1
SAGE
Galway is exactlyhow it looks on postcards, which should’ve been my first warning.
Connor walks beside me like he owns the cobblestones. “Welcome to my homeland,” he says, spreading his arms like he personally founded the city.
He was born in Boston.
But whatever. His family is from here, and he’s been talking about “coming home” for the past year we’ve been dating. When he suggested we spend St. Patrick’s Day in Galway, I thought… okay. This is it.
This is the trip. The ring trip.
I didn’t tell anyone that. Not even my sister, Rosemary. I just quietly packed some lingerie and tried not to imagine the exact way he’d get down on one knee. I’m not delusional. I know Connor loves optics. If he proposes, it won’t be in the kitchen while I’m eating cereal. It’ll be here. In front of a cathedral. Or on a cliff. Or during golden hour with someone conveniently nearby to film it.
It will be staged to perfection. A memory he can share with his followers to garner more clicks. I know how he thinks, and while it’s tacky, I’m fine with it. I knew who he was when we met, and I have no illusions about changing any of that.
He stops in the middle of Shop Street and pulls out his phone. “Babe, stand there,” he says, angling me toward a doorway dripping with shamrock garlands. It’s St. Patrick’s Day week, so everything is covered in green décor and leprechauns.
I laugh. “We just got here.”
“I know. The lighting’s insane.”
I smooth my coat and smile. I’ve learned Connor’s camera smile. Not my real one—the one that crinkles my eyes—but the softer, curated version. The girlfriend-of-an-up-and-coming-brand-consultant smile. Approachable but elevated. All his influencer patter has been drilled into my brain since we met.
He snaps at least fifteen photos. “Okay, now walking toward me. Casual.”
I walk. Casual.
“Chin down a little.”
Chin down.
“Perfect.” He doesn’t kiss me after. He doesn’t even look at the photos with me. He just nods like he’s captured something important and slides the phone back into his coat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it, but he’s distracted, scanning everything like he’s looking for a better backdrop.
“When are we meeting with your family?” I ask, trying to sound breezy.
He shrugs. “They’re doing some huge thing at my Aunt Mary’s estate outside the city. It’s kind of chaotic.”
“I like chaotic.”
“It’s a lot of cousins. And old people.”
I nudge him. “I can handle it.”
He laughs, but it’s thin. “We’ll see.”
We’ll see.That phrase lands somewhere uncomfortable in my stomach.
But then he pulls me in for a selfie, presses his cheek to mine, and says, “First St. Paddy’s in the motherland with this one,” and I push the feeling down.
Because maybe he wants the pictures first. Maybe he’s building toward something. Maybe the ring is in his pocket right now, square and heavy and waiting for the perfect moment. He might be too nervous to think about when he wants to introduce me to his family.
So I smile. I let him frame me against ancient stone and cathedral spires. I let him call me babe in a voice that sounds like it’s already halfway to being a caption.
And I tell myself that sometimes love looks like patience.
