Page 38 of An Irish Summer

“We’ll take this one,” Flo said, already handing her card to the vendor.

“Oh, no,” I started. “Flo, you don’t—”

“It’s bad luck to buy one for yourself,” she explained, “so you have to accept the gift.” She smiled, squeezing my hand and thanking the seller. She was impossible to argue with, and impossibly generous, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Now,” she said. “Let me show you how to wear it.” She explained that the different ways to wear it signified relationship status, eventually turning it on my right hand so the heart was facing away from me. “This means you’re single,” she said.“And then when you and Collin eventually stop pretending you aren’t into each other, you can turn it around to face you to show other people you’re taken.”

“Flo!”

“Don’t act so surprised, Chelsea. We can all see you’re inseparable.”

“Then you all may as well be blind,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she mused. “Lars said there was some tension in the pub the other night. No one has tension in the pub unless something is going on.”

“It’s Ireland. Everyone has tension in the pub,” I said. “Besides, Lars is just trying to stir the pot. I can assure you, nothing’s going on.”

“Just don’t forget to turn the ring around when you stop lying to yourself,” she said. “Speaking of Lars, I think he has a group out in Salthill today. Should we pop over there? I could go for the sea in this weather.”

Flo was smart to change the subject. I had no idea what Salthill was, but the day was getting hotter and my mind cloudier, so the sea sounded like a great idea.

“Let’s do it,” I said, desperate to get out from under her gaze. With Lars and the guests around there was sure to be less ribbing about Collin, which was appealing enough without the promise of the sea.

After a short text exchange, Flo confirmed they were indeed at Salthill, so we headed out of town and down to the seaside. We walked along the bay, turning our faces to the wind and letting the mist settle in our hair.

“This is the Promenade,” Flo said as we walked down a flat stretch that bordered the water, lined with old fashioned streetlights and wooden benches. The gentle drop off wasrocky before deep blue water stretched to the horizon, and I found it impossible to look away. “And those are the hills of the Burren.” She nodded across the water at a landscape that looked photoshopped. Unusual rock formations carving paths through kelly-green hills, stretching lazily toward the sky.

“Is everyone around here a tour guide?”

“It just becomes a part of you,” Flo said. “Whether you want it to or not.”

I kept quiet, afraid to prompt more teasing about my unwillingness to embrace Ireland.

“And that’s Blackrock,” she said and pointed to what looked like a diving board standing at least twenty feet above the water. I snapped my head in her direction, and her smile confirmed my fear: that was exactly where we were headed.

“Tell me we aren’t,” I tried.

“Oh, but that would be a lie.” Her smile doubled in size, and she grabbed my hand to keep me from running all the way back to the Wanderer. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I think I see Lars up there now.”

Sure enough, Lars was on top of the higher platform, gesturing wildly at what must have been his group from the hostel. We watched as he approached the end of the platform, looked back to confirm he had their attention, then jumped into the sea. I tried to count the seconds it took before he hit the water but closed my eyes afterone.

“Flo, there is absolutely no way I’m going up there.”

“It’s a rite of passage,” she said. “Everyone who comes to Galway in the summer jumps from Blackrock.” She was still dragging me in the direction of the diving board, no matter how hard I tried to pull away.

“Everyone except me,” I said.

“It’s only, like, ten meters,” she said as if ten meters was no bigger than ten inches.

“That’s thirty feet, Florence.”

“Afraid of heights or the sea?”

“Heights.”

“Then you’ll just have to jump quickly.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” I said, searching for any viable excuse.

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