The Last Little Blue Envelope (15 page)

So they waited. It was dark. Again, the only noise was the gentle call of the sheep. Ginny couldn’t see them, but they had to be all around. “This must be like speed dating for you!” Keith yelled, pointing at the cluster of sheep that followed their leader toward town. “Hard to choose, isn’t it?”

Oliver tossed his lighter in his palm for a moment and shoved it in his pocket.

“Sorry,” Ginny said, in a low voice.

“What for?”

“I wish he would stop.”

“He won’t,” Oliver said.

The bus arrived more or less when promised, and was packed with people. It was abundantly clear that this vehicle to Dublin on New Year’s Eve was the last-ditch party bus. Ginny didn’t see anyone drinking, but it was undoubtedly going on. Even the steam on the windows had a faintly boozy air. Noisemakers punctuated the chatter.

Keith and Ellis got on first, and were shuffled to two seats in the back. Ginny and Oliver ended up in a pair of seats closer to the front.

“Sorry, Gin,” Keith called. “Yell if you need us.”

There was something spilled all over one of the seats. Ginny chose to believe it was beer. Oliver scooted Ginny aside, pulled a shirt from his bag, threw it over the spot, and took that seat.

“Least I could do,” he said.

She’d been upbeat until Keith’s eulogy. Now something else was settling in—something more appropriate to seeing where your aunt was laid to rest. She didn’t feel like talking. Luckily for her, as soon as the bus was in motion, there was a burst of drunken singing. Ginny didn’t know the song, but apparently everyone else on the bus did—and they sang it, and a hundred broken variations of it, all the way to Dublin. Ginny and Oliver shared a small pocket of quiet. Oliver didn’t disturb her, but she could see his reflection in the dark window. Every few minutes, he would glance over to look at her, to see how she was. They weren’t pressed together as closely as normal, but his shoulder bumped hers, then remained there. It was very subtle, and possibly even accidental, but it was enough.

The Bells

“We made friends,” Keith said in a very loud voice, as they were all shoved off the bus in Dublin.

Indeed, a small crowd of people said good-bye to Keith and Ellis as they disembarked. Ellis was giving a good-bye hug to a girl wearing shiny gold tights, who then promptly walked into a bench.

“You seem . . . better,” Ginny observed.

“Oh, you know.” He threw a careless arm around her shoulder, a boozy smell on his breath. “It had to go sometime. A fitting end to a fine automobile.”

“Dublin!” Ellis yelled, throwing up her arms. “Did you have a good trip? We had a good trip.”

“See those people?” Keith said, leaning into Ginny and pointing at the girl in the gold tights and her friends. “They know where to go. We will follow them, and all will be well. Look how shiny they are.”

“All will be well,” Ellis echoed. Then she burst out laughing.

“And they gave us this!” He held up a bottle of what appeared to be champagne, probably very cheap champagne. He popped it open there and then, taking a long sip out of the spray of foam. It dripped down the front of his coat. Ellis handed them each large paper cups, which they had also acquired, and Keith poured them both liberal helpings. At the moment, he had no animosity toward Oliver.

“Drink!” he commanded. “Or you will anger the good people of this nation.”

The champagne was warm, and there was far too much of it sloshing around in a cup meant for water or beer. But it felt right. Ginny took a gulp, and Oliver did the same. She continued sipping from her cup as they headed out of the station and into the city.

Dublin was heaving. Ginny had never
seen
so many people out on the street. Herds of people moved along. Everyone seemed to be going in the same direction, flowing like a river out of the depot. They walked down through several streets, until they hit a wide, main thoroughfare called O’Connells Street. They crossed a wide bridge over a river, which Ginny knew from her internetting was called the Liffey—the central artery of Dublin, much like the Thames in London or the Seine in Paris, or, come to think of it, the Hudson and the East River in New York. Water always played a role in these cities. Water moved people, moved things. Always flowing toward something else, something bigger . . .

A man standing on the opposite side of the bridge was playing “Auld Lang Syne,” which was probably a pretty dangerous move in the freezing rain. Fireworks went off overhead—little pops and spurts that looked very amateur and unregulated, so they were close and low, illuminating and reflecting in the water. Ireland
was
a little magical. She was feeling better now. It was almost impossible not to get caught up in the spirit of things.

The parade of people wound its way to Temple Bar. This was a street entirely filled with bars and the occasional gift shop where you could buy absolutely anything with an Irish flag on it, or top hats made of green felt covered in shamrocks. Someone dressed in a massive leprechaun costume stood on one of the corners, and people kept staggering at him to have their pictures taken. There were a few food stalls open, selling pizza and sloppy kebabs. Mostly, though, it was a street of pubs. Every pub seemed to have a line in front of it. It was hard to get down the street.

“Our friends told us about a place where we can get in,” Keith called. “It’s this way . . . I think.”

Ginny looked in her cup and was surprised to find that she had consumed all of its contents at some point.

“I finished mine,” she said to Oliver. He held out his empty cup in reply. Ellis noticed this and turned around to give them a sloppy refill, half of the champagne ending up on the cobblestones.

Keith pointed to a multistory pub, which looked like a very old shop, or maybe a small factory. It was painted a shiny black with various Irish words written on the sides in gold paint. Ginny could hear music coming from inside—fiddles and tambourines and drums. It looked like there was no way possible they were going to get in. People were crushed up against the windows. It was a clown car of a bar.

“You’re joking, right?” Oliver said.

“So stay out here,” Keith said with a shrug. “Smoke your face off. We’re going in.”

Oliver did just that, while Ginny, Keith, and Ellis started the long process of getting into the pub. They made it inside by remaining in constant motion—not pushing, exactly. Just moving with the ever-shifting throng. No one was still in Dublin tonight.

“Right!” Ellis yelled. “I’m going for it! Who wants what?”

“Guinness, of course,” Keith yelled back. “When in Rome.”

Keith and Ginny pushed farther inside. Once you got in far enough, there were tiny pockets where you could stand. They found one of these on the landing of the stairs, just opposite the musicians’ platform. They got banged around a lot, but it provided a good view of the main floor and of the musicians.

“If I start dancing, don’t try to stop me,” Keith said. “When the muse moves me, I have to shake it. You know that. I know that. I cannot resist a bodhrán. I am sure you, being American, cannot resist a bodhrán.”

“What’s a . . .”

“A bodhrán,” he said, pointing up at the wide drum one of the musicians was holding and playing feverishly. “Come on. You knew that. You’re Irish. All Americans are Irish.”

“You aren’t going to stop with that, are you?” she asked.

He smiled widely and shook his head.

The band kicked into an even faster song—a flurry of Irish fiddle. The drummer was working away on his handheld drum like a madman.

“I see you looking at that bodhrán player. You’re obsessed with him. You’re in
love
with him.”

“I am,” she said solemnly. “That’s why I came back.”

“Why did you cut your hair?” he asked. “The old style was cute, but this is better. I like how fringy it is. Fringy, fringy.”

He reached over and batted the tips of her hair. The hair touching set off a slightly more intense reaction, an all-over body melt. Her eyes felt like they were swimming in their sockets.

“I like fringy things,” he said. “Fringe theater. Fringe fries. Also, fridges, strangely enough.”

She gripped the rail behind her for support. He leaned closer.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not saying this because I like your money, though on a totally unrelated note you should give me a hundred Euros for petrol. I’m just saying . . . I’m glad you came back. You know that right?”

“I . . . guess?”

“What do you mean you
guess
?”

He rolled toward her, cutting them some private space. He looked at the ground for a long moment and had just raised his head to say something when Oliver cut through the crowd and walked up a few steps to stand right under them.

“It’s eleven thirty-five,” he said. “And your girlfriend just ran outside, chasing after a hat.”

Ginny wished she could grab the bodhrán and beat Oliver over the head with it.

“Wassat?” Keith said.

“I said it’s eleven thirty-five,” Oliver repeated. “And Ellis saw a hat she liked. A pink cowgirl hat with silver sparkles. So she ran out of the bar and chased the person wearing it. She could be miles away by now.”

The balcony where the band was shook as the members pounded their feet on it in time with the music. Keith watched them for a moment.

“Let’s go,” he said, still staring at the bow of the fiddle, as if hypnotized.

Ginny didn’t want to leave this hot, insane place. She and Keith had been on the verge of an actual discussion—an important one. There was something huge happening between them, in the shelter of the noise and the crowd, and if they stopped the conversation would never be finished.

But they were leaving anyway. Ginny walked slowly, trying to get blocked by as many people as possible. Keith managed to get next to her. He said something. It was either “It’ll be all right” or “I’ll make it right.” Then he gave her a look. A
look
. The kind of look you give someone you want to kiss. A serious I-mean-it-now look.

Or something. Something had just happened. Something
hugely
weird.

Ellis was just outside, happily showing off the pink hat. She hadn’t gone far at all.

“I traded my ring for it,” she said proudly. “Worth it.”

“I think Christ Church is this way,” Oliver said, pointing up the street.

Ginny followed along beside him. It took her a moment to notice that Keith and Ellis had fallen pretty far behind them. Keith was talking, his hands deep in his pockets. Something serious was going on.

“I’ll make it right?” Was that
really
what he said? What the hell did that even mean?

Ellis was wiping her face. Was she crying? Was it rain? Was he back there
breaking up with her
? Was that possible? Magic of Ireland and all that twaddle . . . maybe it
was
happening.

She turned away quickly. If he was, he could not be interrupted.

It would be terrible to break up with someone on New Year’s Eve, especially someone as nice as Ellis. Truthfully, Ginny would feel bad for her. Ellis treated her like a friend from the moment they met. She wished Ellis no ill will in the world. Maybe it was the champagne talking, but she just wanted everyone, everywhere to be happy.

Another series of firecrackers popped overhead. They passed the leprechaun, who was walking in the same direction as them. Every few feet, Ginny snuck a glance back. The conversation was still going on, and Keith was doing all the talking. Dear god. Something
was
going on back there.

“Have you ever been to Ireland before?” she asked Oliver, to make some conversation and try to keep calm.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It never came up,” he said.

“I like it here.”

He gave her a sideways glance.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s nice, right? You’re allowed to say you like the place. I’m not going to hit you. You never smile.”

“I smile all the time,” he said, deadpan. “On the
inside
.”

It was obvious when they reached their destination. Christchurch was, unsurprisingly, a church—or really, a cathedral of gray stone, brightly lit and fully encircled by people. The cathedral and grounds around it were filled to capacity, so the crowds now filled the road beyond the iron gate. Once they stopped, people started to fill the gap behind them, and she lost sight of Keith and Ellis. She stood on her toes to look for them. They were nowhere to be seen. Ginny strained, putting her hand on Oliver’s shoulder for support, scanning all around.

Oliver looked at her hand.

Bong
. The bells rang out, and the crowd let up a cheer. Ginny was still scanning, scanning, scanning. . . . Maybe they had fallen way back, away from the crowd. This was no place to have a breakup talk.

Bong
. . .

And then, she found them.

They were kissing. Fully and legally and totally making out, in the way that boyfriends and girlfriends do. For a moment, she had to watch, had to strain on her toes to make sure she got a good, long look—that the sight burned itself into her mind.

Bong
. . .

It was almost funny. She really had to laugh. For a few minutes back there, she had actually convinced herself that Keith and Ellis were going to break up based on nothing at all. It was astonishing what a good job she had done.
Bong
. . .

Also of interest, the sound of kissing around her. You may see other people kiss, but you don’t often have to hear it. Except they were in a sea of kissing. This was one of those kissing events where you went for the kissing. Oh ho ho! Even funnier. Even funnier.

Bong
. . .

It sort of sounded like chewing, like everyone around was gnawing the faces off their partners. Oh, she was laughing now, tears of laughter running down her face. Or was it rain?

Bong
. . .

Yes, the sound of kissing was the least romantic sound in the world. It was, now that she listened closely, much like the sound of a cat eating wet food. A gnawing combined with a slurping. Such a weird and terrible activity. So why did it seem so . . .

Bong
. . .

Okay, how many times were these bells going to . . .

Bong
. . .

This was maybe what it was like to go insane. You go to Ireland with the guy you love and his girlfriend and then you freeze to death while being gently hosed down in lightly pissing rain and other people’s slobber as they made out to death. While she stood with . . .

Bong
. . .

Oliver. Who at least was warm and had an umbrella.

Bong
. . .

She was still laughing. She put her head against his chest.

“The bells,” she said.

“They ring nineteen times,” he said loudly enough for her to hear. “I just heard someone say. . . .”

Nineteen times? She laughed even harder. That was an eternity.

Bong
. . .

He leaned down. When someone collapses against your chest and just starts laughing like that, you probably want to check to make sure they aren’t carrying scissors or eating the buttons off your shirt. She tipped her head up to look at him. He was . . .

Bong
. . .

Okay, he was handsome. He was. Sharply featured and silent and lean. He didn’t have Keith’s half-crazed energy, of course. Something more . . .

Bong
. . .

Brooding? Was that the word? Those were some still waters, and they ran deep. Of all the people in the world, it was Oliver who provided the most stability at the moment.

Bong
. . .

“This is hell,” he said.

Bong
. . .

He had a point. He was like her. Kinda.

Bong
. . .

She lifted herself on her toes once again, almost automatically. She imagined Aunt Peg on her toes, painting the window in Amsterdam. She imagined that Keith and Ellis weren’t there. When she closed her eyes, the bells stopped ringing. She found Oliver’s lips blindly, either by instinct . . . or maybe he met her halfway. It was impossible to know. When her lips met his, she felt him physically start. But he didn’t pull away, either. She was kissing Oliver. Properly kissing. No hesitation. Her whole body suddenly felt warm. She reached her hands inside his black coat, feeling the smooth lining. She could feel that he had hard muscles in his back, and he was bending down as far as he could so that she could set her heels back on the ground and not totter. He was supporting her so they could kiss even harder, and she was digging her fingers into his back to bring him closer.