Aww. Mrs. P. Your heart is going to be broken in January. “Seems to me he’s a good man for you, Madame Pavlovsky.”
“Ohhh! Psssh!” She waves off that thought and then puts her hand on Declan’s coat. “Not for me, no. Zis is a—how you say? Flirtation.” She rolls the “r” like it’s a run-on sentence and it’s lovely. A flirtation with Mr. Boss Butt would be lovely. Although I suppose that’s what we had before the holidays.
“There ya go,” Declan says, patting her hand, which is still grasping on to his coat. “We’re gonna grab a drink at McSorley’s. You want to come?”
“Ohhhh nooo! Nooo, not for me. You go! You go! Don’t let me keep you, young people. Come by for some kutya later, yes? Good. Yes.” She finally lets go of Declan and beams at us, clutching the flowers to her chest as she watches us walk down to the pub—not hand-in-hand, not bumping shoulders.
Just walking down a sidewalk like two people who didn’t totally just go down on each other under a vigorous stream of water forty minutes ago. Maybe this is how it will be at the office. Maybe he was right when he said we’re just a couple of straightforward hot as fuck people who can handle vacation sex and then go back to business as usual. Maybe it is just the holidays stirring up emotions, the isolated period of time in which we’ve been interacting with each other in more casual environments than we’re accustomed to. I hate that I can remember every single thing he’s ever said to me, and I hope I can forget every appallingly wonderful sexy thing he’s said to me the past few days.
Declan holds the door to McSorley’s Old Ale House and leans in to say in my ear as I pass by, “I really wanted to hold your hand just now, FYI.”
Goddammit. I’ll never forget that he said that.
“Me too.”
The pub is barely a quarter full of patrons. It’s early afternoon the day after Christmas, so I’m not surprised. They still have the strings of lights and minimal Christmas décor up, and the holiday music is still playing. I’m glad. I’m certainly not ready for this part of the year to be over.
“Mug or glass?” he asks me.
“Fuck it—mug. I’ll get a table in the back.”
“I like your style, kid.”
I take the table for four in the back part of the bar, just inside the door behind the wall so we’re secluded. I’ve never run into anyone from work in my neighborhood, but you never know. Real estate brokers get around all over town.
Declan places two mugs of dark ale on the table and takes the chair next to mine.
“To not letting this interfere with our fantastic work relationship,” I say as we clink glasses. “Come what may.”
He gets a glint in his eye, and I already know he’s going to hit me with his Irish accent again dammit. “May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace. May your troubles grow less as your blessings increase.”
God, I love it when he talks dirty to me.
“May no one walk in on you when you’re dancing around naked to ‘Come and Get Your Love’—unless you want them to.” I raise my glass and then take a big gulp.
“May you only walk in on naked dancers as hot as I am.” We clink glasses again and take another sip.
I hold the mug up again and say, “May your nonna’s heart always be as soft and warm as her meatballs.”
“May your aunt’s accent always be as thick as her mashed potatuhs, arright?”
“May the only teeth in your ass belong to the woman you’re banging.”
He almost does a spit take at that one. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, I never.”
We stare at each other, smiling like goofballs again. I bring the mug to my lips and take a big gulp of ale to prevent myself from saying anything that might actually articulate these feelings I’m having. I might have to instill another “no talking rule” for the rest of the day. And I definitely think we should sleep at separate apartments tonight.
But I don’t get the chance to bring any of this up because The Pogues’ song “Fairytale of New York” comes on, and a reverent hush comes over all of the twenty or so customers in the pub, followed by everyone raising their glasses and singing along.
“I fecking love this song,” Declan muses just before the music picks up and Kirsty MacColl joins in.
We sing this beautiful, messy underdog Christmas anthem duet to each other like a couple of drunk college kids. If I did a graph of how happy I’ve ever allowed myself to be with Declan, this would be the pinnacle. He’s singing with his entire body and being, and I wish I could have been the one who met him in college instead of Hannah. When he was still made of youthful energy and optimism.
Or maybe I don’t.
Maybe I prefer him this way—moody survivor of a broken heart and full of surprises.
“Ahhh, it’s a grand old song,” he says, shaking his head as the song ends. “You ever been to Ireland?”
“No. Have you?”
“Oh sure.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and places his hand over his heart. It looks like he’s about to recite a William Butler Yeats poem or something, but instead he says something even more romantic: “I’d love to take you there someday. Italy too.”
The tip of my nose is tingling, and the rims of my eyes are stinging, and I take a deep breath because I’m finally going to say something real.
“Maddie! I thought you lived around here!” I look up and see Cindy, the receptionist from Sentinel, walking out from the restrooms, only it takes me a few
