16

I FEEL LIKE I’m in one of Grandpa’s paintings. My mom, Evelyn, and I sit by the fireplace (with an actual fire going, I might add) and quietly read while rain patters against the window. Evelyn insisted on pouring each of us a glass of Baileys (“Over ice! The only way to drink it!”), and so now here I am: in an armchair, a book in my left hand and a glass of dessert-flavored alcohol in my right hand, like I’m a retired shipping magnate at his seaside manor, waiting for his trained beagle to bring him slippers.

My mom has been devouring a copy of Pride and Prejudice that Evelyn had in her library, reading feverishly, as if Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy were flirting and fighting in real time. I see the appeal: Minus the whole “needing her daughter to get married as soon as possible,” my mother is Mrs. Bennett incarnate, incapable of keeping herself out of every detail of my life.

“Find any characters in there that you relate to particularly well?” I ask.

“I’m reading, honey,” she says. And she goes back to the book.

I sigh. And then I sigh again, a little bit louder, because no one seemed to recognize or care about the original sigh. I’m bored, that’s the problem. I’ve spent so much time painting and drawing in the studio that if I pull out my sketchpad, I think my hands will take over for my brain and start drawing the words: PLEASE STOP GIVE US A BREAK. I sigh a third time, even louder, but neither Evelyn nor my mother responds. I bounce up and down on the chair a little bit, kicking my legs.

“Mind the cushions,” Evelyn says, her eyes never leaving her book.

I turn to the window and pick a single droplet of water to trace as it floats down the pane. It’s like a horse race. I root for my droplet to win, silently willing it to combine with nearby droplets to gain mass and speed. There! Go! It’s almost made it to the window ledge and—

“Nora. Stop shaking your leg.” My mother’s voice distracts me from the water droplet, and I miss its moment of landing.

“I feel like I’m a sixty-five-year-old retired shipping magnate in his seaside manor, waiting for, like, trained beagles to bring me my slippers.”

No one responds to my hilarious joke.

I sigh again, even louder, and try to go back to my book. It was written by a semi-famous white boy, and it contains humorous short stories that were published in the New Yorker that everyone called wry and deft. For some reason, I haven’t been able to get through the first story (about a fisherman who’s trying to catch boots on purpose).

I’m saved by a glorious ding from my cell phone. (If Pavlov were still alive, he’d have a hell of a time watching teenagers salivate at the sound of an iPhone notification.) My heart practically leaps out of my chest when I see that I’ve just received a Facebook message from Irish superhero Callum Cassidy.

Callum Cassidy:	up to much?
Nora Parker-Holmes:	nah. just at home (evelyn’s home), reading and drinking baileys
Callum Cassidy:	Sounds like Grandpa’s ideal evening.

I am vindicated!

Nora Parker-Holmes:	hahahahahahahahahaha
Callum Cassidy:	new plan: come out with me and some mates to a cèilidh in town

Problem: It’s still raining outside, and it’s about a twenty-minute walk to town. There’s no way I can get there without looking like a drowned rat. Follow up concern: This is a random boy I met in a bar. Aren’t young women warned about that? After all, there is a distinct and altogether completely legitimate possibility that I was so distracted by Callum’s accent that I missed signs of him being a complete creep.

Completely Plausible Scenario

IRISH-ACCENTED BOY

I enjoy hobbies such as staring at the sun and kicking babies.

ME

(Distracted by said accent)

Please let me put my face on your face.

On the other hand, he likes to read. And he liked my cartoons. And has that accent. And hey! I’m young! And I want to go to a party with a cute Irish boy whose name I can’t pronounce.

There’s still, of course, the rain issue.

Callum Cassidy:

I can come pick u up in 20

That was easy.

Nora Parker-Holmes:

I’m in! See you soon :)

I contemplate the use of a winky face but decide it’s best to leave something to the imagination.

“I’m going to a party!” I announce to the room.

Evelyn smiles.

“With whom?” my mother says.

“Uh, that boy I met at the pub. And some of his friends.”

Alice closes Pride and Prejudice, which is how I know she’s serious, because there was not a single point in the past hour when she has lifted her eyes from the page. “You’re running off with a boy when you don’t even know his name? Or where he’s from?”

“I do know his name!” What a great feeling. It’s like when the teacher calls on you because she doesn’t think you’re paying attention, and truth be told you’re not, but then you get the answer right anyway. “It’s Callum. Callum Cassidy! And he lives with his mom in Dublin!”

My mom pauses. “And where is this party?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he said he’d pick me up.” I hear it as I say it, the assertion that it’s totally fine to get in a car headed toward an unknown place with a strange boy in a foreign country where I know no one. It screams red flag.

My mom’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “I’m worried about you. I know you want to have a good time with your friends, and I want that for you too, but this is a worrisome situation.”

I can’t really defend the choice, other than by resorting to a petulant tantrum, which statistically and historically has a very low success rate, but before I can even stop myself the words spill out: “This is exactly why everything would be better if you weren’t here.”

I can see I’ve hurt her. She recoils at the words and folds her hands on her lap tightly. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, and I’m not sure if she hears me or not, because she doesn’t react.

And then my guardian angel makes another appearance.

“Callum is a sweet boy,” Evelyn says, putting her book down on her lap and clasping her hands together.

“You know him?” My mother’s face softens just a bit.

“Of course,” Evelyn says. “The Cassidys live just up the road. Callum’s a good boy. I’ve known him since he was a tyke. Nora will be fine!”

My mom turns back to look at me, and I give her my most responsible smile.

“Okay,” she says. “Try to be back before midnight?” She looks back at Evelyn, who nods, and I breathe a giant sigh of relief. I’m going to a party with a cute Irish boy named Callum!

I look down at the flannels and oversized Northwestern hoodie that I’m wearing. “I’m going to change.” Evelyn smiles, and my mom, in pure Mrs. Bennett fashion, nods enthusiastically. And I smile in spite of myself, thinking of my mom reading in Evelyn’s chintz chair and wanting me to have a good time.

*   *   *

Callum arrives in a green pickup truck, because my life has suddenly become a Taylor Swift song. EDM that I don’t recognize blasts from the speakers, and an iPhone attached to an aux cord dangles precariously from the dashboard. A boy is already in the front seat, so I slide into the back.

“Nora, Michael. Michael, Nora.” Callum needs to shout so that we can hear him over the music. “Should’ve made him slide in back for you. Michael’s not much of a gentleman.”

“It’s okay,” I shout back. “I’m not that insulted.”

Michael gives a loud fake sigh. “Nope. Nope. I’m afraid this won’t do.” With the car still moving, Michael unbuckles his seatbelt and wriggles his way into the backseat, where he plops next to me. “It’s all yours.”

Callum rolls his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’m not sure I can climb through without getting your seats muddy,” I say, slightly more concerned about my ability to make a graceful landing without showing Callum my bare ass than the cleanliness of his car.

Callum laughs. “They’ve seen worse than your shoes. Remind me to tell you about the time I drove Michael back from Galway. We rescued a baby cow. The backseat smelled like manure for months.” He pats the seat next to him, inviting me up.

“Don’t look at my butt,” I say, glancing over my shoulder toward Michael. He gamely covers his eyes, and, though I narrowly miss elbowing Callum in the jaw, I manage to make it into the passenger seat, dignity intact.

We drive for a few minutes across darkened roads before I finally ask the question: “So . . . what is a cèilidh?” I pronounce it “seel-duh.” I can sense both boys smiling in the semi-dark.

“You want to take this one?” Michael asks.

“So,” Callum says, taking his eyes off the road briefly to look at me, then looking back at the road, then looking back at me. “First, it’s pronounced like ‘kay-lee.’”

“Irish spelling is totally fucked,” Michael calls from the backseat. “I apologize on behalf of the nation.”

Callum clears his throat. “As I was saying, it’s basically a party. But, like, a traditional party. Or—sorry—not traditional, but, like, kids dancing to Celtic music and just all of us getting together, you know? Dancing together.”

“If Callum could ever get a girl to dance with him,” Michael says.

Callum’s eyes go wide, and he reaches back to try to hit his friend in the backseat.

“I kid, I kid!” Michael calls. “Uncle!”

Callum withdraws his arm.

“Besides,” Michael says slyly, “we all know the real issue is our mate having a few too many girls to dance with, if you know what I mean.”

“Shut it!” Callum says.

But we’re all smiling. The car is so warm I feel drunk already.

*   *   *

We finally arrive, and I notice a microphone is set up in the corner on a makeshift wooden stage. I wonder if someone will be performing later.

“C’mon,” Michael says. “Let’s get you a drink!”

“Got it!” Callum says and disappears into the flow of dancing teens to get us some alcohol. I was worried before I left that I’d be out of place in my jeans and tank top (I traveled light and neglected the possibility that a cute boy would invite me to a party), but now that I’m here, it’s apparent that I could have worn my flannels and been fine. People’s outfits are all over the map—some girls are in dresses, while others, like me, are in jeans and boots. Everyone is wet and slightly muddy from the rain, and they’re all perfectly okay with it.

Callum returns with two bottles of beer. He clinks his bottle against mine, takes a sip, and then says, “Come on, let’s dance.”

So I do. I don’t know any of the steps, but I stare down at my feet with enough focus that I manage not to stomp on anyone else’s feet. The dance moves seem to be: step, kick, kick, kick, then a swing—where Callum wraps his arm around my arm and spins me around as fast as we can go.

After dancing for a while, I tell Callum that I’m going to grab some water, and I head to the bar. I’m just leaving when I see Maeve a few stools down.

“Hi!” I say. Looks like a half glass of Bailey’s and a beer makes me more social.

“Nora! I’m so glad you’re here!” She gives me a hug, and I’m taken aback by how friendly she is.

“Yeah,” I say. “Callum brought me. Callum Cassidy.”

“I know Callum!” she says.

“And his friend Michael,” I add, so it doesn’t seem like I’m obsessed with Callum, which I only am a little.

She smiles and begins applying lipstick. “So,” I say, trying not to be too obvious, “Callum’s a good guy?”

Maeve laughs. “Yes, he’s a good guy.”

“Is he . . . single?”

Maeve carefully twists the base of her lipstick and replaces its cap. “Callum is . . . a good guy.” She smacks her lips and fixes a smudge. “But I don’t want you to, you know, get the totally wrong idea. He’s incredibly friendly. He flirts with everyone. Everyone. That’s not to say he doesn’t like you—he probably does—but just . . . you know.”

“Did you ever go out with him?” Of course she has. She’s gorgeous and lives here, and he’s come here every summer. I bet they’re practically engaged.

“No! God, no. I’ve known Callum since I was a baby. He’s like a weird younger brother who’s actually older than me. But he went with my friend Fiona last year. They’re still mates, but, you know, he hurt her. She got jealous, she broke it off.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond. I don’t really need whatever this thing is with Callum to be a big deal. I’m only here for a few more weeks anyway. I just want to enjoy Ireland, not get caught up in some love triangle. How come in the books it’s always the girl with two gorgeous and equally brave men pining after her? In real life it tends to be one boy who probably isn’t that great to begin with surrounded by a handful of girls who’ve built him up to be the love of their lives. Even under the thumb of a dystopian Colony regime, Valentine Neverwoods doesn’t know how good she has it.

“You should meet Fiona!” Maeve says. “She’s here. Redhead. Probably one of dozens, but she’s lovely. You’ll like her.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Listen, I’m going to . . .” I give a headshrug and point, the universal sign for “get back out there.”

“See ya in a bit!”

*   *   *

I don’t spot Callum right away, so I stand by the periphery of the party, watching the bodies move and hearing the waves of laugher rise and fall in time to the music, now something with a bass beat that makes both the structure of the building and my rib cage vibrate.

Callum swings into view, doing the step-dance with a pretty redheaded girl who apears to be a good four inches taller than him. He doesn’t see me; his face is frozen in a half-laughing smile. I continue clapping along with the music, wondering whether I should go up to him or wait for the song to end. When the song does end, I start making my way toward them, hoping to cut in, but Callum still doesn’t see me. A new song begins, and he’s dancing with the girl again.

“Let’s dance,” Michael says from behind me, and in a wave of relief, I accept. Michael has a helmet of dark hair and a slightly acned face, and I decide immediately that he’s the type of person I could be instant friends with. We dance for another song, until I’ve forgotten all about Fiona and Callum and instead just start laughing involuntarily. Now I get why Kate Winslet decided to stick with Leo instead of her rich, guylinered fiancé: Irish dancing is the funnest thing I can possibly think of.

“Nora!” Callum calls out, heading over to me and Michael, his arm around the redhead. We’re all winded and grinning. “Have you met my friend Fiona?” We shake hands. “Michael, mate, I saw your lady out for a smoke outside.”

“Ah, thanks, I’ll grab her a drink,” Michael says.

“I’m going to grab another too,” Fiona says, and the two of them head off toward the bar.

“Where’ve you been? I lost you,” Callum says.

“Oh, just . . . you know . . . here.” I smile and he smiles back, and he wraps one of his arms around my shoulder. It feels really, really good. Better than it should. He’s wearing a leather coat that’s impossibly soft and still smells like rain.

“Who’s Michael’s lady?” I ask.

“Maeve—you’ve met her, I bet. She’s at the Deece too. Her parents run the place.”

“Yes! I know Maeve!” Her parents are Áine and Declain! My brain is too busy firing off exclamation points to remember whether I said anything embarrassing about Callum in front of her. “I didn’t realize she was dating Michael.”

“They’ve been dating for around three years now. They’re impossibly relaxed about the whole thing too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen PDA. Michael’s just so not that kind of guy. He’s held this gang of us together over the years; he’s kind of the heart of it.”

“Are they your group chat?”

“Yeah—Michael, Maeve, Claire, Cameron, Jono, and me. Jono’s in London for the summer, and Claire’s in Dublin. That’s the gang.”

I wish I had a gang. There’s something impossibly romantic about six friends who have known one another forever and share a massive group text even when they’re separated.

“So you guys are like the TV show Friends?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

“So who would you be?”

“Well,” he turns serious. “I s’pose Michael and Maeve are Ross and Rachel then, even though he’s really more of a Chandler. Or Phoebe? Could a boy be Phoebe? Cameron is more like the Ross.”

“So . . . you’re Joey?” Of course. Handsome womanizer who likes sandwiches.

“Yeah, I guess so, although I’d like to think I’m not quite the dumb one.”

A boy with a beard gets up on the stage and takes the mic, an acoustic guitar swinging at his waist. “All right now, gents, down another because we’re singing next.” He’s joined on stage by Fiona, who’s carrying a violin, and a boy with another stringed instrument that looks like a cross betweeen a banjo and a mandolin.

They start playing and singing, and everyone in the entire hall except me knows the words. “It’s a folk song, sort of,” Callum says. “One of those songs everyone just knows. You’ll catch on.”

And after the first chorus, I think I do. When the chorus hits, everybody shouts, “No, nay, never! No, nay, never, no more! Will I play the wild rover, no, nev-errrrrrrrr! No more.” Except after the first “No, nay, never” everybody gives four big claps. So it’s something like, “No, nay, never!” [CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP] “No, nay, never, no more!” [CLAP CLAP] “Will I play the wild rover, no, nev-errrrrr! No more.”

The words for the rest of the song elude me, but I defintely got the clapping down.

“It’s like Friends!” I say to Callum once the song is over.

“Hm?”

I sing: “So no one told you life was gonna be this way” and then do the four claps. CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP. I wait for his reaction. “There’s a mashup waiting to happen!”

“I’m pretty sure the world isn’t ready for your musical genius,” Callum laughs. “But I fancy you anyway. Now, let me get you that promised drink.”

Callum emits a pheromone or something that just makes me want to be around him, in the crook of his arm again, smelling his leather coat. Is that what pheromones do? It might be the beer (and the shot Fiona, Maeve, and I do later at the bar), but by the time Callum walks me back out to his truck, I’m floating, with “The Wild Rover” stuck in my head.

“No, nay, neverrrr!” I sing. Callum laughs. Even though the rain has stopped, the ground is still wet and spongy, and every surface is slick with water. The air smells like Callum. Then he presses me up against the driver’s side door of his truck, and even though my back is getting soaked, he holds me there for just a minute, our faces close.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says.

And I stare into his blue eyes for so long that I half-expect them to change color or morph like a gif somehow.

And then one of us leans in, and I’m not sure who, but we’re kissing and it’s perfect and his lips are soft and taste like beer but in a good way. I press into him harder, just a little, letting my leg slide slightly up his, denim on denim.

We break apart and smile.

“Michael!” Callum calls out as Michael and Maeve make their way out of the hall, hand in hand. “Mind driving? I had a few.”

“As always, mate.”

Callum throws the keys, and Michael catches them one-handed, kissing Maeve on the cheek in victory. “Need a ride?” he asks.

“Nah, I’m going to walk.” She gives me a look like I know that you were just totally macking on Callum Cassidy, and yes, I said “macking,” but I’m cool enough to pull it off. I give a shy smile back.

“All aboard!” Michael calls, hopping into the driver’s seat.

Callum opens the door for me and insists I sit in front. I do, this time without argument. It’s the same drunk feeling I had on the way here, only now my head is swimming for real: with the alcohol, with the heat from the barn, and with the memory of Callum’s lips on mine.