She narrows her eyes at me. “Meaning mafia circles?” she deduces.
I shrug. “What can I say? We like our anonymity.”
“Sure,” she says, rolling her aqua blue eyes at me. “Is this the top you mentioned to Gabe?”
“Nope,” I say mischievously, taking her hand and pulling her towards the nondescript circular staircase near the bathrooms. “Up we go.”
The staircase is rickety and narrow as fuck. It feels like the slightest loose bolt could have us falling to the floor beneath.
But Saoirse doesn’t complain as we make our ascent.
The spiral takes us up at least two more stories. By the time we reach the final door, I’ve noticed that Saoirse has slowed down a bit.
“You okay back there?”
“Jesus,” she breathes. “I think I have vertigo.”
“Hang in, sport,” I tell her. “We’re almost there.”
I push open the rickety, rusted door and step out onto the rooftop.
“You have arrived at your destination,” I announce proudly. “Be sure to tip your driver.”
It’s a huge space, set up like a labyrinth. There are troughs of flowers spaced in different directions, cordoning off certain areas into private courtyards of greenery. Fairy lights form a roof of sorts over our heads. The flowers glow under their illumination.
“Oh my God,” Saoirse breathes. “Is this real?”
“Nice, huh?”
She looks around. “There’s no one around.”
“It takes a refined man to enjoy a space such as this,” I admit.
“Too feminine for your fellow fuckboys?” she guesses.
“Well, we could debate your word choice there, but the general sentiment is accurate. Truth be told, it isn’t really a part of the bar at all,” I explain. “This is more of a passion project. The owner built it for his mother. She passed a few years ago.”
She looks at me with wide, sentimental eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy,” I tell her. “Name’s Jasper.”
“How’d his mother die?”
“Cancer,” I explain. “The only thing that made her feel better towards the end was to be surrounded by greenery. He built most of this space himself.”
She turns to me, the mist of moisture in her eyes. “He sounds like an angel.”
“He is,” I say. “But, y’know… ugly. I mean, really fucking hideous to look at.”
She glares at me, but it still doesn’t manage to squelch out her smile. “Cillian!”
“Short, too,” I continue unfazed. “And he’s got a bit of a weight problem. Looks like a hobbit, come to think of it.”
“Cillian!” she scolds. But she laughs when she says my name, and fuck me, that sound does something to my stomach.
That’s how my name was meant to be said. By her. With that exact laugh bringing it to life.
She twirls around and looks up at the fairy lights hanging over us. We can see the half-moon peeking down at us from between the thin strands.