The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up.

I will meet him again, someday.

Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.

I shoulder past the thick wall of female bodies that crescents the street artist. Drury Street is an explosion of colors, scents, and sights. Red, exposed-brick buildings covered with vibrant graffiti. An Asian market peeking from a corner, a parking garage, a bus stop, and little hipster shops. It looks like a picture, and I can’t help but stop everything and make it one, capturing the beauty of the street with my old camera.

A bus, passing in a blur, slicing through the colors like the stroke of a brush.

Click.

Two suited men walking past FUCK CAPITALISM written on a wall.

Click.

A lone beer bottle lying on the pavement, tucked between junk food wrappers like a sad drunk.

Click, click, click.

When I finally come face to face with the street artist standing on the side of the pavement, his guitar case open and full of rolled-up notes and change, I understand why his grandfather told me I’d recognize him with the self-assurance of an avid believer.

I’ve never seen someone like him before.

He is beautiful, true, but that’s not what stands out to me. He is radiant.

It’s like his presence has a presence. He sucks the air out of everything in his vicinity, making it impossible not to look at him. Malachy is tailor-made for a huge, colossal heartbreak. Everything about him—his tattered jeans, filthy boots, white shirt, and leather jacket that was broken in decades ago—screams trouble. He looks like a seventies heartthrob. An icon. A Terry Richardson muse. Bruce Springsteen pre-fame.

His voice is like honey and warm spices. It lulls me into a place in my mind I’ve never been before, even though it’s far from beautiful. It is gruff, throaty, and smoky. When someone bumps my shoulder to get closer to him, I snap out of my reverie and realize what I’m listening to.

“One” by U2.

The coincidence is strange. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. This is Ireland. U2 is a national treasure.

His eyes are squeezed shut as he sings. It’s like no one exists other than him and his guitar. Something warm rushes through my skin, like a heat wave, and I shudder in delight.

Warmth.

I always thought there was something melancholy about street performers—the way people walk past them, ignoring their music, their art, their passion. But this guy, he’s the one doing the ignoring. The tables have turned. He’s got the crowd eating from the palm of his hand. Every woman here is under a thick, sweet spell. He’s got that Harry Styles quality that makes girls want to bed him and older women want to adopt him. The men are a cross between impatient, annoyed, and jealous. You can see it in the way they tap their feet, check their watches, nudge their wives and girlfriends to move it.

The song ends, and Malachy Doherty cracks his eyes open and stares directly at me, like he knew I’d be here. Like he watched me watching him through closed eyes. Disoriented—and for some reason wanting to do something, anything—I throw a bill into his guitar case and look away, realizing to my horror that I threw the fifty euros his grandpa gave me. Everyone around me murmurs and whistles. They think it was intentional. I can feel my face flaming red. I bet he thinks I want to sleep with him.

Do I? Probably. But should he know that? Hell no.

Too late to take the money back now without looking like a crazy person, though. And between crazy and an easy lay, I think I’ll go with the latter.

Flushed, I back away. Malachy leans forward, grabs my wrist, and tugs at it. Electric heat courses through my veins, like a snakebite. I gasp.

I’m staring down at my shoes, but he crouches and peeks into my face, a brash, lopsided grin playing on his lips.

“Any requests, Baroness Rothschild of good fortune?” he drawls.

Can I get my money back? I need to buy you drinks with it so you can tell me about my father, I try to convey to him with what I’m sure is a sweet-but-seriously-psycho look.

“None that I can think of.” I slant my gaze sideways, playing nonchalant but secretly wanting to die.

Bright side: I’m no longer thinking about my dead father. Silver lining and so forth.

“The Copacabana!” someone suggests.

“Cavan Girl!” another shouts.

“Dick in a Box!”

Malachy looks around and laughs, and the minute his eyes leave my face, the warmth is snatched away. Still, his rolling laughter is like hot wax seeping into my stomach.

He straightens up. “Who’s the rale Bulgarian who suggested that?”

Some guy in a green beret and orange tweed jacket raises his hand and waves his fingers.

“Not Bulgarian, English.” He grins smugly.

“Jesus, much worse,” Malachy deadpans, and everyone around us erupts in more laughter.

I use the opportunity to gentle my pulse back to normal, smiling along. Ha-ha indeed.

Malachy swaggers back to his spot and secures his guitar strap over his shoulder. He has the slender, yet muscular body of someone who works in the field, not in the gym. He points the guitar pick at me, and everyone’s heads turn to see who he’s pointing at.

“I’m not keen on girls who don’t know what they want.” He quirks a dark, thick eyebrow. “But I’ve a feeling you’re here to change that.”

He starts playing, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling small and vulnerable and broken, but I allow myself to cave to the sound of him, close my eyes and let go. I can tell this one is an original, because I don’t know the lyrics. It’s too good not to be a hit. He sings it completely differently from the way he did “One.” Like every single word cuts through his flesh. A welt, a scar, a burning thing.

Weakness, hate, desire,

How I’d love to light your soul on fire,

In a room full of pretty lost girls and bad broken boys,

You will find me, dip me in ice, and drown all the white noise,

I want to see the world through your eyes and fall in love,

But most of all, I am frightened you don’t really exist,

Because then my fairytale has no beauty,

Just a sad, lonely beast.

This guy can move me without touching me, and touch me without laying a finger on me. His grandfather was right. He’s trouble.

Everyone is so quiet, I begin to doubt this moment is real. I stop swaying and open my eyes. To my astonishment, I find the entire street staring at him. Even waitresses stand on the thresholds of restaurants and at café doors, admiring his voice.

And Malachy? He is staring at me.

I snag my camera and take a picture of him as he sings.

When he finishes the song, he takes a little bow and waits for the claps and shouts to die down. He wiggles his brows at me with a grin that tells me he’s going to sleep with me, which is stupid, because I’m eighteen, and not the sleeping-around type.

I’ve only slept with one person in my life: Taylor Kirshner, senior year, because we’d dated for a while and both of us didn’t want to leave for college saddled with our awkward virginity.

But I believe Malachy. We will.

I believe him because he is that guy. Someone like my dad must’ve been. A completely unhinged, typhoon-souled, damaged Romeo who would break your bed, heart, and resolve if you let him.