Page 7 of An Irish Summer

I was naive, really, to think I’d sleep at all. Night came and went, and I did little more than toss and turn and stare listlessly at the ceiling.

And the following day passed in much the same way. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything with a midnight flight looming in the distance, so I moved throughlast-minute logistics like a zombie until it was time to leave for the airport.

“Chelsea girl, time to go,” my dad called from the foyer, and I heard the jingle of his keys.

My luggage thudded on every step from my room to the foyer like a countdown, ushering me toward the door. It felt eerily similar to the morning I first left for college, except UMass was ninety-four miles from home, and Galway was nearly three thousand.

“Ready?” my dad asked at the bottom of the stairs, taking my suitcase from my hand and replacing it with a tumbler of green tea.

“And if I wasn’t?” I said, my voice quiet.

He kissed me on the temple. “I know you are,” he said. “And I’ll remind you any time you forget.” I exhaled slowly, leaning into the brief moment of relief. “You can be excited and scared at the same time, you know,” he added, hardly above a whisper.

I didn’t have to tell him he was right.

“All right, then, you two should be off,” my mother said, coming out from the kitchen and bringing us both back into reality. “Don’t want you to miss your flight.” We all knew I had more than enough time, nearly four hours, in fact, but I was equally eager to get the last goodbyes out of the way.

My dad was driving me to the airport, so he loaded the car while my mom and I went through the same routine Ada and I did last night. Hugs, kisses, good-lucks, rogue tears, poorly timed jokes, and constant reminders to call as soon as I landed.

“And remember, honey,” she said as I walked down the front steps to the car. “You can always come home. There will always be space for you in the house and in the office.”

I knew she was trying to be comforting, but her words hadthe opposite effect. All they did was remind me what I needed to do to get my life back on track.

“Thanks,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat of the car. “I’ll call you when I land.” She blew a kiss from the steps, my dad put the car in reverse, and we were off.

Logan Airport wasn’t particularly crowded, so I got through security with plenty of time for an overpriced cocktail before I had to be at the gate. Fortunately, my dad always slipped me some cash when he dropped me at the airport, so the cost of the cocktail stung a little less.

I’d only been on a few long-haul flights in my twenty-eight years of life, and none of them were without a return ticket a few days later, so a massive Aperol spritz was in order.

A few sips of my drink steadied my nerves, and I exhaled for the first time all day. This was happening. I’d be boarding the plane before I knew it, leaving my life in Boston behind. I said a silent prayer that I’d sleep through most of the flight, hoping I could arrive in Galway without having had a six-hour panic attack on the way there.

Thanks to the spritz my eyes were heavy by the time the wheels were up, and my journey was officially underway.

Chapter 4

The pilot had given us a weather update as soon as we were on the tarmac at Shannon Airport, an hour from Galway, but the “gentle mist” she described was more of a cold, spitting rain that clung to my hair and my face and my clothes as I waited for a taxi. A few buses had already come and gone, with their drivers announcing the number of stops they were making on the way to Galway.

“Are you sure, there, lass? Save you a couple euros, it will,” one of the drivers had said through the door at me, grimacing at the taxi stand.

“Thank you, but that’s okay,” I’d said, trying to sound confident in my decision to get a cab, when really I should have saidI have no idea how to get to where I’m supposed to be living for the next two months and I’ve never been to Ireland before and I have no real idea what I’m doing at all.

“Suit yourself.” He’d shrugged, closing his doors and rejoining the flow of traffic. When a cab finally arrived and we’d discussed the astronomical fare to get me to the hostel, I made a mental note to learn the bus system after all.

As we drove away from the airport and onto the highway, reality settled into my bones alongside the cold rain that seepedthrough my clothes. I felt how I imagined Dorothy must have felt when she woke up in Oz. Only instead of a rainbow, I was greeted by slate-gray skies and overlapping shades of soft greens for miles and miles. I leaned my head against the window, letting the glass quell my anxiety and cool the burning in my cheeks.

After miles and miles of the very nothingness I was so afraid of, seemingly out of nowhere, the countryside became a small village, and I felt the pressure of my impending arrival. The village seemed mostly residential, save for its own small high street. I clocked a few shops wedged between pubs and markets and parks, though the rest of the village seemed to be small cottage-esque homes with gardens triple their size. Its colors were wind-worn and faded, but it seemed impossibly determined to remain cheerful in the face of the temperamental Irish weather. For a fleeting moment, I envied that resolution.

Toward the end of the high street, the taxi slowed to a stop outside what revealed itself to be the Wanderer. The facade was unassuming, wedged between what I assumed to be the hostel’s bar and a small grocery store, and if it wasn’t for the colorful bunting draped over the awning, I might have missed it altogether. After paying the painfully high fare and thanking the driver, I hauled my suitcase from the trunk and turned to face what would be my home for the summer.

“You must be Chelsea.” An older woman, undoubtedly Lori, came bustling out of the front door with her hand outstretched. She sounded so much like Helen I felt my heart squeeze in my chest.

“Yes, hi,” I said, trying to sound cheerful despite the exhaustion from the flight. “You must be Lori.”

“What gave it away, my good looks? Or did Helen leave thatpart out?” Lori pretended to push a lock of hair over her shoulder despite her pixie cut, and a quiet laugh slipped from my lips. If it wasn’t for their matching caramel eyes and their identical voices, I never would have believed they were sisters. Where Helen was reserved and put-together, Lori seemed to be the creative hippie type.

“Let’s get you inside,” Lori said before I responded, draping an arm around my shoulders and leading me through the doors.

The lobby of the Wanderer looked exactly like the brochure, only the colors were somehow brighter and gaudier in real life. A neon sign readingfáilte, a word I quickly learned to mean “welcome,”blinked erratically behind the reception desk, casting the left side of the lobby in an artificial glow. The right side seemed to serve as one of a few common areas, boasting a pool table, a few vending machines, and a handful of mismatched beanbag chairs.

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