I check the clock above the back of the bar as I replace the shiny bottle of Redbreast Irish Whiskey and move on to the Powers and Jameson, polishing each bottle of uisce beatha—or water of life. The glass shelves sparkle for the first time ever. Francie has always demanded that his pub be clean, but the guys have different standards, and since the bar is dead and I still have a while until I’m out of here, I clean until there is nothing left to clean.

The glasses are washed, the fridges are stocked, and the couple sitting at the corner table has full drinks, not needing a thing from me.

With nothing left to do but wait for the hand of the clock to tick over to ten, I pour myself a whiskey, settle on to a barstool, and pull out my tablet to read. Finn is back in the office, doing paperwork or napping, maybe talking with Addie. Who knows? But Francie insisted that I not close the pub by myself, even on a cold, snowy night like this. He’s still looking out for all of us, even as it becomes more and more evident that something’s going on with him. Something he’s not telling us about.

A gust of frigid air blows snow in the door as a tall dude bundled up and hunched in on himself against the weather stomps the snow off his boots.

Shivering a little, I stand just barely glancing at him and take my place behind the bar, asking, “What can I get you?” With my arms crossed, I try to rub some warmth back into me.

“Hey.”

I snap my head up at that gravelly voice, that one word. Gavin walks up to the bar, beanie pulled low, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His whiskey eyes swirling with some kind of emotion. And my heart stutters and skips in my chest.

“Hi. You’re here.” My observational skills are astounding.

He pulls his hand out of his pocket and rubs it down his jaw, the scruff rasping against his palm. “Is that okay?”

It’s been far too long since I’ve seen him in person.

“I’m just surprised.” I pick up my whiskey and take a good swallow, finishing off what was in there. I reach behind me for the Redbreast, refill my glass, and pour one for him as well.

“Thanks. I, uh … thanks.” He raises the glass to his lips and lowers it again before even taking a sip. “I got your message.”

“Yeah? I just left that a couple of hours ago. Were you here? In town?”

Gavin pulls off his beanie and shoves it in his jacket pocket. “Can I sit?” he asks, his hand gripping the top of the barstool in the middle of the bar, right in front of the taps.

I wave him over to where I was sitting when he came in. As far from the one occupied table as we can get.

“Thanks,” he says, settling on to the barstool. “Yeah, I was in the city, having dinner at my sister’s restaurant—the one where we ran into each other.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and lays it across the seat next to him. Pushing his sleeves up, Gavin leans forward, resting his arms on the bar top. He rolls his glass between his palms. “I didn’t want to listen to it. Wasn’t ready to deal.”

I have no right to even hope for anything good to come from this. I know it’s not entirely my fault, but I have managed to make a mess of this thing between us the whole way through.

“So, I left. Went to Central Park and sat my ass on my bench. When I couldn’t make myself ignore it anymore, I listened to your message.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, just enough to look at me with a side-eye. “That song—the one we finally played in Dublin—you heard it?”

“Yeah. Lis and Aidan were there. She might have sent me a video. Um, we would talk in the mornings, Lis and me, back in New York in the park, so she recognized it. And, when I heard the words”—I shrug my shoulders up and keep them there, the tension coursing through my body—“I thought … I hoped that you were reaching out to me. I don’t know. That’s probably stupid … totally conceited of me.”

The couple in the corner stands and puts their coats on. The guy approaches the bar to take care of their tab. I slip out of my seat and run his card, handing over the receipts and a pen. The chick with this guy can’t seem to take her eyes off of Gavin. She practically trips over her own feet; she’s so focused on him, barely holding herself back.

“Are you Gavin Keller?” she asks when she just can’t stand it anymore.

“Nah.” Gavin laughs, pushing his hand through his hair. “I get that a lot though. Poor bastard must look a lot like me. Y’all have a good night. Drive safe.”

The door shuts behind them, and the pub is empty. Just the two of us.

Gavin swirls his whiskey back and forth, rolling it, watching the amber fluid undulate across the glass. “It’s not … conceited or stupid. I think, in a way, I was but maybe not consciously yet.” He stares at his drink, at the bar, anywhere so that he doesn’t look at me. “I, uh … I couldn’t open myself up to that again. Couldn’t be vulnerable like that. Couldn’t risk my heart again.”

Arms wrapped around my chest, shielding me from I don’t even know what, I suck in as much air as I can. I brace myself for what I’m sure is going to take a lifetime to heal, though the scars will undoubtedly mar my heart forever.

Staring through the top of the bar, I ask, “Why are you here, Gavin? I’ve done nothing but fuck this up, so why come all this way to Beekman Hills?” Not really certain that I’m prepared for the answers, I push the words out on a whisper.

And the silence only grows heavier between us. Time seems to stop, and when the weight of it becomes too much, I lift my head, finally looking at him, searching his face for some sign of what he’s going to say.

“Fuck’s sake, did that couple finally leave? ’Bout bloody time. I thought they were goin’ to stay for last call.” Finn barrels out of the office, talking a mile a minute, until he stops dead in his tracks. Speechless for the first time that I have ever witnessed.

“You’re … it’s … erm …” As his cheeks flame red, he rests his shaking hands on his hips. He clamps his lips together, even as his eyes pop open wide. Of course, he would pick the very best moment to bust into the room, as only Finn can. Blowing out a cleansing breath, he tries again. “You’re Gavin Keller, yeah? I was there, you know. Saw the fight at Gracyn’s da’s office. I went to the police station, told them what I saw, that … that the bloody prat started things. And, Christ, man, you never should have been arrested. That was absolute shite. And you missed your fuckin’ flight and the first show? Jaysus, how much trouble were you in? The band seemed tense through the whole tour, like somethin’ was up, yeah? I wanted to … hoped that I could make it to your last show and all—I’m from Dublin, right—but Aidan decided he was goin’, so I got stuck here …” And on and on and on. He’s in full fanboy mode, and he prattles on until the need for air pauses his stream of consciousness.

“So, you’re a fan?” Gavin chuckles, standing to shake hands. “Good to meet you … Finn, right? Gracyn’s told me all about you.”

Finn all but faints dead away on the spot. Not only is the guitarist of his favorite band here, in the pub, but he’s also touching him. Yeah, he totally busted in on a heavy moment, and I might just be dying in the wake of unanswered questions, but watching the king of suave turn into a babbling pile of mush is priceless.

“She has? Yeah? Wow, I … wow. Erm, can I have your autograph? I, erm …” Finn searches the bar, and without letting go of Gavin’s hand, he lunges for a cocktail napkin. “Will you sign this?”

“Absolutely.” Gavin extricates his hand from Finn’s and leans over, grabbing a pen from near the taps. He signs with a flourish and digs deep into his pocket, pulling out a guitar pick. “It’s not much. I don’t have anything with me really, but I seem to have these things on me regardless. I’ll bring you more swag next time I’m up this way, a’right?”

“Yeah, that’d be fuckin’ grand.” Finn stares at the napkin for a moment before looking from Gavin to me and back again. “Does that mean you’ll be up here regular-like?”

“That depends”—Gavin shrugs—“but I really hope so.”