Chapter 18

18

MADDIE

Friday, March 14

Boyfriend Disaster #6 : Jacob the Obsessed Customer

Job Location & Length : The Bank, 1 year

My Age : 25

Todd the Married Manager was such a disaster that I promised myself I wouldn’t hook up with anyone I worked with at The Bank, a lively bar in Hoboken that was open from five in the evening to two in the morning. It was a much-needed change from the soulless chain restaurants.

Enter Jacob, a hot hedge fund manager who would come in with his colleagues every Friday night. He’d plant himself at my end of the bar, allowing only me to pour him drinks and tipping five times the cost of his gin and tonics. I finally gave in and agreed to go out with him. Why would I not? He wasn’t a boss or a coworker or even in the restaurant business. I was making progress. Maturing.

We slept together at his swanky Hoboken apartment after our third date, and then he started coming in on Thursday nights. Then added Wednesdays. Eventually, it was every night I worked. My manager said I shouldn’t date customers, and definitely shouldn’t have a boyfriend sit at the bar for twenty hours a week.

I didn’t like him doing that, either.

Jacob didn’t take my suggestion that he spend less time at The Bank well. He only got more possessive, with constant texting and phone calls. He’d get angry when I served other men, which was a big problem.

When I broke up with him, he didn’t stop showing up. It got so bad that I blocked his number.

And quit.

Breakup Reason : stalker-like obsession

My Distress Level : 3

Lesson Learned : Maybe it’s me, not them. What am I doing wrong?

I t’s a sunny day in Dingle, Ireland. I didn’t think that was possible, but the rare warmth beams right into my heart, and I practically skip out of the flat. I pass the entrance to O’Brien’s and pop into Dingle Brew.

“Morning to you, Maddie. Off to the pub?”

“Yup, opening today.” I smile at Maria, the barista behind the counter who I met that first morning in Dingle.

“Lovely.”

“Hey, Maria, can you tell me about something really unique you’ve done in Ireland? So I can add it to my road trip itinerary?”

She chuckles and fills a large to-go cup for me.

“I can do that,” Maria continues. “The Butter Museum. In Cork.” She adds cream and sugar to my coffee before securing the lid and handing it over.

“A butter museum?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Okay, thanks!” I grin as I walk out the door up toward O’Brien’s. A butter museum? Weird.

My phone buzzes as I unlock the heavy front door of the pub.

Reese

I’m so sorry about Blue, Mads

Last night, in a moment of stupidity, I accidentally told my sisters about Patrick— I met someone , I’d typed, with about a hundred heart emojis—which means I had to backtrack and tell them about breaking up with Blue.

Reese

But tell us everything about the new guy. Where’s he from?

I’m not in the country I’m supposed to be. I’m not doing what I said I was doing. I’m not even in the right time zone.

I can’t tell them I’m in Dingle, on my way to my job at a pub after waking up this morning tangled up with Reese’s fiancé’s best friend.

What’s the harm in telling them a little truth? Maybe it’ll help me remember the details I’m making up.

Me

Actually . . . he’s Irish

Reese

No shit! What’s he doing there?

Stella

I love the Irish accent

Reese

How would your English boyfriend feel about that, Stella?

Stella

*shrug*

Reese

Ohhh, Mads, he can help with the road trip! How’s that coming? Has Patrick helped at all?? It’s so close. Maybe you should tell us the plan, lol

Oh good lord. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Me

Yes, I’ve been picking his brain

His as in Patrick’s? Or my new fake boyfriend’s? Joke’s on me, they are one and the same. Lie and truth mixed in together.

Me

The road trip planning is almost done! I’ll give you the details ASAP

Me

Gotta run, sisters!

Stella

We expect another beach picture immediately

I quickly send an image of a can of beer nestled in sand with turquoise waters in the background. I grabbed it online the other day, but wince when I notice the leftover sliver of a watermark in the bottom corner of the image. I must’ve missed that when cropping it. I don’t think they’ll notice as it blends in with the sand, but I gotta be more careful.

This morning, when we finished with some sexy shenanigans, Patrick asked when I was going to come clean to my sisters. I mumbled something noncommittal and stuck my tongue in his mouth to avoid the question.

But it’s a good one. When will I tell them the truth? The whole truth?

I pull the chairs from on top of the tables. It’s gotta be before the road trip. In two weeks, I’m supposed to head back to New Jersey—at least according to my plane ticket and the story I’ve told them.

So I guess it’ll be when I get back to Jersey.

But to leave this place in two weeks? I scrunch my face at the thought. It’s too soon. Two weeks until the little life I’ve made for myself here disappears.

By the time I’m done with the chairs, the door swings open and Saoirse steps in for a quick chat before work. After she leaves, I pause for a moment, appreciating how I fit in here. I should feel out of place. A tourist in Dingle managing a pub with an American accent that everyone comments on. Someone who’s always inappropriately dressed.

But as much as I don’t fit in, I still feel like I belong. Like I’m needed. And wanted.

The buzz of my phone pulls me out of my daydream. It’s from a bartender I trained a few days ago who’s supposed to show up later this afternoon.

Jax

Sorry to do this to you, Maddie, but I’m not coming back to O’Brien’s

Me

Oh no, why?

Jax

Going traveling with my girlfriend instead

Me

Text Patrick, please. He’s your actual boss, not me

Jax

Can you do it

Shit.

I screenshot the message and send it to Patrick, cringing. He responds with a single expletive.

I’ve been trying so hard to keep the pub stuff off his plate as I know he wants to focus on the brewery. The other managers have stepped up as well, but we’re still short-staffed. I had a feeling that Jax might not stick around. After working in restaurants for years, I’ve gotten a sense for when workers are a flight risk.

It’s not until O’Brien’s is officially open that I realize there’s an inventory problem. We’re short on everything in cans and bottles besides New Dingle and Slea Head.

As in there’s nothing else in the cases, and nothing in the basement. Oh, crap.

There should be Magners Irish Cider, Heineken, Budweiser, Porterhouse Temple Lager, and Harp.

How did I not notice us running so low? I had the last two days off, but still. I rack my brain and remember grabbing a case from the basement and writing a message to Patrick on a Post-it note. Did I not put it in the office?

I text him again.

Me

Sorry to do this to you, but it looks like we’re short a ton of can and bottle inventory

I snap a picture of the mostly empty refrigerators and send it to him.

Me

Is a shipment coming in today? There’s nothing downstairs or out back

Patrick

I’m checking

A moment later he’s back.

Patrick

Damn. Nothing’s scheduled

Me

Oh no

Patrick

How did this happen?

Me

I don’t know, I’m sorry

Patrick

I’ll be in after I finish up at the brewery

I lay my phone on the bar, an uncomfortable feeling settling in me. He’s direct, and even himself admits he’s often misunderstood. It hasn’t bothered me before. But those words— how did this happen —seem pretty clear.

They’re an accusation.

The first customers walk in, and I serve Conor and Colin, the old brothers, and let myself worry.

Things are so good between us right now. In my past life, I’d soon find out he’s married, or obsessed, or hooking up with other people. My stomach twists. Is that what’s happening here?

No.

Everything is great, and it’s going to stay that way. It’ll only end when I leave town.

I serve a new group of patrons, grabbing tea and toasties instead of pints. The door swings open again, and my head spins in that direction, anticipating Patrick.

But he doesn’t show up until my shift is almost over.

“Fuck.”

Feck is his preferred swear word, so I know he’s upset.

Patrick’s perched on a barstool, scrolling through something on his laptop, a folder with delivery and order paperwork in a pile next to him. The pub’s starting to fill up, and he really needs to move so he doesn’t get a drink spilled on his things. I glance at my phone. Ronan should be here soon. I’m already planning on staying and working a double to cover Jax’s absence.

“So what happened?”

Patrick sighs and buries his hands in his dark hair, leaving it ruffled. I almost reach out to smooth it down when he looks up, but I hold back. He doesn’t look like he’s in a playful mood.

“Beth didn’t take care of it. But it’s my fault, not hers. She was just starting to deal with all the inventory and re-orders, but it all slipped through the cracks when she left.”

“The same day I showed up and made you hire me?” I mean it in a light way, and I tilt my head and lean toward him, hoping he smiles.

He doesn’t. It was the wrong tone for the situation.

“It’s not your fault.”

But it kind of is, isn’t it? I saw that the inventory was going down. I’d taken over from Beth. I’m supposed to know how to run a restaurant.

It’s just like when I was dating Jacob while at The Bank. My manager said I was missing things. Getting distracted.

But this time, I’m the one doing the distracting.

I’d checked in the pub office, and the note I wrote earlier in the week about the inventory levels was nowhere to be found. I should have told him verbally as well. Kept telling him. Asked about shipments. I swallow and stand up straight, crossing my arms.

But I didn’t do any of that.

“It’s my fault,” he says gently, the softness I was missing before finally evident.

“No. It’s mine, and you know it.”

He rakes a hand over his face, not disagreeing.

Here I was, thinking I was doing a great job running the pub. Helping out Patrick, but also using my brain, my past experience. Instead, I fucked it up.

“You should go.”

“What?” I say, the edge in my voice contrasting with his calm tone. He’s telling me to leave?

“I just mean that you’ve been here all day. Go home. Ronan and I can take care of tonight.”

“But you’ve been working at the brewery. And I want to help. I can stay and you can fix the inventory problem.”

“It’s too late.” He shakes his head. “It’s a Friday night. I can reach out to the distributor in the morning for an emergency shipment.”

“Let me stay.”

“Madison. Come on. Leave.” He sits back and looks up at the ceiling, as if I’m the most frustrating person he’s dealt with all day.

I flinch. How could he want me to leave? He’s hardly been able to stay away from me. Even when I’m working, he’ll come in and sneak a kiss or pin me in the dark hallway.

Leave .

That’s a pretty clear directive. My face heats and a spark of anger ignites in me. And beneath it, a raw rejection that I don’t even want to acknowledge.

“Fine. Good luck tonight.”

I bend to grab my purse from under the bar and stomp out without another word. He doesn’t follow me.

“What a dick,” I mumble as I welcome the evening air, pausing outside the entrance. Shit, the sun is behind gray clouds and it’s much colder than it was earlier. Thankfully, due to slacking on laundry, I’m wearing leggings—not one of my stupid sleeveless summer dresses—but also a skimpy tank top.

I look up toward my flat, but don’t move my feet in that direction. I can’t go home now. No way. Not when I feel like this. What would I do all night in there?

Instead, I stride in the other direction without any destination in mind, the anger and hurt rolling around in my belly and mixing together into an unhappy cocktail.

I wrap my arms around my body, clinging to my bare skin.

O’Brien’s is job number eleven. Patrick is guy number eleven. How humiliating.

“Maddie?”

I jerk my head up. Noreen is stopped in front of me, holding hands with Gray, the guy I met at the table my first night in Dingle.

“Oh, hey.”

“You alright?” Her forehead crinkles, and she looks at me intensely.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I work on plastering some kind of smile on my face.

“You must be freezing!” Noreen’s in a winter coat, her brown curls tumbling over her jacket. “Not working tonight?”

“No. Well yes, I was.”

“Everything working out at the flat?” Noreen is examining my face. “I know you’d planned to head back to the States, but let me know if you want to extend the lease.”

“Come on Nor, I’m desperate for a pint.” Gray tugs on her hand.

“Flat’s great. Go on to the pub,” I say, seeing my out. “Have a good night.”

I slip past them and head toward the pink neon sign of Ian’s tattoo parlor, like it was my destination all along. I dart inside. Everything about me is impulsive, and I have the urge to prove it.

It’s quiet and empty inside and I appreciate the warmth. My shivering slowly fades, and a moment later, Ian peeks his head out from the back room.

“Hello, lass, how can I help you?”

“I’m pissed at Patrick.”

He studies me for a moment, then chuckles.

“Come on in to chat. I have whisky.”

“I don’t really drink whisky.”

Ian ignores my protest and I follow him to the back room, where there are three empty tattoo stations and a round, black table. A thick binder sits in the middle.

“I’ll be right back.”

I settle into the comfortable chair and Ian ducks through a doorway, emerging a moment later with two glasses of amber liquid. He sits across from me and slides a glass my way.

“Thank you.” I take a sip and wince at the heat in my throat. “Does it always taste like this?”

Ian nods. “Well, this is the good stuff, so it can burn a lot worse going down.”

I sip again and appreciate it the second time, knowing what to expect.

“How’s the road trip planning going? I’ve been thinking about it since you told me last Saturday night.”

“Good.” I nod. “I’m almost done. I’m gonna call it Quirks, Brews, and Views, since we’ll stop at a few breweries.”

“You’ll be in Dingle, right? I’d love to see Oliver.”

“Yeah. So you and Oliver are old friends?” I study Ian’s freckled face.

“We became close while he was in Dingle. He’s a talented artist. Here—” He opens the binder and flips through to a section in the back. “These are some of the designs he left behind.”

I flip through the pages of my sister’s fiancé’s drawings. There are flowers, soccer balls, mountains, trees, rivers. A shamrock. Celtic designs. A series of hearts. Even before he touched a tattoo needle, Oliver had an eye for ink.

“Oh.” I look up at Ian. The red-haired man raises his eyebrows at me.

“Oh what?”

“I just had an idea on how to make the road trip even better.”

“How is that?”

My brain whirls. I loved the idea of adding brewery stops to the road trip plus quirky little side trips to make it more unique than the average driving tour of Ireland. What if we also add an official stop at Ian’s tattoo parlor?

“We’ll plan to stop here when we’re in Dingle. I have a feeling I can convince my sisters that we need to get matching tattoos.”

“Sounds grand.”

“And I’ll rename the road trip Quirks, Tats, Brews, and Views.”

He grins. “A mouthful, but I like it.”

“Thanks for your help.” I throw back the rest of the whisky. “While I’m here, can I get a tattoo? That’s what I actually came in for.”

The corners of Ian’s eyes crinkle and he nods. “What were you thinking?”

I head back to the pub a short while later, my ankle stinging where I had Ian ink three small hearts. It represents me and my sisters. My anchors. My squad.

It was impulsive, but I love it. Impulsive is who I am, and fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.

I’m going to force Patrick to accept my help tonight at the pub. I have a job. Something went wrong there, and I feel terrible about it, but him telling me to go home isn’t going to help the situation.

I’m not running from this job like I have from so many others.