“SO, WHAT BOOK is that?” I ask, finally managing to elbow my way past a half dozen semi-intoxicated Irishmen and squeeze in next to Callum. “I mean, the one in your bag.”
He smiles at me, revealing incisors that are slightly too long, like a vampire or a teen wolf. For whatever reason, I find it ridiculously sexy.
“It’s dumb,” he says. “Silly, I mean.” He pulls out a paperback copy of The Silmarillion so tattered and weather-worn, it looks like it crossed the ocean on a life raft to make its way to Callum.
“So, are you really a big Lord of the Rings fan?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. You at least seen the films?
“Yeah, I’ve seen them,” I lie. By “seen them,” I mean I saw a few minutes of the first one when it was on TV and then turned it off because the old hobbit made a really, really scary face and it was far too late for me to have to deal with that when I closed my eyes that night. I can barely wrap my mind around real history, let alone the entire medieval history of a magical kingdom. I do like Orlando Bloom with blond hair, though.
“So, are you here for the Deece?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “The Deece.” I like the sound of it in my mouth. “You too?”
Callum laughs and puts one of his hands on my shoulder as if to steady himself. “Jesus, no. I mean, I’m actually there plenty because I’ve known Áine and Declan forever, but you should see me try to draw. Nothing like your stuff. I dropped out around stick figures.”
“You live here?” I ask. I’m finding it difficult to wrap my head around the notion that someone could live his entire life in a small town in a corner of an island so far away from everything.
“Well, sort of, yeah. My mum’s in Dublin—I go to school out there, but I spend the summers with my da’ and uncles here.”
“I can’t believe you thought your friends would like my drawings,” I say. Prevent these words from coming out of your mouth, Nora! You don’t want him to think you’re an insane, self-centered American, which, yes, okay, you might be, but let’s go as long as possible without him figuring that out, shall we?
“Ha, I mean, they’re really good! You totally capture the characters. Like something they should put on BuzzFeed or something.”
“Wait, you have BuzzFeed here?”
“Ha! This is Ireland, not, like, Soviet-era Ukraine. They have BuzzFeed everywhere. I remember a mate of mine from last summer—she was also from America—was shocked that I watched Breaking Bad. Like, she didn’t realize we have Netflix.”
I try to focus on Callum’s words, but suddenly, a voice in my head starts nagging me: He’s been at the Deece every year since he was little. He’s seen American girls come and go. You’re no different.
I push the voice away.
“What about you?” Callum asks. “Where you from? And . . . oh, what’s your name? Lord, did I really go this long without asking your name?”
“It’s Nora. Nora Parker-Holmes, like with a hyphen. And I’m from Chicago.”
“All right, Nora Parker-Holmes-like-with-a-hyphen from Chicago, what’s your . . . least favorite film?”
“My least favorite film?”
“Come on, isn’t that a more interesting question than ‘What’s your favorite film?’” The stool beside Callum is vacated, and he taps it, inviting me up to sit next to him. “You want a drink?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.” Does he think I’m a loser because I’m not drinking? “And . . . um . . . my least favorite movie is Donnie Darko.”
“What? Noooo! I love that film!” Callum turns his body around to face me, so intent on having this discussion that his eyes lock in on mine. And then he places both of his hands on my shoulders, sending tingles down my spine. “Wait,” he says. “Hold on. We are going to have this proper showdown, but first tell me all the boring stuff: age, hometown, hopes and dreams, you know.”
“I’m Chicago born and raised . . . sort of. I’m actually from the area just outside Chicago. And . . . my grandpa is an artist, and he paid for me to come to Europe. And . . . my mom decided to tag along.” I realize as I’m saying it how absolutely, horrifically boring my life is. There are teenagers in the world who sail across oceans alone, or who grow up as child soldiers, or who cure measles in their backyard using chemicals they find in fertilizer. And here I am, doodling on a notepad and dyeing some of my hair green and pretending it makes me special.
“And you have shite taste in films,” Callum adds.
“I beg to differ. And what’s your least favorite movie?” I say.
“Avengers: Age of Ultron. Not empirically, but just such a letdown coming from Joss. Like, it was a fine film, but I wanted so much better after Winter Soldier was so good, you know?”
Whichever angel in heaven sent me a hot boy with an Irish accent who likes the Avengers as much as I do, thank you. I will sing hymns in your honor. I will write hymns in your honor. If you are an Irish angel, I will spell it “honour” in order to properly honour you.
Callum inverts his glass and lets the few remaining drops fall onto his tongue. “Can I ask you something else?” he says, and before I give an answer, he asks. “Why is your blog called Ophelia in Paradise?”
I smile. “I don’t really know, to be honest. We read Hamlet in English class, and I really liked it. It was the first Shakespeare play I actually, you know, understood, kind of? The idea of this boy coming back from college and having everything in his life be different, and being faced with having to do the right thing when there’s no one telling you what the right thing is? And not having parents around with the ‘right answer’ the way they were when you were a kid, you know? Because his mom is part of the problem, and he and we don’t know if his dad is actually real or if it’s just the manifestation of his guilt.
“And he comes up with just the worst plans—he pretends to be crazy, he puts on this whole play, he escapes from pirates . . . I don’t know. I feel bad for him. I had this vision of him on a beach somewhere, just drinking a piña colada and reading a book and not having to worry about the state of Denmark or his soul.”
“So how come Ophelia then?” he says.
I take a breath. The truth is I made the blog last year when Nick and I were . . . if not dating, then that horrifically nondescript nonsense, a “thing.” When I didn’t tell Lena about it because I was embarrassed. Because I knew it wouldn’t last. Because, the little voice inside reminded me, I always knew, on some level, that he was using me.
I had waited in the driveway that night for Nick to pick me up in his Jeep. I lied to my mom, saying I was getting picked up by a girl from my chem class to work on a presentation together. When I got in the car, he and I exchanged an awkward greeting.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
We didn’t hug or kiss. We drove in silence. I had read in Seventeen that one of the most sensitive parts of a boy’s body was the hair where his head meets his neck, because it’s so rarely touched, so while Nick DiBasilio drove, I ran my left hand along the back of his prickly-soft crew cut. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t tell me to stop, so I kept it up while he turned off the highway, past downtown, and toward the beach.
The beach is closed at night, but we didn’t go there to go to the beach. He pulled into a parking spot and turned off the engine. I withdrew my hand from his neck, and it hovered between us until, with a wave of confidence, I placed it on his jeans. Even through the fabric I could feel he was hard.
The next day I texted him: What’s up?
He responded an hour later: Not too much.
Nothing else. No details about his day, not even a half-hearted: U?
In that moment, I understood Ophelia more than I had in half a semester of my English teacher’s lectures. Whether the boy you love is mad or pretending to be mad, wanting someone you can’t understand or who won’t let you understand will make you go mad yourself. Waiting for his affection was a version of Chinese water torture, desperately waiting for the next drop of any sign that he might like me, unsure when it would come, if it came at all.
“I don’t know,” I tell Callum. “I just think she deserves more credit.”
Callum readjusts in his seat and clears his throat. He checks his phone, smiles a little to himself, then quickly turns his attention back to me. “I never actually read Hamlet, to be totally honest,” he says. “We were supposed to, I think.”
Now I blush. He probably thinks I’m insane. I just went on a rant about Shakespeare. In a bar. And I don’t even know his last name. “What’s your last name?” I ask.
“Cassidy,” he says.
“Callum Cassidy. No wonder you like superheroes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Callum Cassidy—CC. You know, like Lex Luthor, Lois Lane, Jessica Jones, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner, Pepper Potts . . . You’re practically a superhero yourself.”
“You know a lot of comic book characters off the top of your head.”
“I read a lot of comics when I was younger. And I have a good memory,” I say.
“Well, there’s no telling with me—I might turn out to be a super villain, like . . . Doctor Doom, DD.”
“What would your superpower be?”
“I would destroy my opponent with my knowledge of obscure Lord of the Rings trivia. What would yours be?”
I think for a minute. “I would . . . be able to draw anything and make it come to life.”
Callum pounds a fist on the table in mock anger. “That one is so much better than mine! I shouldn’t have gone first! By the way, I like your . . .” He gestures to the green streak in my hair.
“Thanks,” I twirl it absentmindedly. “My mom hates it.”
Callum Cassidy doesn’t respond, and he breaks eye contact for the first time in fifteen minutes to look over my shoulder.
“Nora, honey.” It’s my mom. And she’s right behind me. Luckily I’m almost positive she didn’t hear me say she hated my streak, or else she almost certainly would not have called me “honey.”
“It’s getting late,” she says. “We’ve had a long day. I’m tired. I think it’s time to head back.”
Right on cue. Just when, for the first time in my life, a cute boy seems actually interested in having a conversation with me. Now I remember exactly why I wanted to travel by myself in the first place—because when I’m alone, I get to choose where and when I go, and I don’t have to be responsible for anyone else or how they’re feeling or how they may or may not be tired just as I’m getting to know the coolest guy I’ve met in a really long time.
But, as I remind myself, she’s leaving in a few days. And then I’ll have the rest of my time in Ireland AND my entire trip to London and Florence to be on my own and have conversations with hot guys for as long as I want.
I shoot Callum an apologetic look.
“Can I get your number or something?” he asks.
My mother is watching us both, holding her coat over her arm. “Um,” I say, “I’m not sure my phone does the whole international texting thing, but Facebook? Here, let me see your phone.” He hands it over, and I open the Facebook app. I type in my name and request to be friends with myself. “There,” I say.
“Let’s hang out later this week or something,” Callum says. “I didn’t get a chance to knock some sense into you about Donnie Darko, cinematic masterpiece.”
“Sure,” I say. “Sounds fun.”
“Hey, wait!” he calls just as I’m leaving. “Take this.” He shoves his copy of The Silmarillion into my hands. “I’ve read it a hundred times. I consider it a public service to spread the gospel.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
He just smiles, and I smile back, and then I follow Alice Parker outside the pub. My ears ring in the sudden quiet.
“Did you have fun?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess.” Teenage angst is a hard habit to break.
“Well, I had a good time,” she says.
I run my fingers across the soft pages of the book Callum gave me. “Yeah,” I say. “I did too.”