“Where did you hear of this place?” Carmen asked as we navigated the streets of the Tribes of Galway.
We had all taken the time to dress up for the occasion—a pub-crawl through Galway, where we all decided to eat and drink our way into the wee hours of the night. I could already smell the hop of Guinness, the sweet scent of barbecue roasting on some pit, and the barest hint of brine and fish from the bay.
“Um,” I said, stopping her with my hand. Violet and Chiara were already starting to dance ahead of us to music that floated from the nearest pub. “Guido.”
“Guido?”
“Yes, he recommended it.” I checked my reflection in the window of a glass shop, closed for business at this time. I had dressed in a long-sleeved cream Henley top, black leggings, high-heeled boots that came below my knees, and Brando’s (my) leather jacket. I had curled my hair and used purples and pinks on the makeup. “How do I look? Be honest.”
I had never done anything like this. Rosaria was right. I had been sheltered. My mother was too afraid to let go because she worried something would happen to my legs or my drive. My entire life was about dancing, and there was no time for it in any other capacity except the professional one.
The closest thing to a bar I had gone into without Brando was the one back home, which was low-key and filled with locals. (Not counting the first time I danced at the club Nemours owned in Paris.)
Carmen smiled, not mocking, but with understanding. “I always judge how I look by how I feel. But.” She brought her lips in, then released them in a pop. “If that fails, look around. Other people will tell you without having to use words. And judging by those men hovering in the corner watching us, you lookfine, girl!”
I glanced their way before taking her arm and leading her toward our group. Guido hovered, giving the guys a hard look. He dared them to come close.
We followed our group along the cobblestones to the pub Guido had recommended. People practically spilled out of it. I wasn’t sure if we were going to be able to squeeze in.
Word on the street cleared up any confusion as to why in a matter of minutes.
“Gabriel Roberts! He’s playin’ tonight!”
It wasn’t Gabriel Roberts singing then, it was some mainstream artist crooning through the microphone. Nonetheless, his name sent a frisson of excitement tingling through my veins—Eva. She would be here with him.
Surprising me, Guido took my hand in his and we navigated through the thick masses, making our way inside the pub. The scents were stronger here—the tang of excited bodies, the alcohol, the barbecue, and wisps of tobacco. And then there they were, sitting at a table with Michael and Layla. People hovered around them—all men, and judging by the looks of them, sailors of some kind, shaking hands, laughing, and generally being genial with one another. Their thick brogues were like poetry to my ears.
Gabriel noticed me before Eva. “Ah, look who it is, love! The wee dancer!”
Eva glanced up, a smile breaking across her face, as bright as the sun breaking through clouds. In a matter of seconds, we threw ourselves at each other, shaking and crying. She stepped back for a moment, running a tender hand down my face.
“You breathe,” she said.
“I do.” She pulled me to her again—she smelled of cinnamon and sun all rolled into one. “I’m so thankful!”
“W-what are you doing here?” I managed after we were torn apart by the pushing crowd. It was like a tidal wave caught inside four walls.
Guido kept an eye on me as he shook the Irishmen’s hands. They had met in New Orleans. He seemed relieved to see them.
“What am I doing here?” She threw back her head and laughed; a few men took notice, staring at her. “My husband is Irish. He comes home now and again to fuel his poetic fire.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling, realizing what I had missed. It wasn’t Guido who recommended this place. “Brando knew you were going to be here.”
“Of course.” She leaned in, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I think they love each other. They talk quite a bit.”
“They do?” This surprised me. Brando never mentioned it.
She studied me for a moment, turquoise eyes sparkling under the flattering pub light. “They became close, after…” She took my hands, both of ours cold against one another’s. “Brando was terrified after I told him about the dream I had of you. I don’t think he’s gotten over it. Gabriel seems to help.”
“No,” I breathed, the anger I felt for his earlier outburst waning a bit. “He hasn’t.”
She squeezed my hand even harder. “He will. Wounds take time. It’s not only the victim that needs healing; those who love us the most need it too.”
I nodded, wiping at my eyes. It was just so good to see her. She was one ofmypeople.
Gabriel threw his arms around us, directing us to a reserved table. “Do you always travel with an entourage, wee dancer? Or are you just that popular?”
“Neither. My husband makes me take them.”
