Chapter 21

21

MADDIE

Sunday, March 16

I t’s the day before St Patrick’s Day and I’m in Ireland, so I should be preparing to get shamrocks painted on my face and drink inappropriate amounts of Guinness, but instead I feel like absolute garbage.

It’s raining. It’s gray. And it’s freaking freezing, even though it’s supposed to be almost spring and the locals keep telling me the weather will break soon. I think it’s a lie and that their standards are different than mine. Those sunny days tricked me. At least I finally purchased a few more pieces of clothing, and today I’m wearing thick leggings, a new hoodie, and a lined vest.

But even though I’m fitting in better with my wardrobe, I’m seriously questioning the life decisions that brought me to this miserable country.

I throw my leg over the bike Patrick gave me, pausing to look up and down Main Street while I clip the too-big helmet under my chin, my eyes lingering on the red O’Brien’s awning. Last night was much busier than it’s been lately as tourists are starting to descend on Dingle.

The new batch of inventory should have arrived this morning, just in time for the St Patrick’s Day festivities tomorrow. Declan bartended with me last night and logged in to the system—which I don’t have access to—to confirm. I’ll double check the new shipments carefully when I’m in tonight.

I’m gonna work extra hard from now on to make sure there’s no more mistakes. I want to help Patrick, not make his life more difficult. Despite his apologetic texts yesterday, I’m still angry at how he reacted to the inventory issue, even though I know it’s at least partially my fault. Mine and the other bartenders’. All of us failed to properly notice and escalate the problem.

And the way he spoke to me... I haven’t been bothered by how direct he is. How he doesn’t sugarcoat his words. I can see how others might lean away from him, but until Friday night, I hadn’t felt that way myself. His words run through my head.

How did this happen?

You should go.

Madison. Come on.

Leave.

This time, they cut deep. Theoretically, I know it’s not personal. It’s the way he communicates.

Still, I need a minute away from him and some fresh air. Maybe I shouldn’t be out on a day this wet and rainy, given how I’m not the most confident biker. But what, I’m going to sit around all day? Wallow in the absence of Patrick? Nah.

I’d hoped he would show up during my shift yesterday. But he didn’t. Ian and Saoirse stopped by the pub in the afternoon with their crew of kiddos, and Patrick’s sister made it a point to tell me he had the girls that evening. Last night. They were going to paint and play soccer. She said it almost apologetically.

I pedal the bike slowly down the sidewalk, dodging people, a wheel slipping. I should be on the road, but I’m not quite brave enough amongst the parked cars, other cyclists, and vehicles driving on the wrong damn side of the street.

A few doors down, Dingle Brew is too tempting, so I park the bike. I made it a whole two hundred feet. I push my way into the warm café and order a small hot coffee, thanking Maria and grabbing a stool by the window so I can suck it down before going back out.

My sisters have been texting me nonstop the past few days. Two new ones popped up between my flat and Dingle Brew.

Stella

Mads, I sent you money so you can start booking accommodation and whatever else

Reese

I did as well. Thanks so much for planning this!

I sip the coffee and enjoy the burn in my throat. Quirks, Tats, Brews, and Views—possibly the most ridiculous name for a road trip—is all coming together. It’s one thing in my life that I feel like I haven’t messed up, and I hope Reese and Oliver love it.

We’ll have the standard Irish road trip highlights plus brewery stops, a morning at Ian’s tattoo shop while in Dingle, and the seven weird little stops I’ve gathered so far: the Hungry Tree in Dublin, the giant salmon statue in Belfast, the hole to hell in the ground in Donegal, a waterfall, stone beehive huts, the Blarney Stone, and the Butter Museum. I crack myself up, and I’m certain it’ll make the trip unique. I could use a few more of those stops, and I need to book accommodations as soon as possible. I have ideas saved in my notes app and had planned to look through them with Patrick this weekend before booking.

Harder to do when we’re not speaking.

How many hotel rooms am I booking? Four or three? Reese and her fiancé. Stella and her boyfriend. Me. Patrick. It’s gotta be four. Why would I even think of booking just three?

One thing is for sure: we’re going to be an awkward group of six if Patrick and I end things on a bad note. ‘Cause let’s be clear: this thing with Patrick is definitely ending. Either now or next week or next month.

This thing is nothing.

A holiday fling.

I shudder at the words. But I need to face reality. There’s not been one singular conversation about feelings. Except for that one time he told me he liked me. But he also likes his pet sheep, so that’s not saying much.

It doesn’t matter. I’m just another tourist he’s sleeping with, and he’s a hot Irishman scratching an itch for me. We know where we stand with each other. That’s why I even let myself get involved with him—it was clear what was happening and where I stood.

And that apology yesterday was probably to smooth things over ahead of the road trip so it won’t be painfully awkward. It wasn’t the worst apology I’ve ever gotten. The Forgive me? line made my heart warm uncomfortably.

I haven’t responded.

Patrick and I are not dating. We have a weird relationship right now, a connection because his close friend and my sister are getting married. So he’s not a stranger, and I’m not some random tourist.

But we’re only a small step above that.

Me

No problem. I’ll start getting the rooms booked ASAP. Going on a bike ride now

Stella

On the beach? Jealous!!!

Me

Yeah. On the beach

Reese

Pictures, please

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I toss back the rest of my coffee and google bike rides on the beach. I find a picture I like on a different Caribbean island—but what does it matter which island the picture’s from?—so I screenshot a bike on its side in the sand and crop it, careful to remove all of the watermark from the blog I’m blatantly stealing—borrowing—from. I gaze at the turquoise waters and clear blue sky, bright sun reflecting off the white sand.

I’d way rather be there.

Before I chicken out of today’s bike ride, I wave to Maria and head back out. This time, I ride carefully on the road, which is almost easier, as I’m not constantly dodging pedestrians. Main Street turns into Goat Street, and I’m feeling pretty good about my bike riding skills.

The wind lashes my face, but it’s stopped raining, so I let myself cycle faster and faster. It’s blowing away all my problems: my lies to my sisters, the way I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my relationship with Patrick, my lack of plans for the future even though I’m supposed to be figuring everything out while I’m here.

There’s the issue of my return flight, which is scheduled for less than two weeks from now. Am I getting on that plane back to New Jersey? Back to live with Reese and Oliver? Jobless? Will I have to face my oldest sister in person and tell her how I messed up everything, again?

Fuck. That sounds awful.

Dingle Bay opens up to my left, and I cross the short bridge.

I have to be in Ireland for the road trip and Scotland for the wedding. It’s time I take my life seriously, like I promised I would when I got on the plane to Dublin.

A shiver runs through my body. Even with my new warm clothes, it’s freezing out here, and the rain starts falling again. I’m doubting my plan to keep biking to that first spot Patrick took me to the other week. The spot where he let me nestle into his chest, protecting me from the cold and wind. It’s too far.

A baaa jars me out of my daydream, and when I refocus on the path in front of me, there’s a herd of sheep blocking the road almost completely. I’m close enough to make direct eye contact with one of them. I swear its eyes widen as I approach, going much too fast.

They’re just fucking standing there, staring at me. I might be screaming, but it’s hard to tell. It’s much too late to stop.

I swerve away from the sheep, but my bike loses traction on the wet pavement, and I slide toward the edge of the road.

And a giant boulder.

At least I have a helmet on, but it shifts on my head, and as I approach the rock, the strap under my chin is too loose to keep it in place.

For the briefest moment, I wish so deeply that I’d taken Patrick up on the offer to find another helmet, one that fits better.

Then everything goes black.