Page 47 of An Irish Summer

As we taxied around the terminal at the Shannon Airport, I cataloged the differences between this arrival and my last: anxious

versus eager, foreign versus familiar. Still buzzing with nervous energy. Still unsure of the future that awaits me. Dreading

it versus desperately looking forward to it.

If all went to plan, that is.

When I called Flo on the way to the airport she screamed for about a minute at the news of my return, then informed me Lars

convinced Collin to do another open-mic performance tonight, this time at the pub, so I could find him there. I wasn’t sure

surprising him was the best idea, but a Grand Gesture felt like my best bet.

The ride from the airport to Galway would have felt excruciatingly long if not for the scenery. I’d only been in the States

for thirty-six hours but it felt like a lifetime without this view. Was anything in Boston this green?

I let my memories wind back to the first ride from the airport to the Wanderer, when I’d been too jaded to care about the

grass and the hills, too overwhelmed to look beyond the gray sky, and too tired to register the beauty that had been right

in front of me.

Now I watched the shades of green turn from emerald to sage and back again as the clouds took turns eclipsing the setting sun.

The reality settled in as the bus slowed to a stop a few minutes’ walk from the Wanderer, spitting me out onto the pavement

with only my luggage. I stood in a cloud of exhaust and watched the bus rattle along down the road before turning myself in

the direction of the hostel. The only way to go now was forward.

All my doubts were expelled the minute the Wanderer came into view. I felt what I was looking for when I returned to Boston:

feeling like I was coming home.

Before I even crossed the street, Lori and Flo came crashing through the door and running across the road, shouting my name.

“I can’t believe you came back!” Flo threw her arms around my neck, and I dropped my luggage to return the hug. “I mean, I

totally can, because you obviously love it here, but it’s amazing that you actually did it.”

She released me, and Lori stepped in for a hug that was a bit more awkward, but the sentiment was all the same. “Welcome back,

Chelsea. I’m thrilled you’re here.”

Lori had been beside herself when I called. She’d said there would always be a room for me at the Wanderer, even if it wasn’t

totally up to my standards. I hated myself for how snobby I’d been when I arrived, and I’d told her the room was perfect,

and I’d meant it.

“Well, you know the way,” she said, handing me the key. “I’m sure you have quite a bit of settling to do, but we’ll see you

down the pub for open mic in an hour?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I told her, leaving out the real reason I was going, although I was sure it was no secret. Flo mentioned on the phone that Collin had been sulking in my absence, and given how fast word traveled in this place, I was sure everyone knew every detail of our summer by now.

I followed the familiar path to my room, nearly collapsing on the bed when I arrived. Even though I’d orchestrated my return,

I still couldn’t quite believe any of this was real. It felt at once like I’d been gone for years and like I never left.

Unpacking didn’t take long as my parents planned to ship the rest of my clothes when the seasons changed. Within an hour,

my room looked exactly as it had a few days earlier: full wardrobe, faded quilt from a local market splayed across the bed,

empty journals taunting me from the desk, the same string lights dripping from the window frame that I forgot to take down

before I left. It felt more like mine than my room at my parents’, and it wasn’t just because they put the elliptical in there

over the summer.

This was home now.

As I got ready for the open mic, the nerves I’d successfully distracted myself from resurfaced. I hoped Flo and Lori kept

their promise not to tell Collin I was coming back. I wanted him to hear it from me.

I texted Flo that I’d meet her at the pub, wanting a few more minutes alone to collect myself.

The pub was packed when I arrived, so I slipped into a dark corner near the bar undetected. I wasn’t exactly sure of my plan

of action now that I was here, but whatever it was definitely required a drink first.

I leaned on the bar and sipped a light beer and combed the crowd for familiar faces while a trio of women performed a slam poem.

Eventually, I made out the back of Flo’s head squished between Lars and someone I didn’t recognize, nodding toward the wings of the stage.

I followed their gaze... and saw him.

I was grateful for the cover of darkness at the back of the bar because I wasn’t ready for him to see me yet. But from where

I stood, I could see the veins in his hand gripping the banjo, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes while he smiled at

someone else backstage, and the faded ink just below his shirtsleeves. Unlike the Cliffs, Collin Finegan could be seen for

the first time over and over again.

The crowd applauded the women, and Collin shook their hands as they traded places on the stage. I held my breath, trying to

prepare for the sound of his voice.

“Right, then,” he began. “Tough act to follow, that, isn’t it?” The crowd chuckled, and I tightened my grip on my glass. It’d

only been a few days, but I missed the sound of his accent. His storytelling. His quiet jokes. The fact that I ever thought

I would just carry on with life three thousand miles away from him felt unfathomable to me now.

“I do suppose I have to try, however, so let’s crack on.” He strummed a few chords, and the crowd settled in. “This one is

a bit interactive,” he said, “so I’ll need your participation. You think you can do that for me?” Murmurs of affirmation floated

from the audience, and he smiled at the sound. “Good. I was hoping you’d be keen. Here’s how we’ll go. This one’s about a

knight, as they often are, but our ancestors didn’t do a great job of passing down this story, so there are quite a few blanks.

When we reach them, I’ll need your help filling them in.” More plucking. Minor chords.

“So, our story begins close to home. This one starts in our dear Oranmore, right there on the bay. On a quiet summer evening by the water, we see a tortured knight, staring up at the moon. He has lost something. Mates, tell me, what do you reckon he’s lost?”

“A battle!”

“His mind.”

“A fair maiden!”

“Aye, a fair maiden,” Collin said, his voice amplified by the microphone, twice as loud as those from the crowd. “What would

a bit of Irish folklore be without a fair maiden?” More murmurs of affirmation. “He stands by the water there, asking for

a sign. Something to show him how to carry on. Or perhaps how to find his maiden. What kind of sign do we think he receives?”

Every time he scanned the crowd for a response, everything inside me tightened into a knot. Would his eyes catch on mine?

What would we do if they did?

Once again, a few voices stood out from the general murmur of the crowd.

“The shape of the moon.”

“A voice from the trees.”

“A red fox!”

“You said a fox, there, did you?” He lifted the minor chords just enough for us to notice. “The color of her hair, I reckon.”

I instinctively reached for my own, twirling a single crimson lock around my finger.

“He follows the fox, he does. For days and nights, he follows this fox through the forest and along the edge of water, toward

what he cannot be sure. He only hopes the fox is leading him to an absolution. The maiden, if he’s lucky. Or at the very least

toward freedom from his own pain.”

The audience was rapt, leaning closer with every word, and their unwavering interest in him only reaffirmed mine. Strengthened it. Reminded me that it was not every day you got the privilege of being told a story by Collin Finegan, so when you did, you needed to savor it.

“After what feels like an eternity,” he continued, “the fox leads the knight...”

“Down the pub,” someone shouted, and others laughed.

“Aye, of course.” Collin laughed too. “Where else is there to be when trying to cure a broken heart?” Collin picked up a pint

off the floor and raised it to the crowd, and everyone with a drink mirrored his gesture. We took a collective sip, and I

wondered how many of us could see ourselves in his story.

“When they reach the pub and the man looks down to the fox, he finds it has disappeared. The man is alone in the doorway,

so he does the only thing he can think to do. He goes inside, sits on a stool, and orders a pint of the black stuff.”

“Slàinte!” someone shouted from the crowd, and Collin winked in their direction.

In my dark corner of the pub, I was reaching a boiling point. The more he spun this story, the more glimpses of us I found

between the lines. I needed confirmation that I wasn’t the only one still reeling from our fallout. I needed to know in some

recess of his mind he was still thinking about me. Still feeling the same things we’d been feeling only days ago. Still secretly

holding out hope for my return, even if he’d tried to make it easier for me to leave.

“He drinks pint after pint, wondering after the fox. Why had it led him to this very pub? What was he supposed to do next?

He fears he isn’t strong enough to make the decision on his own, so he looks around for what might be the next guide on his

journey. Or what might be the answer.

“When he finishes his pint he swivels his stool in the direction of the door, willing something to happen. He isn’t sure for how long he sits and stares at the dark wood, counting the bolts in the iron hinges, sending his prayers to the gods, but eventually it swings open, and, mates, what does it reveal? ”

“The fox.”

“A witch!”

“The maiden,” I called. Perhaps it was my voice that drew the attention of the crowd, or maybe the flash of recognition on

Collin’s face, but in a split second, the entire audience had turned to face me instead of the stage.