Page 52 of An Irish Summer

Once Collin was behind the wheel, he adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled back onto the road. I knew I was supposed to be looking at the view, but it was difficult not to watch him drive. Not to watch him turn the wheel with the heel of his hand, not to watch his forearms flex as he changed gears, not to watch him watching me.

When I was finally able to focus, I let my eyes trail along the horizon and admire the sea blend into the sky. I rolled down the windows to smell the salty air, letting my hair tangle in the breeze, not caring at all about what it’d feel like to rake the knots out later.

Eventually I pulled my head inside the window and leaned it back against the seat, trying to savor the moment. I hadn’t been doing enough of that since I’d gotten here. Or any of that,really. My main priority since I’d arrived in Ireland had been trying to leave Ireland, which meant I was mostly missing all of Ireland.

“All right?” Collin asked, studying my face in glances.

“Grand,” I answered, which made him smile.

“Don’t have anything like this in Boston, do ya?”

“We have plenty in Boston,” I said, trying to think of a single thing that might stack up to this view. He waited, but I said nothing.

“Sure ya do,” he said eventually, laughing under his breath.

“Where does this lead?” I asked, dragging my gaze along the shoreline, desperate to redirect our conversation.

“Still so eager to get to the next thing, are ya?” He shook his head, and I resisted the urge to melt into my seat. “Must there always be a destination, Chelsea?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing,” he said. “It’s okay to not know where you’re going.”

“In the car, maybe,” I argued. “But not in life.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one had to tell me,” I said, though an image of my mother flashed in my mind. “It’s just the way things are.”

Collin hummed, a low sound from deep in his chest, and it reverberated around the truck’s cab and straight down my spine.

“What?” I asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you made a sound.”

“I’m not allowed to make a sound?”

“Not without telling me what it was about,” I said.

“How hard are you really trying?” he said. “To find a job,I mean. To know where you’re going again. Because you’re putting in more work at the Wanderer, and I’m wondering when you have time for the job applications, and if you actually want to—”

“Of course I’m trying,” I said defensively. “And of course I want to find a job and move home. Nothing’s changed.”

“Say it like you mean it and I might believe you.”

“Where is this coming from?” I asked, rolling up the window and pushing my hair from my face.

“I just think you’re happier here than you’re willing to admit, that’s all.” He raised his palms suggesting he had nothing else to say, but that didn’t work for me.

“And what makes you the authority on that?” I asked.

“I have eyes, Chelsea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Stop asking questions you already know the answers to,” he replied. “I can literally see you letting your guard down. You don’t grit your teeth at the thought of exploring the country anymore. I’d say sometimes you’re even excited about it. Unless that has nothing to do with Ireland, and everything to do with.. .”

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