My thoughts surprise me. My modus operandi is usually to find the negative aspect of something first and ask questions…never. But I don’t have time to think on it for long, because a blinding, hundred-watt smile on female legs is jogging toward me. Jogging. My first instinct is to hold up a cross to ward her off, but I’m suddenly being hugged. When I say hugged, what I really mean is suffocated within an inch of my life. And if the hug-o-death doesn’t manage to knock me on my ass, the abundance of Tommy Girl perfume assaulting my senses will finish the job. Just when I’ve finally recovered from shock enough to attempt self-extrication, the unknown hugger beats me to it.

“It’s the photographer herself, then. I’m Faith Claymore. I bet you’re starving after pissing off my brother. It tends to work up an appetite.” Her musical brogue leaves the words hanging in their air as she pulls me toward a booth. I just manage to grab hold of my suitcase before I’m dragged forward. “What do you fancy? There’s cod and chips on the specials menu. I’d go with that since it’s the freshest.”

“I’m not hungry.” Which isn’t entirely true. I could probably choke down a Clydesdale right now if pressed, but I need to get my bearings. I can’t do that with this girl chirping questions at me and Shane staring twin blue daggers at me from behind the bar. For someone who obviously doesn’t want me around, he’s damn sure keeping tabs. “Maybe later.”

“Am I scaring you?” She laughs and even I have to admit, the sound is sweet and clean. Nothing behind it but genuine amusement. “I just wasn’t expecting the contest winner to be a girl so close to my age. From Chicago, are you? Are you fascinating, Willa? I’ll just bet you’re fascinating.”

“Nope. Duller than dirt.”

“Ah, go on.” She laughs again, eyes sparkling. They’re a touch lighter than Shane’s, yet infinitely different because of the innocence behind them. There is nothing innocent about Shane. Faith is pretty in a way that hasn’t fully matured yet. Although, with her fair skin and dimples, she’ll likely be blessed with youthful looks forever. Or cursed, depending on who you’re talking to. “Will you at least have tea?”

“Not unless by tea, you mean coffee.”

“Coffee.” She sighs. “That’s so American. Do you walk around your town with a huge cup full of the stuff? I bet you look like a movie star.”

“Only if the movie is The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

She laughs, drawing attention in our direction.

“I think I’ll just head to my room, actually.”

“Of course. You must be knackered after your flight.” She takes hold of my arm again, and we enter a dim hallway at the back of the pub. It’s lined with three doors, two of them restrooms and one labeled employees only. At the other end is a narrow, rickety staircase. Faith stops us at the bottom and points at a plain wooden door visible from where we’re standing. “Now. Your room is right at the top of the stairs. I’d bring you up myself, but I’m in the middle of a shift and Shane’s already got his temper up. No reason to rile it any further.” She rubs a circle onto my back, and I try not to stiffen. “But no worries. I’ll be up later to give you the lay of the land.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, attempting a smile. Back in Chicago, I don’t have a lot of female friends. All right, none. When Evan would bring me around his childhood buddies, their girlfriends would include me, mostly out of curiosity than anything, but I could never quite get the conversational beats down. How to respond to a question without creating too much interest in my past in Nashville. The life I led before Ginger and I escaped to Chicago and she met—then married—the hot cop who lived across the hall. Keeping things light, making casual acquaintances, is a skill that tends to escape me. We were too busy surviving to learn skills like small talk.

“You’re welcome.” Faith smiles as if I’ve been acting completely normal this entire awkward introduction, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I didn’t do too badly this time around. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She starts to walk away but turns back and winks at me. “We’re going to be friends, Willa. There’s no help for you.”

…

I’ve showered off the layer of travel dust and thrown on faded jeans with a red thermal shirt. I’ve unpacked, if you can call dumping the contents of your suitcase into a drawer unpacking. My room is small and simply decorated. White lace everywhere. The curtains and bedspread are made of the stuff. Doilies spread carefully beneath clocks and a telephone. I’d never choose the decor for myself—I’m more of the year-round Christmas lights and murals type—but that’s kind of why I like it. As if maybe I needed to step outside my usual space to see beyond it. I want to do more of that. Now, if possible. Giving myself time to think will only set me back when I want to move forward.

It’s only early evening and looking out the window at Baggot Street, I’m desperate to get outside and immerse myself in anonymity. Dubliners walk past in groups, calling out to others across the street. Claymore’s is one of many pubs on the street and smokers congregate outside them all, their laughter reaching me through the glass. Below me, the music in the pub has grown steadily louder since five o’clock, as if the Irish equivalent of happy hour has started. Being so far from anything familiar feels like an aphrodisiac. I want to see unusual sights, taste different air, be unrecognized. I shoot a quick text to Ginger and her husband, Derek, letting them know I’ve arrived in one piece. Simultaneously, I receive one back from each of them saying, “Stay that way.”

God, I want to shake them to death I love them so much. Sometimes I think only having the ability to love a small number of people cranks up the intensity. I have no way of spreading it around, no one else to bestow it on, so it’s highly concentrated and fierce. It’s okay with Derek and Ginger, though, because they share my sickness. Derek, because he’s a homicide cop. Ginger, because she grew up trying to protect me. Love few, love hard. That’s us. My smile slips when Evan blasts through my conscious like a speeding train, honking and flashing his lights. This time it’s accompanied by a wave of pity I refuse to wallow in. Digesting the pain, I throw my messenger bag containing my Nikon, keys, and wallet over my shoulder and head out before I crawl under the white lace and forget why I came here.