Page 27 of An Irish Summer

about love, loss, and sex. We snapped after each poem, sipped room-temperature beer, and resisted the urge to whisper to each

other as she continued.

Eventually, Flo gave in. “Collin seems engaged,” she said, nodding in the direction of where he was sitting near the edge

of the stage. As soon as I turned my head and caught his eye, I realized he was staring shamelessly in our direction. I tried

to look away without seeming too obvious, but my cheeks flushed anyway.

“Oh my god,” she said eventually, almost in disbelief.

“What?”

“Tell me everything right now.”

I considered lying, or playing dumb, but I knew Flo wouldn’t fall for either. I had no choice. “We kissed last night,” I whispered.

“You what?”

Someone shushed us from the front row, and Flo waved them off as I tried to apologize.

“Don’t make it a big thing,” I said. “It was just one little kiss in the kitchen, then off to our separate beds like it never happened.”

“You kissed in my kitchen?”

“Please,” I said. “Keep your voice down.”

“I cook in there, you know. For everyone. You included.”

“Don’t be gross,” I said. “It was just a kiss.”

“Now what?”

“Now nothing.”

“Why nothing?”

“Because I’m only here for another month, so it doesn’t make sense to start something.”

“Isn’t that how a fling works?”

“Have you been talking to Ada?”

“Who’s Ada?”

Our whispered responses increased in speed and volume. I dropped my head into my hands, flustered and confused.

“It doesn’t matter,” she continued when I didn’t respond. “What matters is it doesn’t look like nothing.” We both looked at

Collin, who was successfully watching Marta. He was absentmindedly running his thumb over his bottom lip, forearm flexed beneath

a rolled sleeve. “I bet he’s thinking of the kiss right now.”

“Florence.”

“What? It was hot, wasn’t it?”

I lowered my eyebrows as if to say I won’t dignify that with a response , but the wicked gleam in her eye made me think maybe I should have responded after all.

On cue, Marta finished her set and the crowd applauded as Lars resumed his spot on the stage.

“And now, if you’ll all lean in close for the storytelling styles of a Mr. Collin Finegan,” he said, reigniting the applause.

“Oh, I’ll pay attention, all right,” Flo said, settling deeper into her chair. I glanced at her quickly before crossing my

arms protectively over my chest.

Collin took to the stage with his banjo, fully attentive now in a way he wasn’t a few minutes ago. He was focused and charming

as ever, and I feared I might dissolve before his set was over.

“Thanks, Lars,” he said, perching on a stool and lowering the microphone. “And thanks to everyone in the audience for being

here and listening.” There were a few snaps from the crowd, and I tried to keep my gaze on the stage without looking him directly

in the eye.

He plucked a few strings on the banjo, and soft notes filled the room. “I’ll admit I wasn’t going to do this tonight,” he

began, “but you lot know how persuasive Lars can be, so here we are.” The crowd chuckled, and I envied how easy it was for

Collin to work a room. And how easy and carefree he seemed, when I’d been in a near twenty-four-hour whirlwind of suppressed

feelings.

“I also know the power of a good fairy story here in Ireland,” he continued, “and I know there are some people out there who

might need to hear one.” His eyes settled right where I was sitting, and I turned to liquid under his gaze. Unable to activate

either fight or flight, I sat perfectly still, staring back at him.

Within the first few sentences he had the audience wrapped around his finger, and the gentle strumming of the banjo in the

background all but lulled us into a trance.

“If we’re to understand the fairy stories,” he said, “first we must try to understand the fairies. There are different types,

you see. And tonight, it’ll be the Leannán Sídhe we try to understand.” His eyes roamed the audience. “I see a few nods from

the lot. Who’d like to do the introduction, then?”

“The fairy mistress?” came a voice from somewhere in the room I couldn’t place.

“Aye, but could there be another translation, perhaps?” A smile played at Collin’s lips as he plucked the banjo strings, and

I followed his gaze around the crowd, silently begging for a distraction.

“The fairy sweetheart?” said a woman in the front row.

“The fairy lover,” said a husky voice from back near the bar.

“Ah, lover, you say,” Collin said, absentmindedly tuning a string. “I like the sound of that one. Ambiguous, isn’t it? Proper

range of things a lover could be.”

He glanced back at me, and it took everything in me to stay upright when I was on the verge of melting.

“So, this fairy lover,” he said, returning to the story with the full force of our attention. “Let’s see what she’s all about,

shall we?”

A few chords later, he launched in. He told us of the life of Leannán Sídhe, a muse for her human lover, and the darkness

often intertwined with infatuation.

He explained the exchange between Leannán Sídhe and the artist, life for inspiration. He described the romantics who don’t

believe that she sucks the life out of her lovers. He told us of the storytellers who do.

“Some say it’s about whether she is honored,” he continued. “If she is honored, the artist might just be spared. And if she

is not, then artist be damned.” There were a few more snaps from the crowd, undoubtedly from women who agreed with her behavior.

This made Collin laugh, and the sound made me melt further into my seat.

“The worst fate for the artist, however, is her disappearance.” I swallowed, and in a split second, his eyes found mine.

“Once the artist is driven to madness, to a life full of longing, to the highest highs and the lowest lows, she might just disappear. And there is no recovery once Leannán Sídhe is gone.”

If there was still a crowd around me, they ceased to exist. Everything beyond his spotlight turned to black, no matter how

hard I tried to refocus. I felt his voice swimming beside the alcohol in my veins.

“It is a dangerous game with the fairy lovers,” he said, shaking his head , his voice low. “Sure, she might draw the emotion

out of the artist and into the art, but at what cost? The cost of his sanity? Of his life? How far is too far...” He played

minor chords now, bringing the audience with him into the dark.

In typical Collin fashion, however, he didn’t stay in the dark for long. In the short time he was on the stage, he told many

iterations of stories of Leannán Sídhe. Dark ones. Lighter ones. Romantic ones. Fairy stories were usually open to interpretation,

and Leannán Sídhe had more interpretations than most. He told each with a tone as wistful and nostalgic as the last, making

it impossible to determine which iteration he most believed.

Though the look in his eyes threatened to give him away.

I wondered if the look in mine was the same. I was teetering on the brink of that rabbit hole again, dangerously close to

overstepping. Memories of the last few weeks flashed in my mind as I felt myself tip over the edge; ticking clocks and flashing

signs warned TOO FAST and TOO SOON and TOO GOOD and MORE MORE MORE.

“I’ll give you one piece of advice here before I go,” he said eventually, pulling me back to the present.

I could have sworn the audience leaned in too.

“If you are privileged enough to survive the Leannán Sídhe, honor and respect her while she is with you. Let her pull some emotion from the depths of its hiding place, and pray you’ll never have to let her go. ”

With that, he dropped his head to the banjo and hummed a quiet tune that half the crowd seemed to know. A few other staff

members sang the lyrics, and Collin’s smile stretched across his face at the sound.

Lars thanked him as we applauded, and Collin shot me one last look before getting off the stage. One look that cut directly

through me.

“Why don’t we take a break, then?” Lars asked, looking around. “Feels like a good time for everyone to get another beer, or

maybe cry in the toilet for a minute, doesn’t it?” People laughed, leaving their seats to stretch their legs and grab fresh

drinks.

“Well, that was—”

“Don’t,” I said, cutting off Flo before she could finish her thought.

“I won’t,” she said, “but only because I know we’re both thinking the same thing, anyway.”

“If you’re thinking we could use another drink, then you’re right,” I said. I knew exactly where she was headed, and I didn’t

plan to give her an inch, no matter how much she rolled her eyes.

She eventually backed off, and the rest of the night crawled on like the beginning: an array of songs, obscure talents, gossip-whispering,

and drink after drink, with Lars’s Spotify playlist overtaking his hosting duties once the show ended.

“Another successful Variety Show, huh?” Lars asked, slinging his long arm around Flo’s shoulders before either of us even noticed he was there.

“How do you even know all these people?” Flo asked. “Do they really all work here?”

“Of course they do.” Lars laughed. “If you’d get out of the kitchen more often, maybe you’d get to know them.”

“If someone hired another chef, maybe I’d have the chance.”

“Touché,” Lars said. “What about you, Chelsea? Did you enjoy the show?”

“I did,” I said, fearful of how my voice would sound when I tried talking above a whisper. I still felt dizzy and unsteady

from Collin’s performance, and I was toeing the dangerous line between happily buzzed and too drunk.

“Did you have a favorite?” he asked.

“I think we all know the answer to that,” Flo mumbled, not at all under her breath. I stepped on her foot, and Lars threw

his head back, roaring.

“I should have known,” he said.

“Marta was inspiring, wasn’t she?” I said, finding my voice and trying to keep it from wobbling. “I thought her poetry was really powerful.”

“Which parts?” Flo asked. “The parts about love or the parts about sex?”

“You’re impossible,” I said. “You know that?”

“You should talk.”