“What’s going on?” she whispers, glancing worriedly at the door. “Is he following you?”
“He? Who?”
“The matchmaker.” She looks at the door again, like Gollum himself is out there waiting for her.
“No, don’t be ridiculous.”
She straightens up. “Well, who is it then?”
“It’s no one.”
She reaches around to grab the door and I stop her.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She stands up straighter and crosses her arms over her chest. “What’s the deal? Why are you afraid to go out there? Who are you hiding from?”
I cross my arms too and shrug. “No reason. Why are you afraid to go out there?”
We stare at each other for a long time. Her chin twitches and then finally she breaks, her face crumbling. “I don’t want to go out there because he’s talking to me about Micheál and he’s not … he’s not …” She can’t finish. The tears come too fast and furious.
I grab her into a hug and squeeze her tight. “Shhhh, I know, I know…”
“What do you know?” she whines over my shoulder.
“I know that you thought there was something there between you and it all felt right and perfect even when it shouldn’t have and then when you were ready to just accept it, it blew up in your face and he acted like it didn’t even happen that way.”
She stops sniffling and pulls away. “Wait a minute … what?”
I tap my foot and look up at the ceiling, willing the tears to stay inside their ducts. “I’m just saying…”
“Are we talking about Micheál here or Donal?”
I turn around and grab the door handle, but Erin stops me by putting her foot against the bottom of the door.
“Not so fast, there, girl.” Her tears are gone, like completely dried up, and now she’s back to being her confident self. “You’re upset.” She pulls on my arm to turn me around. Her tone changes. “You’re really upset, aren’t you?” She sounds mystified now.
“No, I’m not the one upset, that’s you.” I can’t meet her eyes. “Move your foot, I need to go drink a pint.”
“No way, not until you come clean.”
I turn around more fully, planning to shame her into letting me out. “There’s nothing to come clean about, okay? Jesus, give it a rest.”
She folds her arms and lifts a brow at me, saying nothing.
I try to stay mad, but I can’t. My face starts trembling in all kinds of weird places as I try to hold in my hurt.
“He blew you off,” she says.
I nod, unable to speak without crying over it.
“And that hurts like a bitch,” she says.
I nod again.
She puts her arms around me and holds me softly. “I know exactly how you feel.” She pats my back and hums.
After a few seconds, I can’t help but laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Shhhh, it’ll be okay.” She keeps humming and then she pats my back, now leaning us side to side a little. It’s entirely possible that she’s mistaking my laughter for sobs. “That’s right, let it out. You’ll be stronger for it.”
Just then someone pushes the door in and hits me in the back with it. Unfortunately, Erin was still seriously into her hugging and humming program, so she got whacked on the top of the head.
“Ow, mother fucker,” she says with a hiss of pain, backing up away from me and the offending door with her hand holding the top of her scalp.
I turn around and face the girl whose head pops in around the corner.
“Ooops. Did I hurt someone?” She smiles as she locks eyes on us.
“It’s you,” Erin says with a scowl.
I move to quickly cover up my friend’s rudeness. “Oh, hey, Siobhan! Come on in. Don’t mind us hogging up the whole bathroom.”
She pushes in the door and enters the bathroom.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon,” she says, waiting for a reply, looking right at Erin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ERIN
“IT’S ERIN, ISN’T IT?” THE goddess looks me up and down. Suddenly, I wish I’d made more of an effort when I was packing to come here. My jeans have lost their shape and are long over due a wash and there’s a Guinness stain on my Blondie t-shirt.
“Yeah. And you’re Siobhán.”
“That’s right. Micheál’s friend.” She lingers on friend and runs her tongue along her top lips, all Marilyn-esque; and I’m not talking Manson either. She has one of those sexy gaps between her front teeth. This bitch is way too hot for the west of Ireland. She actually looks like Debbie Harry circa Sunday Girl. Dressed in charcoal grey jeans with numerous zips, a funky striped t-shirt and Doc Martin boots, she exudes effortless cool chic. Her hair is teased to within an inch of its life, but her make-up is barely there. It is undeniable; she’s quite the looker. It’s no wonder she’s Micheál’s friend.
“Nice t-shirt,” she says, but I can’t be sure if she’s taking the piss or not. I decide to play nice.
“Thanks.”
She’s still holding the door open and an older woman brushes past us. “Is this the queue?” she asks.
“No, Ma’am. You go right ahead," chirps Ridlee. “We’re all good here. C’mon, Erin, it’s your round.”
Siobhán is still giving me the once-over but at least she’s smiling. I feel unaccountably shy all of a sudden. Following Ridlee back out into the pub, I turn and flash my friend-not-foe smile at her. I’ve gotta be honest, I’m gobsmacked when she blows me a kiss.
“Weird…,” I mutter to myself. “So, there you have it, Rid. He has a girlfriend. Still, it’s hardly her fault he’s a cheating bastard. Maybe we’ll become friends like in that film and then get together and teach him a lesson.”
“I like your thinkin’, Sweetcheeks, but right now you’ve got other fish to fry.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I do have other fish to fry and need to keep my focus on the pub and the business with this Padraig Flanagan fella, not distracted by some hunky holiday romance.”
Ridlee has already caught the barman’s attention and ordered the drinks. The pub is filling up now and Henry O’Henry’s ‘office space’ has disappeared behind a sea of hopeful, lusty singles trying to get it on. We squeeze ourselves into a tight little corner where we can balance our pints on a tiny window ledge.
“Slainte!” says my now expert hibernophile friend.
“To your health,” I nod before breaking the creamy goodness of my perfect half-pint. The barman appears out of nowhere with two shot glasses and sets them down, giving Ridlee a wink as he does so. She passes me a glass.
“Fuck ‘em! Sisters are doin’ it for themselves,” she says by way of a toast.
“Eh, someone’s gotta drive us home, Rid.”
“The things I do for you, Sista," she says downing my shot too.
“Fuck ‘em all!” I echo, sipping from my Guinness.
“Woof!” says Ridlee, laughing. “Whoa! Hair of the dog, eh? You want another glass?”
“Eh, maybe in a bit, Rid. You don’t want to suffer again like you did last night.”
“This is the best I’ve felt all day!” She giggles, and I realise that a change of tempo is most definitely called for.
“C’mon,” I grab her hand, “let’s go chat with Mr. O’Henry again. Maybe he can hook us up with a couple of stand-ins for the night. We’re at the biggest matchmaking festival in the world after all. It’ll be a laugh!”