Page 80 of An Irish Summer

“Besides,” Collin continued eventually, “we don’t all have the luxury of having a home we want to go back to.” I turned toface him and immediately wished it was lighter outside. His expression was unreadable in the dull glow of dying streetlights. “For some of us, the Wanderer is more stable than home ever was.”

“Are you one of those people?” I asked, though I knew the answer. Since he offered the information in the first place, I hoped he wouldn’t mind if I asked about it.

“Aye,” he said. “I am. The Wanderer and its people have been there for me in ways my family hasn’t always been. My family’s grand, I don’t mean to disparage them. Things just aren’t always the easiest with the blood relatives, you know? There aren’t so many expectations with chosen family. More support, less disappointment, that kind of thing.”

“I can’t imagine you not living up to anyone’s expectations,” I said before the thought fully cleared my brain. He smiled but kept his gaze out on the river.

“Because you’ve not met my family,” he said. “But enough about them. It’s just to say that the people you’re related to aren’t necessarily where your home has to be. If you have enough love for each other, it shouldn’t matter where you are, so long as you’re happy.”

He sounded like Ada, and it made my heart clench. I’d been so attached to the idea that to be happy I had to have the job, apartment, and ten-year plan. I hadn’t even realized it was possible for my happiness to comefirst, not as a result.

“Come on,” Collin said before I could respond, wiping his hands on his pants and getting to his feet. “This night was supposed to be about having a proper good time in the city,” he said, “and here we are carrying on about life and staring at the Liffey.” He shook his head, extending a hand to help me up. “Let’s end on a high.”

We tossed our empty cardboard boats in a nearby bin, then linked our arms again to return to the city streets.

“Where to now?” I asked, resisting the urge to look at my watch. I hadn’t forgotten about the interview, but I hadn’t forgotten about my newfound resolve to actually embrace the night either. I also hadn’t forgotten about Collin’s fingertips on my skin, his breath on the back of my neck. The way his chest felt against my shoulder blades. His lips against my ear.

“Back to the hostel?” he said, and I tried to keep my sudden disappointment from creeping onto my face. “I heard they have a great little bar that’s open nearly all night.” This time, my face must have given me away, because he laughed and tightened his elbow around my hand. “And, since we’ll already be back at the hostel, it’ll be nice and easy to get up to bed and get a decent night’s sleep for your interview.”

I should have been relieved he remembered, but instead my disappointment reappeared. I thought we were supposed to be ending the night on a high, and thinking about an interview for a job I didn’t even want was the opposite.

The bar in the hostel lobby was little more than a counter with a handful of half-empty bottles on a shelf behind it. An older woman straightened when she saw us approaching, slinging a towel over her shoulder, and slapping her hands flat on the bar.

“What’ll it be, then?” she asked. We eyed the small, lackluster collection of bottles before Collin ordered a local beer for himself and a club soda for me, both of which required no mixing from the bartender. All she had to do was pop the tops, and her relief was palpable.

“Long night?” Collin asked.

“Tending bar in a hostel is right brutal sometimes, you know that?”

We both laughed. “Actually, I do,” Collin said. “Do the same thing myself over in Galway there.”

The bartender turned back to face us, her gray eyes noticeably brighter than before. A hint of jealousy creeped in that Collin had that effect on everyone.

“Do ye really?” she said, looking him up and down. “A fine young thing like yerself probably has a better go of it though, I reckon.”

“Ah, it’s hell sometimes for all of us,” he said, and she smiled, making her appear ten years younger.

“I’d drink to that,” she said, raising the empty glass she’d been cleaning. “And what about you, dear? What do you do?”

“I’m the receptionist,” I said. “And I do some event planning on the side.” Or by now was I the event planner with some receptionist work on the side? Did it even matter?

“Aye, with this bloke, do ye? Hostel life for the lot of us then?”

“Oh, no. Not me. Just for the summer. Then I’m back to my life.”

“Poor thing,” she tsked. I tried not to be offended, but the pity in her eyes and the way Collin was holding in a laugh made it hard.

“Been tryin’ to tell her just that,” Collin said. “She doesn’t listen.”

“They never do, do they?”

“I’m right here,” I reminded them, though neither seemed to care. “Though really I should be asleep, resting before tomorrow.”

“What’s that then?” the bartender asked.

“An interview,” I said. “Part of the Back-to-Real-Life plan.”

“Dear, I hate to be the one to tell ye”—she leaned in—“but wherever ye are is yer real life.”

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