Chapter twelve
Early Afternoon
OldTownPragueisbustling.
The cobblestones under our feet shine faintly from the morning rain. The narrow streets weave between buildings older than I can comprehend. Towers rise at odd angles above the rooftops, Gothic spires cut into a pale-blue sky while church bells somewhere in the distance mark the hour.
Tourists wander in loose clusters, cameras pointed at the Astronomical Clock while locals slip around them with the easy confidence of people who know every crooked alley by heart. Café doors stand open and the smell of coffee drifts into the street alongside the unmistakable scent of Pilsner.
Julian walks beside me, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking suspiciously relaxed for a man whose wedding rehearsal is set to take place in a few hours.
“You realize,” Irving steps around a delivery cart, “this is the most respectable bachelor party I’ve ever attended.”
Julian snorts. “It’snota bachelor party.”
“It’s a pub crawl,” Irving replies. “Same concept. No strippers.”
Fred, Julian’s father, laughs from behind us. “Not everything requires strippers.”
“Yeah, vastly overrated.” Marisol’s father, Jose, shakes his head slowly.
The five of us move through the winding streets together, following Julian’s confident navigation to our first stop. He’s no doubt spent hours researching and mapping this route out. We turn onto a narrow street lined with tall, pastel buildings and stop outside a pub with dark wooden doors and a carved sign hanging above it.
U Tri Ruží.
“Here we go.” Julian pushes the door open.
The smell of fresh beer hits immediately.
Inside, the pub is dim and warm. Wood beams hang overhead and long tables are crowded with locals already deep into early-afternoon conversations. A chalkboard near the bar lists the house lager.
Tank beer.
Julian raises his hand to the bartender. “Five.”
The glasses arrive seconds later. Tall. Golden. Foam rising perfectly to the rim.
“Na zdraví.” Jose lifts his glass.
Fred translates, “To health.”
We clink glasses. The first sip is cold and smooth, indicating why the Czech Republic takes brewing seriously.
“Delicious.” Julian is smug. “The perfect start to our pub crawl.”
“You’re marrying the woman of your dreams tomorrow,” Irving ignores him, “yet you’ve probably spent more time researching this non-bachelor party than you did planning the wedding.”
“Balance.” Julian remains unapologetic.
We finish the round and wander back into the streets. The afternoon stretches comfortably as we make our way through a few pubs dabbled between Gothic arches and Renaissance facades. The Astronomical Clock chimes as we cross the square.
We duck into another bar a few streets over, this one quieter and darker. The walls are lined with framed photographs and old beer advertisements. Another round appears.
The conversation maneuvers easily the way it does with men who’ve known each other long enough to skip introductions, fathers included. Inevitably, the teasing Julian should have known it was coming begins.
“Seventeen years.” Jose leans back in his chair. “You’ve been dating Marisolseventeenyears.”
Julian raises an eyebrow. “Happily, of course.”
