by Helen Hardt
He takes the hankie and places it on the table between us. “Did your mum remarry?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why hasn’t your mum gotten married again?”
I could say my father broke a part of my mother and she’s never been able to lower her defenses, to be vulnerable, to rely on another. She looks happy and healed, flitting to the French Riviera or French Polynesia, always with a new man, but her broken part wasn’t set properly, and now she’s crippled. I could say that, but I don’t like the picture it paints.
“I don’t know.”
“Is she happy?”
I stare blankly. Is my mom happy? A memory plays in my brain, like the first flickering frames of a movie. I went to see her after one of her cosmetic tweaks. The painkillers had her higher than Snoop Dogg. She got all in her feels and told me she thought she would die alone. Of course, I told her she would never be alone as long as she had me, but I knew my mother’s admission spoke of a loneliness and yearning that couldn’t be fixed with a daughter’s love. A surgeon’s scalpel and a morphine drip had left my beautiful mother exposed. The mask of the confident jetsetter, the ageless It Girl, removed, revealing an ordinary woman with ordinary longings.
“Is my mom happy?” I repeat his question, employing a basic tactic to stall for time. “She’s a successful businesswoman. She has many friends, travels the world, and never struggles to find a date. She’s beautiful, always has been, even before the face lift and cosmetic tweaks. Why wouldn’t she be happy?”
Nice try, Charlie, but you are not going to brainwash me with your hankies and hypnotic gazes. You got the waterworks once, but you won’t get them again.
His lips curve in a slow knowing smile, and I wonder if this mystical matchmaker is a mind-reader.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asks.
A memory of Terrell scoring the winning touchdown against Notre Dame and then forming a heart with his hands and pointing at me flashes in my mind.
“Yes, I’ve been in love.”
“How did it end?
“Painfully,” I say, my flat voice matching my expression.
“How long ago was that?”
“Eight years.” Eight years and two months, to be precise. “You have two more questions.”
“I don’t need them.” He folds his hands and rests them on the table. “You are an Avoidant. I suspect your mother suffered from serious depression after her divorce and it took her a long time to accept that her marriage was over. Your father became the absent parent, focusing on his new life while forgetting his old one. You were close with him before the divorce and you took his abandonment personally. You felt abandoned again after your love affair ended eight years ago. Your mom didn’t process her pain. She pushed it away. She keeps it at bay by never being alone, never being without attention, because her self-esteem remains inflated as long as she is chasing or being chased. You have done the same thing. You, Miss Donnelly, are a serial dater. Aren’t you?”
Fuck me. I didn’t see that coming. The Love Guru sucker-punched me.
“Okay.” I sit forward. “You’ve got my attention.”
5
Shamrocked
I am totally drained after the psyche-probing interview with the sucker-punching Love Guru. I feel like I was mind-raped. I want to numb the pain with alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
I know. I know. Alcohol should not be used for emotional medicinal purposes. Vodka is a temporary anesthetic for sadness, grief, loneliness, fear, and low self-worth, but popping a borrowed Xanax before you get on an international flight doesn’t make you a junkie, just as drinking your daily intake of calories occasionally doesn’t make you an alcoholic.
The resort’s main bar faces the sea, with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors open to the balmy night breeze. The lights are low, the music a libido-stimulating R&B song. A few guests are seated at tables, but the stools lining the bar are empty. I head for the bar and sit at one end. The bartender is a tall, tanned, muscular hottie.
“Hiya,” he says.
“Hello,” I say.
“What’s the craic?” he says in a thick Irish accent.
Crack? What the actual hell? I knew Ibiza was turnt up, but I didn’t expect the bartenders to offer crack. Wonder if a Molly left on the pillow is part of the resort’s turndown service?
He must notice the confusion in my eyes because he laughs and says, “I asked how ye were. I didn’t offer ye drugs.”
“Ah,” I say, relieved.
“What can I get ye?”
“Something strong.”
“Are ye wanting a drink or a man?”
“A drink.”
“Either way, I would recommend something Irish.” His blue eyes sparkle.
“Whiskey will be fine.”
“Grand choice.”
“Leave the bottle.”
“Not a bother.” He slides the bottle toward me.
Fuck me! He looks like one of the thirst traps I follow on Instagram, all chiseled jaw and dimpled cheeks. His dark blond hair is styled in an undercut, like he just took off his flat cap and stepped off the set of Peaky Blinders. His black button-up is straining to contain his chest and bulging biceps. He winks before walking to the other end of the bar to take an order. Broad shoulders and an ass so sweet it makes me want to sink my teeth into it. Not that I’m into asses…or biting them. Don’t know where that came from.
I drain my whiskey in one swallow. I’m reaching for the bottle to pour a finger or two of the emotion- and tongue-numbing liquid into my glass when I notice a tall, slender woman hovering at the entrance. She’s wearing a J. Crew little black dress with an Exes and Ohs nametag slapped to her chest—more in the region of her shoulder than her breast. She’s clutching her purse to her stomach as if she expects to be accosted by a knife-wielding hooligan. Poor thing looks like one of those cartoon fraidy cats—eyes wide, shoulders dropped, back hunched, like she will startle at the slightest noise. She takes a deep breath and hurriedly walks to the bar, practically collapsing onto a stool near me.
She notices me watching her, slides her glasses up her nose, and offers me a tremulous smile before pulling her phone out of her purse. Classic self-conscious single woman move. I want to snatch the phone out of her hand and replace it with a bottle of vodka and a straw. Everyone knows drinking alcohol through a straw accelerates its effects, and this girl needs twenty-five ounces of liquid courage, stat.
I glance at her nametag, but she’s written her name in script so small I can’t read it. The big glasses, odd nametag placement, teensy-tiny handwriting, and cellphone held like a shield scream, “Get back, muthafucka.”
I lean over the bar, grab another glass, and pour some whiskey into it.
“Hello.” I slide the courage toward the cat. “You look like you could use a strong drink.”
She peeks over the tops of her massive eyeglasses. The blue light from her phone reflected in her lenses is making it difficult for me to see the middle third of her face. She could use a little lip tint, but she’s bringing some serious eyebrow game. This is a girl who knows how to wield a pair of tweezers. Serve it, sister.
“I…I could, actually,” she says, dropping her phone on the bar and seizing the proffered glass with both hands. “Thank you—”
“Marlow,” I say. “My name is Marlow Donnelly.”
“Thank you, Marlow. I’m Brandy. Brandy Brewer.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” I say, laughing. “That is not your real name.”
“Afraid so.” Her smile wobbles.
“Man, are you lucky.”
“I am?”
“Shyeah,” I say. “A name like that is an instant ice breaker.”
Her wobbly smile straightens. She brings the glass up to her face and takes a deep breath. Her nose wrinkles as if she’s walked into a fish market. I expect her to put the glass down without taking a sip, but she presses the rim to he
r mouth, throws her head back, and downs two fingers in one swallow.
Respect. Okay, girl born with the perfect stripper name. I see you.
I’m pouring another finger into her glass when the Irish thirst trap returns.
“Come here,” he says, eyes sparkling. “You’re after doing me job.”
“I’m sorry, Irish.” I smile. “Brandy was having an intoxicant emergency.”
He crosses his lethally sexy guns over his chest and laughs. The sound shifts my libido into fourth gear like Dale Earnhardt making his final lap.
“I’ll let it slide this time,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “But only if you promise to keep calling me Irish.”
“Done.”
“What should I call you?”
Fuck Buddy? Booty Call? Friend with Benefits?
“Marlow,” I purr.
That’s right. I purred. You would purr too if you could see this big hunk of Irish catnip. A little more flirting and I’m going to throw my cat at him so hard he won’t see me coming.
“Hiya, Marlow.” He holds out his hand. “Fionn O’Connell.”
Of course he’s a Fionn. Aren’t all Irish bartenders named Fionn or Patrick? I put my hand in his and a spark of sexual energy passes between us.
“Nice to meet you, Irish Fionn.” I pull my hand away, suddenly inexplicably shy. “This is my friend Brandy.”
Fionn holds my gaze and several more jolts of electricity travel through my body. Jaysus! This must be what it feels like when you get hit with a bolt of lightning. My skin is all tingly and hot. My limbs are jumpy. Finally, after what seems like a very long time, he breaks eye contact.
“Hiya,” he says to Brandy. “Is that really your name, like? Brandy?”
Brandy’s cheeks flush with color. She’s wilting, retreating into herself under Fionn’s direct gaze. Something tells me it is going to take more than a wellness retreat to coax this flower off the wall.
“Brandy Brewer,” I say, drawing Fionn’s attention away from the painfully shy woman. “I was just telling her she has the best name, ever. Brandy Brewer.”
“Brilliant.”
“Right? A name like that is an instant ice breaker. ‘Hello, my name is Brandy Brewer and I go down smooth.’”
Brandy giggles. Fionn laughs.
“‘Hiya, I’m Brandy,’” he says, uncrossing his arms. “’Would you believe I improve with age?’”
Damn! Gorgeous and quick.
“Okay, Irish,” I say, laughing. “Bring it. What else you got?
“Oh, I have loads and loads.” He grins. “‘Hiya, I’m Brandy. You can mark me VS, Very Special, because I am definitely more than three stars.’”
“Nice,” I say, giving the gorgeous bartender the props he deserves. “‘Hello, I’m Brandy. I go good with dessert.’”
“Brilliant,” Fionn laughs.
He leans against the bar and fixes me with his twinkly-eyed gaze. Dingle Whiskey must have something special in it because the world beyond my peripheral vision has faded away and all I can see is the Irishman’s handsome face, the sparks of silver in his blue eyes, the tiny scar just below his hairline, the hole in his right earlobe the size of an earring post.
“Come here. If ye’re on the lash, forget the whiskey.”
The golden liquid has me feeling comfortably fuzzy all over. I’ve never found a whiskey I liked—because I don’t dig swallowing razor blades—but I think I’m falling in love with Dingle Batch Five.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“My specialty,” he says, his sexy smile teasing the dimples onto his cheeks. “Three and ye’ll be well and truly pissed.”
He drops the h in th words so three sounds like tree.
“Bring it, Irish,” I say, the whiskey and the sensual Spanish air making me bolder by the second. “Whatcha got?”
He turns around and pulls a chilled martini glass from a cooler behind the bar, grabs a shaker, and fills it with some sort of seeded fruit and a splash of vanilla vodka. He moves so fast I can’t identify the other ingredients. He is impressive behind the bar—not in a cheesy, theatrical way like Tom Cruise juggling beer glasses in Cocktail. This Irishman isn’t a Hippy Hippy Shaker. He’s skilled and quietly confident. His hands are broad, his fingers long, and I wonder if the hand-penis ratio holds true.
He looks up, watching me through his thick blond lashes, and a flush of heat spreads through my body. His lips pull up in a small, knowing smile that makes me wonder if he is the mind reader. A dirty, dirty girl mind reader.
He grabs a shot glass and pours a measure of champagne into it. He puts the martini glass and Brut shot in front of me. Lowkey, it’s a work of art. An orange concoction with a passion fruit slice floating atop its foamy surface.
“It’s lovely. What do you call it?”
“Porn Star Martini,” he says, his thick Irish accent turning my insides as mushy as a slice of overripe passion fruit. “Alternate between the martini and the shot. One beautiful woman between two strong drinks—the menage à trois of cocktails. Think ye can handle it?”
Oh. No. He. Didn’t. Did this fit-as-fuck Irishman just throw down with me?
“Humble brag.” I lift the martini to my mouth and press the rim to my lips. “I’m an American, gorgeous. There isn’t much I can’t handle.”
“Fair play to ye,” he laughs.
Fionn winks before going to the other end of the bar to take orders from a group that has just arrived. Brandy is staring at me with fraidy cat eyes wide, mouth agape.
“You are amazing,” she says.
“Yes, I am.” I punch the air above me.
“I can’t believe the way you just flirted with the bartender.” Brandy shoves her glasses back up her nose. “You were so cool and clever. I could never do that.”
“Sure you could.”
“No way.”
I lean forward, snatch the napkin she’s been shredding out of her hands, and drop it on the counter. Then I grab her cellphone off the bar and slide it into her purse.
“The first rule to successful flirting is to be present. You can’t flirt if you don’t find someone to flirt with, and you won’t find someone to flirt with if you’re distracted by your phone, or napkins, or twizzle straws, or your glasses. Do you wear contacts?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Wear them. You have beautiful eyes. Why would you want to hide them behind an oversized pair of glasses?”
“You think my eyes are beautiful?”
“Absolutely.” I take a sip of my drink. “Velvet brown eyes with thick eyelashes that don’t even need mascara. Envy.”
“Thanks, Marlow,” she says, beaming.
She really is quite pretty when she isn’t slumped over or hiding behind her purse.
“You’re here for the singles retreat, right?”
“Yes, is it that obvious?”
“The Exes and Ohs nametag kinda gave it away.”
She looks down at the sticker on her dress and rolls her eyes. “I forgot I was wearing a nametag.”
I laugh.
“You’re not here for the retreat, are you?”
I shake my head. “I’m a reporter with Conceit—the magazine. I am here to do an article on Father Chapman and his faithful flock of singletons.”
“How exciting.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” We spend the next hour talking about Brandy’s tragically stunted dating life. If you measured a person’s love life in height, Brandy’s would be a dwarf. She’s a twenty-six-year-old cyber-security expert with a serious case of Sarmassophobia.
Sarmassophobia. Sounds like an issue made up by someone trying to score a free emotional support puppy, doesn’t it? It’s a totally legit phobia, though. It means fear of dating. Brandy is a Sarmassophobie-ite. Okay, I made that one up because I don’t know what they call people who have Sarmassophobia. Sarmassophobians? Sarmassophobia is a social phobia that makes it difficult for people to engage with members of the oppo
site sex. Brandy tells me she has tried cognitive behavioral therapy, hypnosis, and anti-anxiety meds to treat her phobia. She tells me her fear of being medicated for the rest of her life motivated her to throw down the big bills for the retreat. Ian Chapman’s love fest doesn’t come cheap. Horny hopefuls pay fifteen thousand dollars to attend Exes and Ohs, and that doesn’t include airfare and lodging. Brandy tells me she is attending a workshop in the morning—Exorcise Your Relationship Demons, an intensive session designed to heal old wounds and break the negative mental patterns preventing singles from becoming doubles.
“Do you want to go to the workshop together?”
“Seriously?” She looks like she just won the Power Ball. “That would be great.”
“Why don’t we meet for breakfast first?”
I am not a brekkie kinda girl, but Brandy is sweet, and she looks like she could use the moral support. I’m always down to make a new friend. Vacay friends are my favorite souvenirs.
We agree to meet at the poolside restaurant at eight the following morning. Brandy finishes her drink, slides off her barstool, bids me adieu with a tipsy wave, and leaves the bar without putting her glasses back on.
I look down the bar at Fionn pouring tequila into a shot glass. Watch the smooth way he moves his muscular body and imagine him moving it on top of me. I imagine what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around my waist, to have him pushing inside me from behind. He notices me watching him and winks.
When a second bartender arrives, Fionn finishes pouring shots and comes back to me.
“What brings ye to Ibiza?”
“The singles retreat.”
His blond eyebrows arch sharply. “Why would a dashing woman like ye need a singles retreat, for fuck’s sake? Trust me, love, ye don’t need help finding a ride. Have ye seen some of the people that go to those things?”
Tose tings is how he pronounces it, which pleases me more than it should.
“I’m a reporter with Conceit magazine. I’m here to write a piece on the retreat.
