“Go to hell, old man.”
Xav smiles. He takes his empty beer bottle and disappears into the kitchen. When he returns and heads for the door, I leap from the couch, taking him by surprise when I ambush him from behind with a hug.
“Thank you,” I say, grateful he can’t see the tears blurring my vision. “I’m sorry I told you to go to hell.”
Xav pats my hand. “I know you think ending things is the right answer, Nina, but there are just as many right answers as there are wrong ones.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure I really understand what he means.
Once Xav’s gone, I return to the couch and tug the folder from beneath the Oscar de la Renta book. I only read through half the form’s title before my mind is made up.
“Fuck you, form,” I say, flipping it off before I rip the page in half right down the middle. I take the next page and rip it into smaller pieces. And the next, into even smaller pieces. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a pile of the world’s most depressing confetti at my feet.
I kick it away from me, not caring that I’ll have to pick it up later. I grab my phone from the coffee table and call Jo.
“Can you take a few days off from the restaurant?” I ask when she answers.
“Probably,” Jo says. “What’s up?”
“Pack a bag, babe. We’re going to Ireland.”
23
Forty-eight hours later, Jo and I finally arrive in Cobh. My jet lag and the ache in my knee from the long flight and subsequent train ride fades as soon as Ollie’s family pub, the Local, comes into view.
“You ready?” Jo says, giving my arm a squeeze when we stop outside the pub.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I say. “So we better do it.”
I push through the door to the pub and step inside. It’s small, but in a cozy way. The menu is scrawled on the chalkboard that hangs on the wall beside the door—Ollie’s handwriting, I realize, my heart vaulting into my throat. Instead of the dollars and mementos that litter the walls and ceiling of Mitch’s, the Local is decorated with framed black-and-white photographs of Cobh. Two Irish flags hang from the ceiling. Warm light falls from glass bulbs, making the clean wooden tables shine. I run a finger along the nearest table. No dust.
“I see why Ollie hates Mitch’s so much,” Jo says.
The place is beautiful, clean, charming. Not a Taco Tuesday menu in sight.
“Nina,” Jo whispers. I look up, and she nods in the direction of thebar. Behind it, a young man holds open the door to the kitchen and hollers something I can’t make out. I only catch a glimpse of bronze hair in the kitchen beyond, but it’s enough. Ollie’s here.
“I’m absolutely allergic to you, you feckin’ Muppet,” Ollie shouts. That’s a new one. I have no idea what he’s saying, but I’m suddenly fighting the urge to cartwheel right out the door.
He’s so... Irish, I think. Ollie never wanted to come back, and even though I knew why, I always assumed he hated Ireland. With a jolt that sends a sliver of fear through me, I realize Ollie looks like he belongs here. It’s as if there’s always been a piece of him missing, and I’ve walked right into it.
“You’re more miserable than I remember,” the man behind the bar says.
Ollie’s laugh floats out of the kitchen. It buoys my heart and crushes it at the same time. He sounds happy, and yet I’ve spent the last month miserable without him.
When the kitchen door swings shut, the young man turns to face the pub. He catches sight of us, and an easy smile appears on his face.
“Welcome to the Local,” he says. “What can I do for you girls?”
Jo gives me a hesitant look. I wish I would’ve paused outside to do a handstand for my nerves. As I approach the man behind the bar, a feeling of recognition washes over me, becausethisis Jack, Ollie’s brother. I know it without having to ask. Even though Jack’s hair is darker, and his arms are covered in colorful tattoos, and he isfarmore cheerful looking than Ollie has ever been, I see the resemblance. Those blue eyes, the nose... They’re brothers. There’s no denying it. Anyone who knows Ollie as well as I do would see it.
“Hi,” I say, trying to hold back a smile when I make it to the bar.
“Hello,” Jack says, all charm as he looks at me, then Jo. He eyes me again and leans toward me over the bar. “You look familiar.”
“I’m...”Friends with your brother?No, that doesn’t feel right. Ollieand I haven’t spoken once since he left. I can’t imagine we’re friends. “Nina,” I say.Nice one, the voice in my head says. “And this is Jo,” I add, nodding to Jo, who gives Jack a little wave.
“Nina,” Jack says. His blue eyes linger on mine. They’re lighter than Ollie’s, less intense. He flicks his gaze to the kitchen door. “You’re not...” He turns to me and squints, then slaps the bar top with both hands. “You are! You’re Ollie’s Nina!”
