Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A n Spailpín Fánach, a pub on the south side was one of Aoife's favorites, and had been since she was a teen. The name of it made made Elliott give a delighted, almost nervous little laugh. "How do you say that? What does it mean?"

"‘The Wandering Farmhand,'" Aoife said with a smile. "Ahn spalpeen fawnach, like church there at the end. It's a bloody poem we all have to learn for the Leaving Certs. Em, like your...no, I don't know. It's at the end of school, anyway."

Elliott nodded, clearly listening but also obviously completely taken in by the pub's brick-and-wood walls and low-beamed ceilings. "It looks like a movie set. I mean, it looks exactly like it's supposed to! To an American! It's an Irish pub!"

Aoife grinned up at him. He looked so happy, his dark eyes wide to take in everything. Which, to be fair, they had to be; the pub was so dark she'd think they hadn't heard about the invention of electricity yet. But that was traditional too, as were the musicians already gathering in a circle, sitting on benches, tables, even the floor, as they argued good-naturedly about what tunes to begin with. Someone on a tin whistle ignored them and began to play the upbeat—and often recognizable to American tourists, which was important— Rocky Road to Dublin , and she found herself shout-singing, "One-two-tree-four-five!" along with the rest of the locals when the chorus came around.

By the time that song came to an end, they'd agreed on the next one, and music lifted the rafters along with the laughter, singing, and chatter of the people who'd come to enjoy the evening. Aoife, beaming up at Elliott, said, "Will I get you a drop of the pure, then?" which was a line from the song, and he laughed helplessly.

"I don't even know what that means, but sure?"

"A wee dram of whiskey," she said expansively, leaning into her own accent so far she thought Elliott possibly didn't even understand her. She went for the whiskey anyway, yelling a greeting to the bartender, whom she'd known since school, and who lifted her eyebrows toward Elliott with approving curiosity.

"Fit," she yelled at Aoife. "Lucky you!"

"He's only grand altogether," Aoife shouted happily. "Give me two shots of something genuinely good, pet, and then two shots of pure shite."

The bartender laughed and poured a couple shots from a bottle that Aoife didn't even want to look at, its price was so dear, and then two more of a considerably cheaper whiskey. She paid and brought them back to Elliott, who curiously reached for the cheaper whiskey first.

"Oh, God, no! These ones first!" She handed him one of the expensive shots, and he took a tentative sip that ended in astonished examination of the rich, dark gold liquid.

"I thought whiskey was supposed to be harsh!"

"I'll spare you all I know about how triple distillation is a mark of an Irish whiskey, and how it smooths the bite, and only tell you instead that this is the good stuff, and that anything after the first shot doesn't matter because your sinuses and throat have been stripped clear of any ability to scent or taste anything at all."

Elliott took another small sip, still visibly appreciative. "Since you didn't just spare me everything you know?—"

"Oh, but I did," Aoife promised him.

He laughed. "Okay, but how come you know everything about whiskey?"

"I went to uni in Germany," she reminded him. "I got told more about making beer there than I could ever possibly want to know, so I retaliated by learning loads about making whiskey and lecturing them back."

"Oh, that's smart. You're smart." He beamed at her adoringly, and Aoife leaned in to give him a slightly whiskey-flavored kiss.

"Do you sing?" she asked when the kiss ended.

A look of alarm crossed his face. "Not where anybody can hear me! Unless I'm drunk and it's karaoke night."

"We don't do karaoke night in this pub," Aoife informed him airily. "Drunk, however, that happens a lot. Sláinte!" She tipped her shot of good whiskey against Elliott as he laughed and tried to echo her.

"Slawncha? What's that?"

"It's like ‘cheers,'" she told him. "It means ‘health,' really. Now drink up!" They both drank, although the whiskey really was worth savoring, and she did. It still stripped her tastebuds, and the second shot they slammed, making Aoife's eyes water.

Even Elliott blinked, then wheezed laughter. "I can feel that in my thighs and I'm twice your size. Are you going to pass out now?"

"No, but I'm not going to drink anything else, either." Aoife leaned on him, because she felt the alcohol burning through her, too, and besides, he was very large, very warm, and very comfortable. "I am, however, going to sing trad tunes at the top of my lungs, and you're going to sing along with me if you know any of them."

"You don't want that to happen," he told her sincerely, but forty minutes later he was belting it out to Ed Sheeran's Galway Girl, which was absolutely not the traditional version but was certainly well-known. The pub had filled up with musicians, singers, and visitors, many of whom—like Elliott—were mostly smiling in delight while the locals sang and played.

When they finally staggered out a couple of hours later, sober but ears ringing from the noise, Elliott actually lifted Aoife and spun around with her. "Is that what it's always like here?"

"Yes," she said, trying to stay deadpan as he set her back on her feet. "We're always singing and dancing and drinking, and chatting with the leprechauns, we are. No," she added with a grin. "No, it's not even like that in all the pubs. There's a great jazz and blues place up the way, but more of them than not don't have live music at all. And some do a night or two a week, for the tourist trade. One of the reasons I like this particular pub is that it's usually got a proper session where the lads just show up to play."

"There were lots of women playing in there," Elliott objected.

Aoife blinked at him. "Yeah?"

"So it wasn't just the lads," he said patiently.

"Oh. Hah. No, we use ‘lads' like you Americans use ‘guys.' If you think about it at all, it's obviously not gender-neutral like, but we use it that way."

"Yeah, but that sounds ridiculous. Lads means men. Well, boys."

Aoife laughed. "You're just not used to it. Wait until you find out what we mean by guards."

She struck off down the street with Elliott hurrying after her. "Wait, what? What does that mean? What do you think guards are? Guards, you know, guard things. What do they do here?"

"Guards here are the police." Aoife threw a smile over her shoulder at him.

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously! An Garda Síochána. It means ‘Guardians of the Peace,' in fact."

"An ga...what?"

"Ahn. Garda. Shee oh kahna," Aoife repeated slowly, with Elliott echoing her. "The guards."

"Well...that's kind of cool, actually."

"It is. Oh no!" The Shandon Bells, across the river and up a calf-straining hill, rang out the quarter hour. "We'd better run to get back to the train station. The last train is in fifteen minutes!"

Elliott immediately jolted into a run, and stopped again just as quickly. "Wait. You don't live out there, do you?"

"What? No, I live over there." Aoife waved toward the other side of the river, where her shared house lay.

"Then I should run, and you should go home and get some sleep," Elliott said firmly. "Do you need someone to walk you home?"

"No, it's ten minutes. I'll text you when I'm safe home, if you want."

Elliott beamed. "I'll need your number."

"Right!" They exchanged numbers, then a kiss, and Elliott sprinted off into the night, leaving Aoife to walk home with a grin.