Killian
There’s only one truly Irish way to end a day: wandering in the countryside and strolling through town with a beautiful woman on your arm. If anyone tells you any different, that’s proof they’re a lying arse and deserve nothing less than the fucking worst in life.
Now, the only way to end a day like this is by grabbing a couple pints at the pub.
I hold the door open—because I’m a true Irish gentleman—to the Lamb & Clover for Rebecca.
“Well, aren’t you just the Irish gent?” Rebecca teases with a smile.
Didn’t I say that I was a true Irish gentleman?
“Of course, lass.”
I step in behind her with a smile.
Proper Irish pub music always puts a smile on my face.
Wherever there’s Irish pub music, there’s booze. And what better way to make an Irish man happy than with some whiskey and a pint or two?
The Lamb isn’t overly busy. All the regulars are here—hence why they’re called regulars—and it’s filled with a handful of tourists and other out-of-towners as well.
It’s that perfect blend where you can still navigate through the people with ease, but the sound of conversations and laughter rise just enough to nearly drown out the ambient music.
“Hey, Charlie. One Arthur,” I call out to the barman.
“Arthur?” Rebecca raises an eyebrow out of—what I can only assume is—curiosity.
“As in, Arthur Guinness. We call pints of the black stuff an Arthur in his honor. So, one Arthur is one pint of Guinness.”
“That makes far more sense than I had expected.”
She laughs, and it is my turn to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.
“What? Did you think us, Irish, were nonsensical folk? That we were prone to making up words and phrases because we don’t know better? Or because we’re just a bunch of drunken fools?”
I sound far more like a giant arse than I meant to be. At the very least, I can keep certain other nicknames to myself.
The look on Rebecca’s face tells me I’ve embarrassed and insulted her.
Neither of which had been my intention at all.
“Sorry, lass. Still a wee bit hungover from last night and this creeping headache has me feeling a little cranky.”
“It’s no big deal.”
She brushes it off with a wave of her hand and a smile, but I can’t help but think that my apology did nothing to put her at ease.
I take a seat at the bar and Rebecca grabs the stool beside me.
Charlie brings me over my pint with his usual smile.
The man has been running the pub for nearly forty years now. And—given the prominent laugh lines of his aging face—I don’t think he’s ever had a single day in that time where he hasn’t smiled.
“Lass, you can do far better than this sad stook,” Charlie warns with a chuckle.
My hands wrap around my glass. The coolness of it and its weight feels comforting, and I can already feel my headache begin to abate.
“Oh, I know. I just have a thing for stray dogs,” she gibes.
“That’ll do, Charlie,” I chuckle and shake my head.
Charlie is a kind old man, but isn’t nearly as funny as he thinks he is.
Nor is Rebecca for that matter.
I bring my glass up to my lips and I’m hit with the smell of malt and burnt wheat when the milky drink slips over my tongue. The mix of coffee and chocolate blends together perfectly for a truly flavorsome stout.
There’s a swell of love and hope in my heart as I take another sip. It’s like waking up on Christmas morning to a Pulitzer and a couple red-headed ladies to spend the day celebrating with while the spirit of Cú Chulainn declares you Ireland’s greatest gift.
“So, how is your arm, anyway? Is it still broken or...”
Rebecca’s words trail off into the void as she looks off into the nothingness of the evening crowd.
“Oh, my arm is perfectly fine, lass. Or could you not tell from how vigorously I’ve been using it these last couple of days.”
My answer gives rise to a soft flush in Rebecca’s cheeks that matches the scarlet color of her long locks.
“But I’m curious now, lass. That night on the road. You knew it was me, didn’t you?”
“I would never,” she exclaims.
The soft flush in her cheeks quickly fade at my accusation.
“Uh huh,” I counter with a chuckle. “Come on, lass. In all the places in the world you could go, you would end up on that road just as I was walking it. You had it all planned. Just like back in Dublin.”
Her face is awash with a handful of emotive expressions. Anger, insult, guilt and pain being the most prevalent.
For a moment, I almost think that I might be onto something with my line of questioning.
I’m not so callous—or foolish—as to genuinely believe that this was all some great plan or conspiracy. I’ve not had that much to drink.
But the guilt I see in her eyes looking at me has me thinking that I’ve certainly hit a vein of truth. It has nothing to do with her hitting me with that wasteful SUV of hers—that was obviously just an incredible fluke—but instead in reference to our time together in Dublin.
The time in which she walked out on me without a word.
“Now you’re just imaging things, Killian. I didn’t come halfway across the world just to hit you with a rented SUV.”
“So, instead, you just stalked me and showed up so that you could get back into my pants again now that you’re a free lass?”
I’m pretty sure she’s going to hit me after taking in that comment.
Feeling the waves of her anger radiate towards me, I laugh and take another drink.
From the corner of my eye I can see Charlie cleaning a glass and shaking his head in my direction.
“You really are an asshole, Killian.”
Bitterness drips from every syllable of her words much like venom drips from the fang of a cobra.
I set my glass of Guinness down on the bar.
My brow furrows in disappointment at myself.
A soft sigh absconds from my lips in shame.
My eyes follow the tiny droplets of condensation from my glass as they make their suicide dive to the wooden bar top.
“What is with you, anyway,” she interjects into my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
I’m genuine in my apology.
My intention had not been to insult or hurt her.
But then that’s always been my problem.
I turn to her with the faintest of smiles upon my lips. “I was just taking a piss, lass. I meant no harm. Truly.”
She gently shakes her head at me and I’m mesmerized by the sway of her silky locks.
I’m not entirely sure she believes me and my apology. Not that I can blame her.
The story of my life has always been pushing away whatever good comes into my world.
I’m a loner not because I want to be left to my own devices—though that is certainly a part of it—but because I’m not keen on sharing every little fucking thing with every single other person.
Why? I couldn’t fucking clearly say at this point. There certainly is safety that comes with being alone and keeping people at arm’s length.
It’s what I always do. It’s what I’m doing here and now with Rebecca.
Rebecca is a remarkable woman in so many ways. Outside of her obvious beauty, she is a woman of tremendous talent. And she possesses a kind soul that is a true rarity in a world that is often bleak and dreary.
She shines like a candle in a storm that refuses to go out. A flame that stands against the wind and says that she will not bow.
I’m a drunk Irishman who is known for one thing—and I can’t even seem to do that lately.
No, Rebecca deserves better than what I can offer.
And we’ve made a deal. We—I—can’t let whatever it is that I’m struggling with inside affect that.
She’ll find her Prince Charming someday when she is ready.
But it won’t be today.
And it won’t be me.