“Sure. But why don’t we amble along and just see where the city takes us. Ye know, stay loose, stay open.” He smiles.
I melt. What the hell is happening to me? Ridlee has given me the all clear on the once imminent implosion that was the bar deal and I’ve gone gooey. My brain has checked out and gone on hiatus, and I still need to find out what Michaél’s intentions are. If he never really wanted a stake in the bar, then what does he want?
Back down at street level, we hit the red-brick line of the Freedom Trail, and I throw myself into tour guide mode, ignoring the ginormous elephant in the room. For two and a half miles I prattle on about the history of the city, and I tell him about the Big Dig project to drive the city traffic underground. I cannot help but think of Lisdoonvarna and Donal's horse Big Dick, which for some reason makes me sad and nostalgic for a moment in my life when everything seemed clear. And all the time I’m doing this, I’m avoiding asking the one question that I’m burning to ask. Does he still like me?
We eat lunch near Quincy Market in Boston’s oldest restaurant, famous for its oysters. This is no accident; Oysters are an aphrodisiac, after all. We share a bottle of crisp white wine and chat about everything under the sun, except us. I tell him about my family back home and about Margaret. He’s a good listener and I find myself talking too much.
“So, what about you?” I say. “Tell me about your family.” I take half a shell and scoop another oyster out sending it south.
He smiles at my technique. “Well, I don’t have much of a family, really. Donal and Siobhán are it. My parents died when I was very young and my grandfather died two years ago. He brought me up.”
I look down at my plate. Oh shit, I guess I’m not supposed to know that already. I nod and smile sympathetically. “That must have been hard — growing up without any parents?”
“Nah, ye don’t miss what ye never had, and my grandfather was an amazing man.”
I admire the way he can say that without a hint of sentimentality, like it’s a simple fact.
“Do you remember your parents at all?” I ask.
“Bits, I suppose.” He pauses for a moment, the wine glass midway to his lips. “Ye know, sometimes when I’m out on the waves, early in the morning or around dusk, I get pictures of them floatin’ through my head, like home movies. My mum’s auburn hair, her laugh… or I see my dad getting out of the car and scooping me into his arms and I’m laughing uncontrollably.” He shakes his head as though to clear it. “False memories, probably.”
I reach out and place my hand over his. “Still, whatever they are, they’re what you have left of your parents.”
“I suppose it’s made me more cautious about people. I’m not prepared to let important people into my life if they’re not serious about the relationship. And I mean both men and women. I have known Donal and Siobhán my whole life. They are my family.” He looks off into the middle distance.
I’m about to say something, but I don’t know what yet, something to let him know that I’m not toying with him—not anymore anyway, but he beats me to it.
“I’m a live-in-the-moment kinda guy, Erin. The past is the past. Maybe they are real memories, maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter much. Life is now. This moment.”
I take my hand away, a little abashed but not understanding why. Should I be reading between the lines here? Is he telling me that things between us have changed since Ireland and that there’s no longer anything there? I don’t know and he doesn’t elaborate.
We settle the bill and head back out into the street. I try to shake the feeling that our ship has sailed and that whatever spark was there before has been extinguished by money and lawyers and threats of lawsuits. Or, put more simply, by me.
“Let’s do a Duck Tour!” suggests Michaél, giving no indication that he’s suffering like I am.
“What? Really?” I consider the big pink vehicle that takes tourists round the city as they wave and honk at real Bostonians. This is not included in my top ten pick. I was initiated into Bostonian life by Ridlee, a bonafide Bostonian, and she never recommended tourist gimmicks. Discover it like a local, she advised, and that’s what I’m trying to pass on to Michaél. “Nah, that’s lame,” I say digging at some imaginary hole in the ground with the toe of my Converse.
“What, Erin — are ye too cool or something?”
He’s needling me. I take the bait, eager to shake the feeling of dismay that’s followed me out into the street. “Right! Race ye!” I take off sprinting and join the line for Duck Tour tickets with Michaél hot on my heels.
We find a seat near the back and settle in. Our tour guide is cool, and it’s a relief to not have to talk for the next hour or so. I’m giving myself a good talking to as I sit down beside Michaél, trying to convince myself to enjoy our friendship for what it is now. Friendship. Nothing more, nothing less.
I suppose I should be grateful that he even still wants to be friends after my behavior over the last few weeks. I haven’t been my best self since his arrival in Boston. Not to say that he’s behaved any better. He did his due diligence and checked out the bar before he came here. He knew exactly what shape The Pot O’Gold was in and he came anyway. He knew he didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, and yet he threatened that he did. Neither of us has been fair to the other.
I stare out at the monuments passing by and think of all the ways I resisted his ideas and the myriad ways I tried to make him feel so uncomfortable so he’d just leave. It was a knee-jerk reaction to what I perceived to be a threat to all I’ve worked for. All that mattered to me was the bar. And while I still stand by that, I look across the water and realize that I have been singleminded to a fault. Sure, it’s important for me to be strong and independent and to make my own way in the world, but what’s the point of any of it if I can’t share my life with someone else?
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, time for something a bit special!” announces Kip, our guide. We’re heading for the water and the Duck doesn’t seem to be stopping. With great fanfare we splash into the Charles River and begin to sail.
Somehow I’d never realized that this was part of the tour. I scream and grab onto Michaél’s sleeve as a blast of cold water hits me. He wraps his arm around me and rubs my freezing arms warm. I snuggle into him, but he pulls away to take one of the blankets that are being passed around by Kip. He tucks it around both our laps but he doesn’t put his arm around me again. I smile my thanks. It’s beautiful to be out on the river; the air is clear and I feel the anger and frustration I’ve been carrying around lately being swept away. I pick at a thread on the blanket that covers us both. I am hyper aware of his leg touching mine but he seems to be elsewhere, gazing off into space. I guess that’s it for us then. Good friends. No benefits. As though hearing my thoughts he turns and smiles at me. No kiss. No little touch. Just a friendly smile. I have to make a massive effort to make my own smile big ‘cause right now I’m feelin’ kinda small.
We arrive home in time for dinner and I’m beat. I’m beat from acting like the best best friend a guy could ever want and from not giving into the lusty desire that is literally eating me up. I can’t go on like this. We have to have it out or he has to leave. Now.
“So, Michaél. What’s the deal?”
He looks up from the Sunday roast dinner I have just set down in front of him, compliments of our new chef, Aaron. Yet another one of Michaél’s initiatives that has gone down a treat with the punters. It’s late and we’re eating dinner in the apartment. It’s time to clear the air.
“Deal?” he asks, all innocence.
“There’s something I don’t understand.” I push my food around my plate.
He just smiles.