“I don’t doubt it. But theirs is the sort of acquaintance that, once made, cannot easily be lost.”
I frown as we walk on, curious what makes him so wary of the neighbours.
It’s a peaceful night, but the sleepy hush lifts as we near the heart of town. The streets grow brighter, the low hum of conversation drifting from restaurants bars.
The Irish pub comes into view, golden light spilling from its arched, dark wood-framed windows. The thump of music and the chatter of voices make my heartbeat quicken. Cream letters above the green-painted door spell out the pub’s name.
“The Bitter End?” I read.
“Sean, the owner, is an optimist,” Brandon says simply, pushing open the door. “After you.”
Hot air rushes out to meet us, thick with sound and the mingling scents of food and beer. Low amber lights cast soft shadows across walls decorated with tiles and wood panelling. The round, rustic tables are full of diners, and there’s barely space to move between them with patrons packed shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing mid-conversation. In the far corner, a raised stage glows under blue lights, where a folk trio stamp their feet and holler into the mic to a lively tune.
I try to take it all in—the noise, the crowd, the stuffiness.
Brandon glances at me. “Would you rather go somewhere quieter?”
I hesitate. Itisa little overwhelming, but the fact that he’s asking settles something in me. Besides, there’s an energy in the air, with music pushing against the walls and laughter spilling out in bursts, that makes me want to be a part of it even if I feel like an outsider right now.
“No,” I decide. “This is great. Really.”
“Come this way, then. I’ll introduce you to Sean.”
I follow Brandon as he moves through the crowd. There’s something magnetic about the way he carries himself, like he’s used to moving through a room without needing to demand attention.
At the bar, a solidly built man with auburn hair and a thick, silver-streaked beard looks up—and scowls, straightening to his full height. His gruff voice has a distinct Irish lilt. “Brandon. What do you want?”
Brandon leans against the bar, fingers drumming the surface playfully. “Let’s see, now…I think I’ll have…” He takes a moment to consider. “A Guinness.”
“Fuck off with you.”
I look between them, taken aback.
Brandon shrugs. “Well, that’s what I want.”
“You don’t even like Guinness.”
“When in Rome…”
Sean’s scowl deepens, then his gaze slides to me. “This the Aussie?”
“Lily-Anne,” Brandon says smoothly. “From Sydney.”
Sean considers me, then he huffs softly. “Sydney, huh? I’ve always wanted to visit. Tell me, have you ever had to box a kangaroo?”
I blink. “Box a…kangaroo?”
“Or a shark.” He flexes his arm, the sleeve pulling tight over solid muscle as his fist closes. “I’ve heard if one swims up to you, the trick is to punch them. Give ‘em the old one-two to scare them off.”
“Well, no, not exactly…”
“Speaking of stereotypes,” Brandon interjects coolly, flipping open the laminated menu. “I think I fancy that shamrock cake tonight.”
Sean’s face darkens as he snatches the menu from him. “Piss off.That’s only for tourists.” His expression softens as his eyes dart to me. “And what are you having, love?”
I order my drink and glance at the stage, but the band has just finished up. Claps resound around us as the trio is replaced by a band composed of lanky middle-aged men in faded leather jackets and sports sunglasses.
“On the house,” Sean says to me, sliding a fizzling vodka raspberry across the bar before slamming Brandon’s tulip glass down so hard the foam spills onto the counter. “And that’s double, since you made me pour a bloody Guinness you don’t intend to drink when it’s busy.”
