Page 158 of One Night Only
“Now, obviously I’m not one to be giving out relationship advice,” he says as I start shoveling them into my mouth. “But as a father to his daughter, I think I can give you some life advice. I don’t know this boy. But if it makes you this upset to break things off with him, then I think you need to see if you can make it right. You owe it to yourself to try.”
“How?” I ask weakly.
“Talk to him. Listen to him. And if you can, trust him. But don’t shut him out because of what happened between your mom and me. Don’t give up on your happiness just because you’re scared it won’t last forever.”
I swallow the mush of salted potato chips in my mouth. “I can’t believe you’re dating Clem.”
He smiles. “She’ll find this funny. What did you think I was doing all these years? Sitting in the basement playing solitaire?”
“Kinda.”
We both look up as an engine roars in the distance and a second later a tow truck appears around the corner.
“Finally,” Dad mutters, climbing out. “Who knows what else would have come out if we were stuck here.”
I toss the empty packet on the dashboard as he goes to meet the mechanic, wiping my hands on my already filthy jeans. My initial shock has faded, along with the misery that enveloped me the last two weeks. For the first time I feel something lighter, something warmer. Something a little like hope and as I follow my dad in hopping out of the truck, I blow out a shaky breath and call Annie.
35
It’s late on Friday night and O’Shea’s is packed. The deep green booths are filled with people, glasses and plates of food dotting the tables, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder.
It feels strange coming back here. I used to come all the time; the bar is only a few blocks from my apartment. I know the wine list back to front and which toilet stall has a rusty lock and as I step cautiously inside the comforting din of a hundred different conversations, I realize that despite everything, I’ve missed it.
But I’m not here for nostalgia.
I’m here to grovel.
I am wearing my trusty black dress. I have washed my hair.
I just need to make my feet move first.
I linger in the doorway until someone bumps into me from behind. Only then do I force myself forward to where Declan stands behind the bar. I’ve been watching him for the last few minutes, amazed at how easy he makes his job look. He never stops moving, pouring pints or clearing glasses, always catching someone’s eye and smiling as he accepts cards, cash and tips.
He’s busy. Very busy. I should wait until his shift is over.
I should get over myself.
I squeeze between two groups of loud men as I take a recently vacated seat at the bar. By then, it’s only because my legs feel like Jell-O, do I not stand and bolt right out of there. He doesn’t look over.
I should have just texted him. He’s probably still mad. He’ll probably take one look at me and—
“What can I get you?”
A waitress I vaguely recognize approaches. She seems friendly. That’s good. That means he hasn’t posted a photo of my face in the break room for everyone to throw darts at.
I straighten on the stool and, a little louder than necessary, ask: “What whiskey do you have?”
From the corner of my eye, I spy Declan stiffen and fight the urge to flee as he turns to face me.
“We’ve got Jameson, Bushmills, Teeling—”
“Surprise me,” I say. It’s not like I’ll be able to tell the difference anyway.
She shrugs and turns, busying herself with the bottles. Declan’s no longer looking at me, his head bent to hear somebody’s order.
I look down at my phone to see Annie’s message.Have you talked to him yet?I’d had a long conversation with her while Dad’s truck was getting fixed and called her again while I was getting ready, asking both for her advice and to check with Paul where Declan was working tonight. I’m in the middle of texting her back when a message from Will comes through.
Just flash him.
