He’s a stranger, really.
And he probably has a girlfriend.
And I live five thousand miles away.
Focusing on the bigger picture helps ground whatever deep-seated fantasies my subconscious has already started spinning.
After a little while, the place started getting crowded and hot and loud. I kept getting knocked and bumped by elbows and trays, each jolt reminding me how out-of-place I felt in that world. His world. Then a sweaty little man with a distorted French accent—sounding like he’s been living in Ireland a while—dropped his arm around my shoulder to make small talk and I decided there was no point in me staying. The moment I stood, the crowd swallowed my spot up and pushed me out.
So I just left.
I didn’t even think to leave a tip.
Now I meander through narrow old streets lined with shops and pubs, thrumming with people and Irish music, reminding myself that at least I got the chance thank him. Something that, until this morning, I assumed I’d never be able to do.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m also searching for excuses to go back. Replaying the conversation over and over, chastising myself for the witty answers I didn’t give, wishing I had asked a dozen other questions that have nothing to do with the day of the attack and everything to do with getting to know him.
Not that talking about the attack wasn’t important—quite the opposite, in fact. Those few hushed moments, when River leaned in close, his undivided attention on me, allowing me the chance to speak out loud about it for the first time, were therapeutic. I feel a little bit lighter now.
A howl of laughter to my right pulls my attention to a group of friends in their early twenties. I can’t tell if they’re tourists or locals but they’re definitely drunk, one of the guys nearly knocking over a floral planter as they spill out of a pub. Then again, this is the Temple Bar area and I’ve been told that no local with any common sense would come here, so . . . they must be travelers.
I sigh, wishing, as I have occasionally, that I weren’t making this trip alone. None of my friends have the good fortune that I do, though, of being able to just leave their jobs for four months and have it waiting for them when they get back. I’d like to think that a lot of that leeway has come on account of my stellar performance at St. Charles Medical Center, but I’m sure having my mother, the highly respected Dr. Meredith Alwood, working there as well helps.
I move on, heading down the now familiar Grafton Street again, where a new round of performers demonstrate their talents—a guy throwing flaming knives, a bikini-clad woman juggling glassware, an older gentleman thumping on a bodhran. The lady manning the flower stand from this morning catches my eyes and I decide that I definitely need those sunflowers.
I fish through my purse as she wraps a bunch, my fingers deftly identifying and dismissing the bristles of my brush, a small umbrella, my tube of lipstick . . .
I frown, opening it up wide, peering inside.
My stomach drops as the realization hits me.
“Dublin sucks.”
“So, you lost some money. You didn’t get blown up by a bomb or anything.” Jesse’s cool, bored tone fills my ear and my heart with homesickness. I miss my brother right now. Even when he’s making bad jokes.
“Three hundred euro. And my license. And my bank card.” That’s two strikes. I don’t want to find out what the third may be. Ireland is officially a bust. I should just pack up and leave.
“But not your passport or your credit cards or any plane tickets or—”
“Since when did you become a ray of optimism?” He’s right, though. Thank God I wrapped all my valuables, including my passport, in a plastic bag and stuck it into the fireplace. Because Sheriff Gabe Welles always knows best.
Metal clangs in the background, telling me that Jesse’s in the garage, tinkering with one of his engines as usual. It’s after two p.m. in Oregon, eight hours behind Dublin time, and five hours since I realized my wallet had been stolen. It took me that long to swallow my pride and call, hoping my dad would somehow be able to help me, even from thousands of miles away. “Where’s the Sheriff?”
“Just ran into town a little while ago.” Jesse sighs. “He fucked up his brake job this morning, so he had to go for new parts.”
I chuckle, despite everything. It’s nice to see the two of them getting along well, after so many years when they didn’t.
“Did you call the bank already?”
“Some 1-800 number, yeah. The card is canceled and I can use my credit card to pull money through my account. It’s just . . .” I bite my lip.
“I know. You feel violated. But you’re safe, and you don’t have to go to the embassy and jump through hoops for a new passport.”
“What about my license? Now I can’t drive anywhere!”
“Well, you can. Just don’t get caught.”
I roll my eyes. Totally a Jesse thing to say. “No. Definitely not risking that in a foreign country.” I don’t need any more run-ins with gardai. Plus, I’m not even using my own car. I would never be that irresponsible with Simon’s generosity.
“So then . . . whatever. You take trains, the bus, cabs. Don’t let some dickwad ruin this trip for you.”
I heave a shaky sigh, collecting the ball of used tissues from the kitchen counter, my cheeks finally dry of tears. “How do you think someone got it?”
“What do you mean, how? They stuck their hand into your purse and they took it out. They probably bumped into you so you wouldn’t feel the lift.”
“Is that how you would have done it?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
“If I stole wallets, sure.” Irritation slides into his deep voice.
I sigh, not wanting to bicker. “I know you wouldn’t do that, Jesse.” Despite everything he has done—and the list is long—I know my brother’s heart and he’s not a lowlife.
There’s a long pause and then Jesse finally asks, “So? Is this trip everything you hoped it would be?”
Aside from a few brief hi’s and ’byes as he wanders past the camera during my Skype calls with Alex, I haven’t really talked with my brother since I left. And the last time we spoke in person, a week before I hopped a plane to Vancouver, it ended in an epic fight. Jesse’s friend Luke Boone had come by with another car for Jesse to fix up and flip. I told Jesse that I thought he was an idiot for still associating with that guy and he needed to cut him off. Luke may look like the perfect package—money, good looks, impeccable grooming—but by the bits of information I’ve been able to piece together, he’s also one of the reasons Jesse got into that spectacular mess back in Portland. Of course, that’s all a lot of speculation because no one will tell me shit.
Despite the wedge that’s grown between me and my twin brother, I do care about him, which is why I said what I did. He didn’t appreciate it, though, deciding it was the right time to lay my own faults and bad choices on the table. Apparently, I spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, and maybe I should look at my own group of friends because they’re all a bunch of stuck-up bitches and they’ve made me a judgmental snob. But that wasn’t enough. He had to lay into this trip, too. I’m going to waste all this money to figure out there’s no big miracle waiting for me out there, that I actually like my comfortable little town and my comfortable little life, and that I won’t be happy being a tadpole in an ocean.