a smile. He was letting me back in. “You’ve decided to live in the fantasy after all.” He raised his glass to me and took a swig. “God, Chelsea. It better be true. You remember the story of Leannán Sídhe, don’t you?”

The fairy lover who served as a muse then turned her human lover to dust when she left. “How could I forget?”

“Aye, you love the fairy stories, don’t you?”

“Among other things.” I smiled. It was something I shouldhave confessed the night after the roast. I’d been as sure about it then as I was now.

“So tell me.” He angled his body toward mine, filling the space between us. “What does happiness look like now?”

I hummed, pretending to think. “Well, it looks like endless stretches of green,” I started, “picnics near lakes, drives along the water.”

“Go on.”

“It also looks like neon signs in hostel lobbies, plates of roast potatoes”—I leaned in—“Irishmen with that sparkle in their eyes.”

“Anything else?” he probed, parting his lips just slightly.

“Look around,” I said. Together we scanned the bar, clocking our friends, the warmth of the atmosphere, the clink of glasses in celebration, and the misty Irish rain outside the windows. The scene that had become so familiar I couldn’t imagine a life without it.

He took my hand in his, spinning the claddagh around a few times the same way I had in the interview. “You remember how this works, don’t you?” he asked, sliding it off my finger. I nodded, sensing exactly where he was going. He turned the heart so it was facing me and slipped it back on, and the rest of the crowd melted away.

“I haven’t seen twelve wild horses yet,” I said, still staring at my hand, “but if Niamh is right and all it takes is falling in love with an Irishman, I believe I might just be a proper Irishwoman after all.”

“In that case,” he said, pulling me into him so close I could feel his smile against my lips, “welcome home.”

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