Pull At My Heart

by Ellie Malouff

  “Truthfully?” she asks.

  “Why would I say otherwise?”

  “I get a kick out of how you say the word think. It sounds like tink.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  “You guys aren’t great at the t-h sound, are you?”

  I raise an eyebrow and stare her down. “Tell me what you think,” I say, doing my best to make the right sound.

  “It’s not bad, but it’s really far.”

  Righteously, I smile and swing my leg over the bike, then hold her hand as she does the same. “Want to see something really worth photographing?” I ask.

  “Yes, desperately,” she says as she squeezes me tightly to her. The motorbike is the absolute best choice I could have made today. Having her wrapped around me makes up for all the shite at home and for the first time in ages, my heart feels happy.

  Gift of Eloquence

  Julie

  “Blarney Castle?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  Eoghan parks us across from the castle gate and my mouth drops in awe. I can’t believe he brought me here. “How many times have you been here?”

  He laughs. “Quite a few.”

  “And yet you’re bringing me to like the number one tourist destination in the area? On a Saturday?”

  “You’ve got to do it. Everybody has to see it at least once. It’s a good way to get started with your sightseeing.”

  “Have you kissed the Blarney Stone?”

  He scoffs. “Of course not. I’m not putting my mouth on that vile thing. But don’t let that stop you. You’re from America. All Americans have to do it.”

  Without much thought, I say, “But if I put my mouth on it, what would you do if…” And then I stop. I’m not even sure what I was about to say. Something of the transitive property, perhaps? Either way, I’m glad some sort of safety shutdown mechanism was activated.

  He runs his hand through his hair and smiles a little bit. “You’re doing it. I can’t wait to watch you bend backward over the castle wall while that old codger, who’s like two hundred years old, holds you up.”

  “Okay, that sounds a little terrifying.”

  “Come on,” he says, and I follow him in. He purchases the tickets and we walk up the path toward the castle. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and the grounds are gorgeous with lots of trees and meticulous gardens. He stands nearby as I take a ton of photos along the way.

  Finally, we go into the actual castle and start our climb, floor-by-floor. I saw some cool stuff when I went with Cara to England, but this is different. It’s so old and bare. I love the cold feel of the stones, the green moss that seems to crop up everywhere, and the tiny window openings that let in just a little bit of light. I couldn’t ask for a better tour guide. Even though there are informational signs all along the way, Eoghan gives me his take on it, which is far more entertaining. I’m sure half of what he tells me—if not all of it—is made up, and that makes me like it even more.

  As we go up a particularly steep spiral staircase, he insists I go in front of him in case I fall.

  “I know how to climb stairs,” I tell him.

  “I have no doubt, lass, but these aren’t normal stairs. They were made to be different sizes to trip up intruders.”

  “That’s pretty smart,” I say a second before I trip and fall forward. Eoghan grabs my hips with his big strong hands. My eyes shut as I suffer from embarrassment. I simply ignore the rush of endorphins flowing through me at the sensation of his hands on me like that.

  “All right?” he asks.

  “Yes, yeah,” I tell him. My hand is shaking as I press my palm to the wall to regain my balance and straighten up.

  We continue upward until we finally get to the top and walk around the edge of the castle walls. A line has formed to kiss the Blarney Stone and while we wait, I take as many photos as I can from what feels like the top of Ireland. The landscape is breathtaking. Green and lush and open. It’s exactly how I pictured it would be. In a lot of ways, it’s much prettier than what I saw in England. Where England is enriched with an intriguing history everywhere you turn, Ireland is simpler and a touch mystical. It honestly feels like a place where magic could actually exist.

  I don’t share these thoughts with Eoghan as I snap probably forty photos with various lenses. His patience is commendable. In fact, the time he’s given me since I arrived on the island is incredible.

  I lower my camera and look over at him. “Thank you, Eoghan.”

  “For what?”

  “For spending your Saturday with me. For taking me everywhere. For bringing me here. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

  He looks away from me and smiles slightly, then his eyes land on mine and stay there for a long time. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs.

  The mood is heavy between us and so I decide to lighten it up. “How do you say thank you in Irish?”

  “Go raibh maith agat,” he answers immediately. I try to repeat what he said and completely butcher it. He laughs a little and says, “We’ll work on that.”

  He reaches out and gently grabs my camera from me and then lifts the strap over my head. I normally don’t allow someone to manhandle my baby, but I’ve noticed Eoghan almost always has good intentions. “Let me get one of you.”

  “Okay,” I say, and give him some tips of how to use it. I pose at the castle wall with the Irish countryside behind me and he takes a couple. As he focuses the lens on me, he smiles. He looks great behind a camera.

  A woman behind us, in what sounds like a German accent, asks, “Would you like me to take a photo of the two of you?”

  I turn to Eoghan to see what he thinks. I don’t want to imply anything. Without a word, he hands the camera to the woman and then stands beside me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. I really feel our height difference, because the boy is tall. I smile as she takes a few, landscape and portrait, and then hands it back to me.

  “I think they’ll be lovely,” she says.

  “I have no doubt,” Eoghan replies, and gives me a shoulder squeeze before stepping away. “Thanks a million.”

  When it’s finally my turn to kiss the Blarney Stone, he holds my camera while I get down on the ground and adjust my shirt so that it won’t ride up too high when I bend back. The old codger that Eoghan mentioned is stronger than I’d give him credit for. In a thick Irish accent, which I can barely understand, he instructs me to hold on to the bar, bend back, and reach my lips out to the stone. At least that’s what I think he said. I start my backward journey and am within sight of the stone when I feel my shirt riding up and my belly exposed. Instinctively, I let go of the bar with one hand to fix my shirt and I’m immediately brought back up, my lips never actually touching the stupid thing.

  “Hey,” I complain.

  “You can’t let go,” the old man says, and then turns to the next person.

  “Wait, really?”

  He mumbles something about rules that I honestly don’t understand, because his accent is too thick. Eoghan grabs my hand and helps me up. He’s holding in a laugh and it makes me want to kick him. So I do and his laugh is rattled free.

  “I’m glad that I’m so funny to you,” I say, still feeling bad about the whole thing.

  “Oh lass, you don’t need the gift of eloquence anyway. It’s overrated.”

  We have a good time going back down the castle with lots of laughter and a few stories Eoghan shares about how he’d been to about ten weddings here, and that an old girlfriend of his used to work at a restaurant across the way that hosted a lot of receptions.

  “How many weddings have you been to?” I ask.

  “More than I can count. Then again, I can’t count that high,” he says in a self-deprecating way. I’m learning that’s a common style people in Cork use in conversations. I have a sense that Eoghan is actually quite smart and savvy. He seems to be somewhat unshakeable, like he’s always in control and knows exactly what he’s doing all the time. Even when he’s f
lirting with strawberry-blonde bachelorettes at the pub. I try not to linger on that memory and let it ruin my mood. After all, what business is it of mine?

  Eoghan

  After the castle, I ask Juliana if she likes shopping. Her answer doesn’t surprise me in the least bit.

  “Of course, I do. The only trouble is that I don’t have a lot of money to spend on stuff, so I’m kind of a hopeless window shopper.”

  We head across the street to the nice department store I had in mind. It has lots and lots of wool items like sweaters and scarves. They also have a big gift shop that has the usual Irish souvenirs, a whole area of sweets, and a home store.

  We stroll around for nearly an hour and she hasn’t picked anything out. I don’t really mind. It’s just nice to be with her and not stuck back at home, dealing with everything.

  After an hour of just looking, I tell her, “At the very least, you should get yourself a scarf. This is the real deal here, lass.”

  “I just might.” She pulls a gray cable-knit scarf off a rack and wraps it around her slender neck.

  “Toasty?”

  “Yeah, this thing is warm, but nice. Soft.” She checks herself out in the mirror and I take the liberty to check her out, too. My sight is glued to the swell of her arse. I’ve been half-hard since I saw her exposed stomach on the top of Blarney Castle. The curves of her body tempt me like I’ve never been tempted before. She’s a walking fantasy. “I like it.”

  “I like it, too,” I say, somehow sounding coherent but definitely not talking about the scarf.

  “I think I’ll get it, since I don’t exactly have a robust winter wardrobe. Didn’t have much need for it in San Diego,” she jokes.

  “I bet not, you lucky lass.”

  Really, I’m the lucky one now that she’s moved to my city.

  She spies the jewelry section and meanders into it, a little timidly. I let her do her thing and after a little bit, I notice that she’s gravitating toward a particular style.

  I bend over and rest on my elbows beside her at the showcase. “That’s called a Claddagh ring,” I tell her. “It has lots of symbolism, depending on which way and which hand you wear it on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if you wear it on your right hand, with the tip of the heart pointed at your wrist, then it means that your heart is taken. If the tip is at your fingertips, it means you’re open to love. On your left hand, it means you’re married or engaged.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  She’s got her eye on a particularly beautiful one with little encrusted diamonds in the crown.

  “Would you like me to get it out for you?” a sales girl asks, and Juliana starts to shake her head.

  “Yes,” I answer for her, because I know she really wants to try it on.

  “Such a nice boyfriend, you have,” the shop girl says and Juliana freezes, her breath catching quite audibly.

  I chuckle a little at her response.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she clarifies as quickly as possible.

  “Oh sorry, it just seemed…” She holds out the ring to Juliana so she can try it on. It’s a little snug on her but looks nice.

  “That one is white gold, and has three-quarters of a carat in diamonds,” the shop girl says.

  Juliana gulps and then looks at the price tag. Based on how her eyes bulge out, I’m guessing it’s up there. She hands the ring back with a shaking hand.

  “Thank you,” she says and backs away.

  There’s a long mad moment where I consider pulling money out of my savings and buying it for her, because spoiling the lass seems like a really fun thing to do, but I think better of it. Juliana would—rightfully so—go bananas and probably call a taxi to drive her home.

  She pays for the scarf, a measly thirty euros in comparison, and then we walk back toward the bike.

  “Did you get enough pictures?”

  “It’s never enough,” she confesses. My mind immediately starts thinking of other photo-worthy spots. “But, I’m good for today, so thank you so very much.”

  “Tá fáilte romhat,” I respond, and she gives me a confused look. “It means ‘you’re welcome.’”

  “Ah,” she says, and I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. “De nada.”

  “You speak Spanish?” I ask, and she looks downright pissed that I caught it.

  “Yeah, kind of. Nothing like my parents. They’re fluent. My grandparents emigrated from Mexico.”

  “Cool,” I reply as I snap on my helmet and get on the bike. “Say something else.”

  She follows and wraps her arms around me. Everything inside me comes to life. “Vámonos!” she exclaims and I take off. Yeah, I know that one, too.

  The ride back to Cork is much slower than the ride out to Ballycoom. Intentionally so. I just don’t want to let her go yet. I hate the idea that she’s probably going to live out of town. I’ll have no real reason to see her. She’ll build a life and get busy with work and maybe, just maybe, she’ll stop into the pub, probably for her own hen party when she marries some Ballycoom lad. Langer.

  As we wind around the country roads, there’s a moment when she softens against me and holds me so close to her. It’s heaven. Before long, she rests her head against my back and I tense up at first, startled at the intimacy. It seems bold for her and I bet she really thought hard about it before she did it. Quickly, I relax and let myself enjoy it.

  I contemplate taking the extra-long way around, but I think she’d notice. When we get to her hotel, my heart constricts at letting her go. I shut off the bike and let out a huge sigh. For the first time throughout our day’s adventure, she gets off the bike while I stay on. She takes off her helmet and swings her feckin’ gorgeous brown hair around and I’m lost. I wonder what it’d be like to put my hands in her hair as I pull her mouth to mine. Before I can think a moment more about it, she puts the helmet in the saddlebag in place of her camera.

  “Thanks again, Eoghan,” she says with a sweet smile.

  “Are you going to move to Ballycoom?” My voice sounds small and quiet. I dread her answer.

  “I don’t know. Probably,” she answers, but I can tell her heart’s not in it. There’s got to be a way I can convince her stay in the city. To stay near me.

  “Don’t agree to anything yet,” I tell her. “I think you need one more night in the city. How about coming ’round the pub tonight?”

  “It’s not like I won’t come to the city, if I move to Ballycoom.” She sees right through me.

  “I know, but just come ’round, will ya?”

  “Is the band playing again?”

  I smile. “As a matter of fact, they are.”

  She twists her lips to act as if she’s thinking about it, but I can tell she’s already decided to come over. “I suppose I can make an appearance.”

  “Grand,” I say with a smile, then start up the bike and take off.

  As I drive back toward City Centre, a wild idea pops into my head and once it’s there, I can’t shake it. I speed up, because I’ve got some work to do before she shows up at the pub.

  The Craic

  Julie

  The pub is bursting with people again and this time the music pours out into the street. I open the double doors and squeeze into the packed crowd. The place is hopping, literally, along to a traditional Irish song, something about a road to Dublin. As I weave my way around the place, I spot Ruth with a tray full of drinks. She looks tired, which I can imagine since it seems like she’s always working. I make my way to the bar and find Dylan and another man I don’t recognize slinging drinks left and right. Eoghan isn’t in sight.

  When Dylan sees me, his eyebrows shoot up. Is he surprised I’m here? “Hi.”

  “Hey,” I shout back over the band.

  “Pint of Guinness?” he says, remembering my drink order. I raise an eyebrow and look around for Eoghan.

  “Don’t worry, he’s upstairs. He won’t know.”

  �
��Oh, okay. Then yes, please,” I say with a smile.

  He pulls the draught most of the way to the top and then lets it settle for a while at the bar before topping it off. Just as Dylan is handing it over to me, a hand intercepts it.

  Eoghan.

  “How many times, lassie?” he asks, and hands it off to some random guy waiting to order a drink.

  “Come on!” I exclaim through a big goofy grin. With a completely serious expression, he grabs a Murphy’s pint glass and fills it up. He’s as stubborn as I am…well, maybe even more so, because as tempted as I am to spite him, I don’t like wasting things.

  He puts both hands on the bar and watches me closely as I take a sip.

  “Tell me that isn’t the nicest beer you’ve ever had.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He chuckles a little and then serves another customer.

  I stand by and watch him. He’s fresh out of the shower and he’s changed clothes since our day trip. He’s now wearing a dark brown t-shirt. The sleeves are rolled up a couple of turns on each side, showing off his crazy well-defined biceps. It’s mesmerizing to watch them flex as he pulls pints and grabs for liquor bottles.

  I’m heating up fast. The sweater I’m wearing over a white spaghetti-strap top is too much, so I slip it off and hold on to it as I drink the Murphy’s down. When Eoghan turns back around, he stops in his tracks and stares at me for a moment. His jaw twitches as his eyes quickly travel up my body to meet my eyes.

  “What’s up, Eoghan?” I ask. “I’m here.”

  “Mmm, and I’m glad you could make it. I have something for you later, but I need a little time. Enjoy the craic, lass. I’ll find you in a wee bit.”

  “Craic?” I ask, flabbergasted, and then look for someone smoking something very, very bad.

  He laughs in that way that means I’ve got it wrong.

  “Let me guess, craic means something besides what I’m thinking.”