Turns out, pleasure is a language I was born fluent in.
twenty-one
Linus
Four Months Later
Therainneverreallystops in Ireland.
Sometimes it softens to mist, brushing your cheeks like breath, and other times it lashes sideways across the Luas tracks until the whole street gleams silver. Either way, it’s constant. Like the ache behind my ribs.
I’ve been home nearly a year now. You’d think I’d have settled by now, but I still wake up expecting the sound of guitars bleeding through thin walls, or Padraig laughing somewhere down the hall. Or Liam’s voice, low and rough with sleep, telling me to come back to bed.
Instead, it’s radiators ticking and the sound of the telly.
Dundrum’s grand in its own way. My flat sits above a pharmacy, across from the Town Centre. From my balcony,I can see the glass roof of the shopping complex and the queue for train stretching down the platform. It’s all very proper. Good schools, tidy pavements, cafés.
No chaos. No noise. No live music.
Exactly the opposite of what I’m made for.
I drop my bag on the counter and shrug out of my jacket. I’ve finished another fourteen-hour shift at The Merrion, herding florists, caterers, and entitled brides through a wedding costing more than most people’s houses. The ballroom sparkled, the champagne flowed, and every smile felt rehearsed.
My name tag reads Linus O’Donnell, Events Manager. I earn every single penny of my salary.
Not bad for a lad barely out of uni, I suppose. Mum calls it a proper job. My da brags about it to his fellow politicians. The problem is, I can’t stop thinking about the smell of beer-soaked wood floors and the thrum of bass under my feet. About doing something with my life I’m actually proud of.
I didn’t come back to Ireland because I wanted to. I had no choice. When the clock ran out on my visa, there was no extension left to beg for. No marriage proposal from Liam. I had no choice but to say goodbye.
Oh, what a long, drawn-out, painful goodbye it was.
The night Felicity finally blew the whole thing apart was the end of my era. I’d spent months trying to hold the band together, patching holes in the boat while everyone else drilled new ones. Before I left, I found Arleigh, a raw, talented singer, unbothered by fame. I gave her information to Liam and Padraig, telling them she’d be the one to save them.
They promised to give her a chance, but I was convinced they’d blow her off and Fireball would descend to the bottom of the ocean without me taking the reins. A couple days later Liam texted.
Liam: Arleigh’s in. You’re always right about these things, love.
It felt like hope. Maybe we’d continue things long-distance.
Then silence.
He’s never been in touch again. Hasn’t returned any of my calls, texts, or DMs.
I tried a different tactic. I meant it when I said I’d keep managing them from Dublin. I drew up contracts, built spreadsheets, pitched them to a European promoter I knew. Sent it to both Liam and Padraig.
No reply. From either of them.
At first, I made excuses. It’s arduous to integrate a new band member. The tour’s mad. Wi-Fi’s shit. Time zones.
I was lying to myself.
Of course, the masochist inside of me wants to reach out again. Give it one last try to connect. Maybe if I kept the tone light:How’s the tour?Or encouraging:I’m proud of you. Perhaps, something small, human:I really miss you.
Then I remember the last thing he said at the airport before I left. “If you stay, I’ll never learn how to stand on my own.”
At the time it sounded noble. Now it feels like a curse.
I still follow every shaky video on YouTube, every tagged photo on socials. Through their posts, I know Fireball now manages themselves. Liam and Padraig run the show, Mitch, their roadie drives, Arleigh sings. They seem to be thriving.
