27
The flight lands in Dublin at seven a.m. local time, and as I disembark, I promise myself I’m leaving my tears and my melancholy behind on the plane. The nighttime flight helped, but I found it hard to sleep with the eight-hour time difference and the fact my broken heart took a severe beating earlier today. Having Audrey say goodbye at LAX was a disastrous move too. Leaving my bestie behind only added to my distress.
I spent the first two hours of the ten-and-a-half-hour flight trying to fight tears and the next two hours trying to disguise my sobs from the other passengers. Being in first class helped, and the Aer Lingus flight attendant was super sweet and attentive when she noticed I was upset. Still, it’s embarrassing, and I need to get a grip. I’m just lucky no one on the plane seemed to realize who I was.
I’m yawning as I move through passport control, but I perk up as I get my first proper look at Ireland through the large windows as I walk with other passengers toward the arrival hall. Gray skies and rain peer back at me, and it’s kind of reassuring. If everything about Ireland is as expected, I think I’ll really enjoy my time here.
Out in the arrivals area, I scan the space, my eyes inspecting all the cards held aloft until I spot one that says GRACE MILLS. As an extra precaution, I’ve decided to use my middle name here. Just in case any locals or visiting tourists make the connection. Pushing my luggage cart toward the rotund man in the ill-fitting black suit, I battle a sudden rush of butterflies.
I can’t believe I’m here.
That I’ve really done this.
Excitement combines with nerves as I approach my driver. His name tag says Micheál, which I’m assuming is a Gaelic name.
“Hi. I’m Grace Mills.”
“Howya, love. Aren’t you a right looker?” Grabbing my hand, he vigorously shakes it.
“Ugh…” I’m at a loss for words.
“I’m Micheál,” he says, pronouncing it like Mee-haul. “I’ll be driving ya to your swanky apartment building in town.” He winks, but it’s not leery in the slightest. He gives off jovial grandpa vibes that have me instantly relaxing. “Good flight?” he continues, taking control of my luggage cart without asking.
“Yes,” I lie, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear how I spent half of it crying over my cheating ex and nursing my broken heart.
“First time in Dublin?” he inquires, waving to another couple of drivers as we walk off, heading into a plexiglass tunnel.
“First time in Ireland,” I confirm. Audrey and I had planned to visit when we were in Europe last summer, but we never made it.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. What part of America are you from?”
He talks fast, and his accent is so thick that I have to wait a few seconds for my brain to process the words and decipher his question. “Los Angeles.”
He whistles under his breath, nodding at me. “I took one look at ya, and I just knew you were a Hollywood princess.”
My eyes startle wide, and panic races to the surface at the thought my cover might have already been blown. Maybe I’ll just say California in the future, because I don’t want to lie and have to keep track of what I’m telling people. Remembering to say my name is Grace will be challenging enough.
He chuckles heartily as we head across the dark, chilly parking lot. A full-body shiver works its way through me, and I can already tell reports about the cold winter weather were not unfounded. I sense a shopping trip in my near future.
“Relax, love. It’s only a figure of speech. I’ve heard all the birds in Hollywood are real beauties and they all want to be actresses.” He stops at a black Mercedes car with a yellow taxi sign on the roof. He continues talking while he opens the trunk, and I glance at the other cars around us, spotting a lot of brands I’m familiar with. “Is it true they all have fake knockers?” he asks.
I blink profusely, staring blankly at him. I thought they spoke English in Dublin, but I’m completely confused and second-guessing myself.
He chuckles at the expression on my face. “Plastic tits,” he explains.
Ah, now I’m getting the gist. “It’s true a lot of women in Hollywood are fans of cosmetic surgery.” Not this gal though. I plan to grow old gracefully, like Mom.
“I’ve only been to America once,” he adds, swiftly stacking my suitcases in the trunk. “I brought me missus and the kids to Orlando, when me missus was me mot. It’s a fecking fantastic place.”
He might as well be speaking Gaelic. For all I know, he is. I stare blankly at him again, and he chuckles as he opens the back door of the car for me.
“I always forget you Yanks speak differently. Me missus is me wife.”
“Good to know. Thank you.” My smile is genuine, because it’s easy to respond naturally to his friendly manner.
Removing a photo from his wallet, Micheál leans back to show me. “That’s my Maureen, and my three boys. She’s still a looker, even after all these years.” His chest swells with pride.
“You have a beautiful family,” I agree, handing the photo back to him.