Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  “Ha. As if I’d let any man even come near my business.”

  I reach over with my eyes closed again and pat her arm. Or her leg. I can’t tell which it is. “That’s my girl. Why don’t you just sit back and relax? We’re here in business class instead of in coach with the rabble. Live it up, girl, because it’s all nose to the grindstone once we land.” I open my eyes so I can hand her my headphones. “Take these and tune into that radio channel that has the sound of waves and stuff.”

  She holds the headphones limply in her hand. “But waves remind me of surfing, and surfing reminds me of Michaél.”

  “Fine,” I grind out. “Listen to the rainfall one. Or the white noise static channel. Whatever. Just stop mooning over a guy you’re never going to see again.”

  “I’m not mooning,” she says, plugging the headphones into her armrest as she pouts.

  “What do you call it?”

  “I call it…,” she selects a radio station and leans her chair back, “…reflecting.” She looks at her phone again.

  I reach over and take it from her gently, holding down the power button to turn it off. “No phones during the flight. We’re about to take off.” Leaning forward, I put it in the pocket in front of her.

  She stares at the lump it makes and looks about as lonely as I’ve ever seen her.

  I pat her on the hand. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  Her eyes shine with tears. “But what if I made a mistake? What if he was The One?”

  “If he was The One, then if I were you I’d be planning a long conversation with The Big Man Upstairs, because it wouldn’t be very fair would it? To hook your soul up to a guy who lives in Ireland and loves it there, who can’t run a business to save his life, and who’s never going to amount to anything more than a guy who lives in an apartment above a lawyer’s office? Talk about bad planning. You guys are opposites.”

  “It’s a solicitor, not a lawyer, as I’ve told you a thousand times over, and who’s to say he’s not completely successful? Living life on his terms, surfing in the middle of the day when people like you and me have to slave over clients and orders and lists of chores that have to be done. Who’s to say we’re even successful when all we do every day is complain about how hard we work?”

  I look at her for a long time, wondering where this person came from. Erin is still on vacation in Ireland, I think. “When did you get so philosophical about the workday, anyway?”

  She shrugs, looking down at her lap. “I don’t know. Ireland always gets in my head and fucks around with it.”

  I go back to my lounging and finding inner peace. I have a ton of work waiting for me back in Boston, and I’m not one bit regretful about that. I’m working on becoming a successful businesswoman so that one day I can surf in the middle of the day if I feel like it. Not that I’ll ever feel like doing that, but whatever. I slave over a desk now so I can relax later. Erin’s lover plays now and never gets around to the working stuff. Whether she wants to admit it or not, that kind of guy would never suit her for long.

  “Don’t worry, little muppet,” I say, trying for a reassuring tone. “You’ll be back in Boston soon and your head will clear itself. I predict that as soon as you walk into the Pot O’ Gold, you’ll look around and see that it’s finally all yours, and you’ll remember the vision you’ve laid out for yourself in pristine clarity. I can’t wait to see what you do to the place first.”

  She sighs, only this time, she sounds a touch happier. “You’re probably right. I do have some awesome plans.”

  “Yes, you absolutely do.”

  A flight attendant comes by and offers us each a hot towel. I use mine to wipe the city grime from my face. Erin uses her as a gas mask. She inhales and exhales like Darth Vader.

  “What are you doing?” I’m trying not to laugh.

  “Moistening my airways. Do you know how dried-out an airplane can make your sinuses? I can’t afford to get sick on this flight. I have too much work to do back at the bar.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I give my washcloth a few inhales for good measure. Who knows? Maybe she’s right. I can’t afford to get sick either.

  “Did you hear from Donal before you left?” Erin asks. I can’t tell if it’s an innocent question or one designed to get me riled up.

  I shrug like it makes no difference. “No, but I didn’t expect to.”

  “I thought you guys hit it off.”

  “We did, but not in that way.”

  “Are you suuuuure?” She smiles and nudges me. “Seemed pretty hot when you were out there at his farm. Sparks flyin’ an’ all that. His Big Dick.”

  “Please. He’s a hick farmboy and I’m a city girl attorney. Where’s the match in that?”

  “Mister O’Henry sure thought it could work.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right. And he matched you up with Michaél. Talk about mismatched. I think it’s time Mister O’Henry consider retirement, leaving the match-making to eHarmony.”

  The light dies from Erin’s face and she sits back in her seat, staring at the magazine pocket in front of her. “Yeah. Mismatched. Right.”

  The flight attendant takes our washcloths with a set of tongs, like she’s afraid she’s going to catch a disease from us or something. Erin frowns at her, but brightens up a minute later when another flight attendant, a cute guy, offers us tiny bowls of warm nuts and a glass of champagne each.

  Erin crunches away and smiles. “Warm nuts. Yum. I could serve these at the Pot O’ Gold, couldn’t I?”

  “Sure could.” I smile with her as her mood goes happy again. “Maybe put a popcorn machine in too.”

  She rolls her eyes. “How about you stick to the lawyering and I’ll stick to the barring.”

  “Deal.” I hold up my bowl full of nuts at her.

  She clinks her bowl against mine. “To warm nuts.”

  I smile. “To warm nuts.”

  Erin lowers her bowl and places it on her tray. “Boston, here we come,” she says softly under her breath.

  “Amen to that.” I put my nuts down on the tray and sip the champagne the flight attendant was nice enough to drop off for me. “I cannot wait to get back to the real world.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ERIN

  BARRY IS THE NEW HEAD barman I hired as soon as I got back from Ireland two weeks ago. I took him on because he’s worked in two Irish-themed bars already and he has promised me that he knows how to pull in the punters. I’m hoping that Barry from Boyle, County Roscommon, Ireland will lend an air of authenticity to the place and leave me to take care of things in the office a bit more.

  So far he’s suggested a wet t-shirt competition where we employ, and I quote, ‘a vertically challenged person’ to dress up as a leprechaun, who will of course pick the winner.

  This suggestion is coming at the end of his second week at The Pot O’Gold. Barry himself is small in stature but not quite challenged enough to be a convincing leprechaun. Plus, something tells me that girls aren’t his thing anyway.

  We’re sitting in the bar at one of the high tables and it’s Friday afternoon. The lunch rush is over and I’ve been humming along to the ringing of my cash registers for the last couple of hours, so I’m in a pretty good mood. For now at least.

  “That is offensive on so many different levels, Barry. I hardly know where to begin,” I say, not even looking up from the accounts I’m trying to balance. He thinks I’m joking and laughs loudly. Too loudly. The look I give him quashes any mirth. He goes on the defense.

  “Lookit, Erin. I’m actually gay, so if you’re suggesting that it’s sexist or something, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve no interest in ogling girls’ breasts in wet t-shirts.” He is sitting opposite me and I notice a red flush begin to climb from his collar up into his cheeks.

  I put my pen down and look him straight in the eye. “Yes, Barry, I do realize that you’re gay, but just because you personally won’t be ogling our female clientele, that does not mea
n that the premise of having girls show their breasts to testosterone-charged men for their pleasure is not sexist. It objectifies women, capiche?”

  “Some people are so touchy,” he mutters walking away. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll find something. Just give me a minute.”

  He’s a good barman but I had been hoping for a bit of an events manager and head barman rolled into one. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back trying to read something from the screen of his phone. The probation period at The Pot O’Gold is three weeks so I’m really hoping that he has something good for me this time. I try to be encouraging and arrange my face in that ‘I’m open to new and fun ideas’ expression.

  “Ok, picture this,” he says. “Date night, Irish style.” He places the tips of his thumbs together to create a cinemascope, in which I’m invited to share in his vision. “Wait for it…,” he says, presumably to build tension, “… Bag Yourself a Boo-a-chual Night!” he announces, looking at me as though he’s just given me the winning lottery numbers.

  “I’m sorry; bag yourself a what?” I’m genuinely perplexed.

  He looks down at his phone and tries to pronounce the word again. “ Boo-a-chua-al?”

  “Bag yourself a Boacool Night?” I repeat, eyebrows raised. “I don’t understand, Barry.”

  He grimaces and looks back down at the screen, ready to take another run at it.

  I shift uncomfortably in my stool, holding my breath. I really hate firing people.

  Another man’s voice comes from behind me. “I believe the word is Boo-chawl. Written B-U-A-C-H-A-I-L-L. It means ‘boy’ as gaeilge, Ms. O’Neill. And Gaeilge is the Irish word for yer mother tongue.”

  I can feel the speaker’s breath on my neck.

  “That’s right!” exclaims Barry, beaming at the stranger over my shoulder. “Bag Yourself a Buachaill Night! All the men have to do something sexy to prove they’re Irish, and we have a kind of speed-dating event. Then the girls choose the sexiest, most convincingly Irish men. Modern day matchmaking!” Barry’s grinning from ear to ear, but I can hardly breathe. I know that voice behind me. Intimately.

  I turn around slowly in my stool to face the man behind me. Micheál. I am literally struck dumb.

  “Hello, Erin. Fancy seeing ye here. I thought I’d just pop over and check in on my investment.” He looks around the bar, nodding his head appreciatively. “I like the leprechaun motif.” He smiles at the neon character above the pool tables. “Ye should capitalise on that a bit more.”

  “That’s what I said!” exclaims Barry.

  I find my voice at last. “Okay, Barry, thanks for that. Let’s talk some more later. Try to come up with a few details.”

  Barry bounds back round the other side of the bar.

  I get up from the table and put my hands in my bar apron pockets. “Micheál! Wow! What a surprise! What are you doing here?”

  “Happy to see me?”

  “Of course! I mean, I was the one who told you to drop by if you were ever in the States. Fancy you being here so soon! Awesome! Who’s looking after the shop?” I’m babbling but I can’t help it.

  “Siobhán’s minding things. I came into a bit of money, so I thought, what the hell, I think I’ll go see my old friend Erin in Boston.” He says this happily, arms outstretched for a hug.

  I embrace him, even though this whole thing is crazy. It’s hard to catch my breath and my heart is racing. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? When I can’t help but drink in his smell and my knees threaten to give way, I pull back abruptly. He’s mocking me with his fake cheer, I know that. This is a new side to Micheál and all my instincts tell me to tread carefully.

  “When did you arrive? Have you got somewhere to stay?” I ask, as I would anyone who had just turned up on my doorstep out of the blue.

  “This morning, and no. I was hoping ye might have space. There’s an apartment attached to the bar, right?” He’s frowning, as though he can’t quite remember, but I get the feeling that Micheál knows a lot more about the bar than he’s letting on and he remembers everything.

  “Sure! You can stay with me for a couple of nights. I have a spare room.” My voice is shaky. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I have no idea what to do, other than I need to get him out of the bar. “Have you had lunch? Let’s go upstairs. Do you have a bag or a suitcase or something?” I stare hopefully at the small holdall on his back. Maybe he’s only staying a night or two. The thought calms me somewhat.

  “I left my suitcase at the door,” he says walking back to the main entrance.

  With utter dismay I watch as he rolls a large suitcase toward me. “Wow! That must have cost a lot in excess charges,” I say more to myself than him. I start heading toward the stairs and the apartment.

  “Well, I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll be here, so…” He’s gritting his teeth with the effort of hauling his bag up the stairs.

  My mind is racing and there is a surreal quality to everything as I quickly show Micheál round the apartment. Clearly, my brain has left the building, but somehow I find myself behaving as though it is the most natural thing in the world to have him here, walking from room to room, taking in my discarded nighty and unmade bed.

  After showing him the spare room, I toss him a towel and point him toward the bathroom so he can shower and freshen up. I try not to dwell on that image. Closing the door to the hall, I go to the farthest corner of the sitting room and pull out my phone.

  I punch Favourites, R.

  “Ridlee Taylor, attorney at law.”

  “He’s here!” I hiss into the phone.

  “Who is this?” asks Ridlee, clearly irritated.

  “It’s me,” I hiss more, trying to keep my voice down.

  “Erin?”

  “Yes! It’s Micheál! He’s here! What do I do?” I’m begging.

  “Riiiight, okaaaay. Welllll, hmmm, I’ll … um … courier the documents over to you later this afternoon. I’m just in a meeting now, so leave your details with my assistant and she’ll pass them on to me. Thank you. Bye now.”

  The line goes dead. I stare at the phone screen.

  SOS! I text just as the door opens and Micheál is standing there wearing nothing but the peach colored towel I gave him. And it’s not a very big one at that.

  “Did I hear ye talking to someone?” he asks pleasantly.

  “Orpheus!” I say shoving my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and scooping up the old cat who has been sleeping peacefully on the sofa. Orpheus meows loudly, jumps out of my arms, and stalks off toward the door, but not before throwing a dirty look at me over his shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s what the hissing was,” says Micheál laughing. Orpheus, the traitor, thinks better of his escape and pauses to weave in and out of Micheál’s legs purring happily.

  “Listen, do ye have any shampoo? I forgot to pack any.”

  “Yeah, there should be some in the bathroom.” I’m distracted, keen to get back to getting a hold of Ridlee.

  “I couldn’t see any,” he says, still hovering on the threshold.

  “Huh…” I walk past him and into the bathroom. Opening the shower, I can see the shampoo up on one of the higher shelves. I step onto the ledge, holding the shower door for balance and stand on tippy-toes trying to reach it.

  “Here, let me,” says Micheál, leaning in too. There’s not much room, and his chest is against my shoulders. My heart begins to race. I try to control it but I can’t. His fingers brush mine as he gets hold of the shampoo bottle. He takes it down from the shelf and steps back down. As he passes me, I feel his breath on my lips. I close my eyes in anticipation of…

  “Huh, we have this in Ireland too. That’s globalisation for ye,” he says reading the label.

  I open my eyes. My cheeks redden. “That’s where I bought it,” I mumble before turning quickly and leaving.

  “Thaaanks!” he calls after me.

  The shower starts running, and I pace the room sending text after text to Ridlee.

&nbs
p; Finally she answers.

  What does he want?

  I don’t know!!!

  Find out! DISCRETELY…

  I put on the kettle and make tea, for want of something better to do. Making tea calms me, allowing me to marshal my thoughts. Ok Erin, get your shit together. What do you know? Well, you know that he knows that you ripped him off, or at the very least tricked him. Ok, good. Now, what does he want?

  Not you, obviously. I shake my head to rid myself of nonsense thoughts like that one. I have to be smart. I know that. He’s probably angry. He may even want revenge. I just have to be patient and bide my time. In the meantime, I’ll be a gracious host. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? Micheál’s not your enemy, you goose! says the angel, or is it the devil again?

  When he emerges from the bathroom, fresh and more handsome than ever, I pour him a cup of tea and offer him one of the toasties I’ve made. He sits down at the breakfast bar that divides the kitchen and sitting room and eyes me warily. No doubt he’s wondering what I’m up to. I smile my most honest smile and sit down opposite him.

  “Micheál,” I say.

  “Erin.”

  I smile. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Lay our cards on the table.” I need to know exactly what his intentions are before I say anything about the buyout.

  He just smiles and takes a sip of tea. “Ye remembered,” he murmurs sexily.

  “Sorry?”

  “Two sugars and a dash of milk. Ye remembered.” He seems happy, so I don’t explain that it’s force of habit from slopping tea in cafes for most of my misspent youth. Instead I just smile sweetly. “I did,” I say demurely. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I try again.