Chasing River: A Novel

“She keeps turning me down.” Rowen tosses the bar rag over his shoulder, freeing his hands to lift the rack of dirty glasses going to the back for washing. “I don’t know why.”

“She must smell your desperation.” A swift kick to the back of my knee has me cringing but laughing.

“Me? You’re one to talk. I haven’t seen a bird walk out of your room in months.”

“You know damn well why.” Since our brother was released. Six years locked up with a bunch of bastards meant Aengus has been humping anything he can fool into coming home with him. Plus, there’s no way I want anyone I spend the night with to have the misfortune of running into him on their way to use the one toilet in our house. Aengus has no shame when it comes to ogling birds.

Growing up, Aengus and I were the ones attached at the hip, even though Rowen and I are only eleven months apart. I’d like to think that I was the buffer between the two of them, keeping Aengus from recruiting the youngest and most naïve Delaney boy to follow in his footsteps.

Fortunately, Rowen figured out that Aengus is a fuck-up all on his own.

“Hopefully we’ll have the house sold soon. We can get a nice apartment in the IFSC and be done with him.” When our nanny left the house to us, she said that we should live in it until we all went our separate ways. I think she meant marrying good Irish Catholic girls and fathering children.

He sighs. “I wish things were like the good ol’ days.”

I know the good ol’ days he’s referring to. The period was short. A summer, really. Aengus was twenty-two, I was eighteen, and Rowen seventeen—legally not allowed to pour pints, but he did a good job of hiding it. The three of us basically ran this place, giving Da a long-deserved break. Sure, Aengus had been helping Da for years already, but that had more troubles than merits. Aengus had a knack for weeding out the good servers from the bad with nothing more than a five-minute interview. His brute strength and affinity for manual labor meant Da rarely had to do anything besides pour pints and chat up customers. But a lot of what we do here involves keeping a smile on customers’ faces and making them want to come back. Aengus was never good at that part. And he’s as useless as tits on a bull when it comes to taking care of the books. He could hand out a paycheck, but figuring out how much we owed someone? Odds are half the staff would get paid too much and the other half would get ripped off.

None of that mattered, though, the day the cops slapped handcuffs on him. Da told him that as long as he was involved with any of these dissident groups, he didn’t have a job here. In our father’s eyes, having the likes of those madmen associated with Delaney’s was like spitting on his family’s graves.

I think Rowen was under the impression that Aengus would be reformed and slinging pints behind the pub with us again when they released him. But I’m the one who visited him the most while he was away, and while I had my own hopes, I knew better. Aengus has been out of the Delaney’s picture for so long, I forget what it’s even like to have him here.

Rowen’s arm muscles strain as he disappears through the narrow solid door and into the back with the dirty glasses, only to reappear a moment later with another rack, this one steaming hot, fresh from the dishwasher.

“Have you seen Da lately?” I ask.

“He was supposed to come in yesterday but his leg was acting up again. Ma rang here, asking where you were.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“That you were bucking some bird all night and she broke your cock.”

There’s no way he said that to Marion Delaney. The pint-sized woman would have appeared on our doorstep to drag me out by my ear and knock Rowen good across the cheek.

Before I can come up with a proper retort, a chirpy waitress—Selma, from Spain, who Aengus never would have hired—steps up to the computer by the bar, tray tucked under her arm. “Three Guinness and two Smithwick’s please,” she announces as she punches the order in, batting her eyelashes for Rowen. She used to do that to me, but I’ve given her so much flack about getting the pints of Guinness to customers as soon as they hit the counter that she avoids me now.

“Sure thing, love.” Rowen grins. He waits until she moves on to another table of customers before muttering under his breath, “And she sure is . . .”

“And that’s why Greta keeps telling you to fuck off.” I grab a glass and start pouring. “I’ll go see Ma and Da tomorrow morning, if you’re good with opening. Unless you want to go instead?” While our da can’t tend bar and lift things anymore on account of his bad leg, he still takes care of all the books.

“No bleeding way. Ma’s still on my back about messing things up with Irene.” Rowen’s focus roves the bar as he pours the rich stout with the expertise of a man who’s been doing it since he was fourteen, long before the law said he could. That’s the thing about a pub like Delaney’s.

We run our shit the way we want to run it.

For the most part, anyway. Delaney’s has been a landmark in Dublin for far too long to take too much grief from anyone. Sure, we’re not the oldest. A place down near the Jameson Distillery that’s been pouring pints since 1198 has us beat. But almost two hundred years on this quiet street buys us a good amount of freedom.

The building’s old. Some would say dingy. The exterior is stone and under a mason’s watchful eye. The narrow windows covered by black iron gates cut most daylight out. The inside stinks of hops and smoke still lingers in the red-velvet cushions of the bench seats, six years after smoking was banned from all of Ireland’s establishments.

But the charm is in the history, and this place has plenty of that. We use whiskey barrels for some tables, while others are made from the wood of run-down buildings in the countryside left abandoned during the Great Famine. The stools are worn but stable, and anyone who knows to look would see the names of infamous republican rebels and politicians carved into the underside, all patrons of Delaney’s in their time.

Bronze statues of Michael Collins and Éamon de Valera stand proud. The walls are covered in framed plaques with stories of the many nationalists who fought for a free Ireland, including my father, my grandfather, and ancestors dating back many Delaney generations.

It’s a pub rich in Irish heritage and familiarity, and I’ve always found comfort here.

I’m halfway through pouring the second pint of Smithwick’s when the tap starts spurting air. “Shite. Can you flip a keg for me?”

Rowen’s eyes flicker to my back. The wounds are starting to heal, but they still throb when I strain them too much. “Right. Finish this off for me.”

I take over on the Guinness tap, keeping the glass at a nice 45-degree angle, and Rowen disappears into the back. My eyes wander. At least half the tables are full at any given time here. Mostly with locals, but when tourists get a clue and realize that the city’s best watering hole is actually not in Temple Bar, we welcome them with open arms. It’s near the end of a workday on a Friday, and I know we’re about to get slammed with the after-work crowd.

“Testing . . . Testing . . .” A voice sounds over the stereo system, followed by a hard thumb tap. “It seems me instruments aren’t working well today. Nothing a good, strong pint can’t rectify. Right, River?”

I catch Collin’s weathered smirk and throw him a thumbs-up. He’s been playing his guitar and singing Irish lyrics at Delaney’s since I could barely climb on the bar stools to watch, taking half his payment in beer. He won’t start until he has a full pint sitting next to him.

I turn back to my task, prepared to grant him that wish as soon as I’m done with this other order. Nervous green eyes stare back at me from the other side of the tap.

The moment they capture me, the moment I see that face, I know it’s her.

Fuck.

She found me.

How the hell did she find me?

“Your T-shirt,” she says as if reading my mind, nodding to the fresh Delaney’s shirt I slipped on this morning. The other one was shredded. She clears her throat and adds, in a nervous, soft voice, “I saw someone wearing it and I remembered the stag. I figured I’d come by.”

We occasionally give our staff shirts away to customers. Usually it involves a bet that they can’t drink their pints faster than us. Of course we lose intentionally, giving them more reason to wear the shirt in public. It’s free advertising. I can’t believe something as stupid as a T-shirt led her here. She was completely out of it and yet she noticed that?

Questions are spinning inside my head as I stare at that stunning face, panic rising in my gut. How long are you in Dublin? Were you hurt? Why the hell would you track me down?

What did you tell the gardai?

My eyes instinctively dart to the door. No uniforms from what I can see.

“Um . . .” She frowns, her attention dipping to the tap. I finally notice the Guinness spilling over the rim and pouring into the trough below.

It’s the exact time that Rowen shows up to slam the tap off and stares at me, gob-smacked. “Wise up, River!”

“I’m sorry. I distracted him,” she says. Rowen’s gaze shifts between the two of us, settling on the scab over her bottom lip. It’s bad, but not bad enough for stitches from what I can see. Purple-bruised skin peeks out from the sleeve of her flowery pink blouse. That’s my fault. I hit her hard when I took her down. Not that I had much of a choice.

“Right.” Rowen leaves for the other side of the bar so he doesn’t have to watch me as I dump the entire pint and start over. I can’t serve an imperfect Guinness pour to a customer. But few things piss him off and I know inside that head of his, he’s screaming sacrilege. If there was anything our father taught us to believe in besides an independent Ireland, it’s that wasting beer is downright blasphemous.

I grab another glass and start over, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.

“So . . . River.” She has a soft voice. Her accent is a hundred times more charming than that of the American girls I usually meet. Maybe that’s because they’re usually drunk and yelling by the time I start talking to them.

And now she knows my name. Bloody hell. Won’t take long for them to find me with that, should she share it.

“Yeah.” I set the glass down on the counter to settle while I move on to another one, trying to quell the panic still burning inside. “My mother couldn’t make it to the hospital in time and ended up having me in the backseat of the car, next to Castletown River.” I’ve told the story of my unusual name so many times it rolls off my tongue.

“That’s sweet.”

“Right . . . sweet.” I smirk despite everything. “Better than being named Castletown.”

She smiles, pushing back a strand of her long hair—a pretty warm brown, like the cinnamon bark Ma likes to stick in her tea sometimes. I don’t remember it being so long, but then again I don’t remember much except her wild, green eyes—the color of a crisp cucumber’s flesh—and how soft the skin on her legs was, when I slid my hands along them, checking for shrapnel wounds.

She’s more beautiful than I remember.

Beautiful in that wholesome all-American girl way that the movies teach us about. Perfect, symmetrical features, smooth skin, straight, white teeth. Long, dark lashes that help trap my gaze. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing makeup. She’s definitely not wearing too much.

Of course I’ve met enough American tourists to know that that’s a Hollywood illusion, that they come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of brazenness, just like people around here. This girl, though . . .

She shouldn’t be here. She’s the only one, aside from Aengus, who can put me in the Green when the bomb went off.

“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Hello, River.” A dainty hand stretches out toward me and I’m compelled to take it, to hold it. “I’m Amber.” She blinks several times, her eyes suddenly wet, tears brimming at the corners. “I needed to say thank you.” The words she doesn’t say out loud hang between us as a tear spills down her cheeks.

Bloody hell. I can’t have this girl crying at the bar without raising questions. Maybe I should lead her to the back, where there’s privacy. . . .

A few irritated plucks of a guitar announce that Collin is now impatiently waiting. He’ll start getting obnoxious soon, and probably draw attention to the crying American bird in front of me.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I reach out with my free hand and steal the tear with my thumb. “No need,” I promise her, leaving her knuckles with a brief kiss before freeing myself from her grasp and settling it on the bar in front of her. “Selma!”

I pour Collin’s pint while Amber tries to compose herself in my peripherals, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a napkin from the bar.

Selma swoops in with her tray not ten seconds later.

“That one’s for Collin. Get it to him first so he’ll shut up.”

I can hear the small printer behind me churning, spitting out new drink orders from the other waitresses, but I ignore them for the moment to give all my attention to this creature in front of me, who’s staring up at me like I’m some sort of knight in shining armor. She’s composed herself again, at least. “How are you enjoying Ireland so far?” It’s a stupid question to ask her, all things considered, but it’s all I can think of.

A slight frown furrows her smooth skin, even as she smiles. “Good. Fine. Well, to be honest, I haven’t really been anywhere since . . .” She swallows hard and averts her gaze around us. “ . . . since I got here.” She shrugs in a “you know” way.

Anger boils inside me. Fucking Aengus. This poor girl’s holiday is probably ruined. She’s forever going to remember Ireland for a pipe bomb. I’m surprised she hasn’t hopped on a plane and gone home already.

“Listen . . .” I lean forward slightly, catching a whiff of spicy floral perfume. “What happened that day? That was one in a million. You should be more worried about our transit system.”

Her lips break into a wide, gorgeous smile, deep dimples forming on each cheek. “I believe you. Those double-decker buses move fast.”

I grab the drink orders from the printer and lay them out. She quietly watches me fill two pints and set them on the counter. “So, what can I get ya?”

“I actually—” She cuts herself off, hesitates, and then, looking around, makes a decision. Her voice drops and she leans in. “I have a few questions.” She rushes to add, “Just for me. I just need to talk to someone about what happened. And you’re the only one I can do that with.”

Of course she has questions. What the hell am I going to say? If I were a dick, like Aengus, I’d either yell at her or throw out a few choice innuendos that would make most well-mannered birds cringe in disgust and run away. But I don’t have the heart to do either. “I only have one question,” I counter, stalling.

She waits, her eyes widening, worry mixing with curiosity.

“Will it be Guinness or Smithwick’s?”

“Oh.” She smiles, and then frowns, her nose wrinkling. “My friends made me try a Guinness before I left and I wasn’t a big fan.”

“You tried it in America?” I chuckle and grab a glass. “Take a seat then.”

She does, perching herself on a stool, her gaze taking everything in. Collin tests a few notes on his harmonica, grabbing her attention. “Is he going to play real Irish music? I’ve heard places like this usually do.”

Places like “this.” I can’t help but chuckle. She looks like a little doll, perched prim and proper in the middle of this kip. Completely out of her element. I’m sure the only bars she’s heard about are the upscale ones in Temple Bar. They do play live Irish music. They also gouge the tourists’ wallets. “I guess you’ll have to stay and see, won’t you?”

A sparkle of excitement twinkles in her eyes but she says nothing, her gaze drifting over my arms as I finish pouring and set the pint in front of her. I lean across the bar, resting on my elbows. “Do you trust me?” I ask, half in jest.

She bites the inside of her cheek and then nods.

Concern pricks my conscience. Yes, I may have dove in front of a bomb for her, but, really, she should be a bit more wary of me. Yet it’s that trust, that admiration that radiates from her as she watches me, that’s reeling me in tighter by the second, making me lean forward even closer, ignoring the printer that keeps churning with orders. “Go on, then . . . Try it. This one’s on me.”

A small bloom of red touches her cheeks and I wonder what that’s about, as she brings the glass to her mouth to take the tiniest sip. A caramel froth mustache decorates her top lip when she pulls it away, smiling. When she catches me staring at it—at her lips—her cheeks brighten even more.

“Better than what you’ve had before, right?”

She nods, swiping at the foam with her thumb. Thoughts flicker across her face. “How did you know?”

“Because Guinness doesn’t travel well. Everyone says it’s better when poured at home.”

She leans in, settling a shrewd gaze on me, her voice low and suddenly so serious. “That’s not what I meant.”

In the blink of an eye, we’re back to the Green. I still don’t know what to say, so I peel away from the counter and grab a few orders to stall. The bar’s filling up quick. Soon I’ll have customers banking either side of us and this conversation won’t be able to continue. I could drag it out, let her walk out of here without any answers at all. I could let her form her own conclusions.

Likely they’d be bad.

Maybe they’d be right.

“I was jogging in the park,” I finally say. “I saw a guy drop it in the grass before you came running.”

“I didn’t see anyone else.” Her pretty brow pinches in thought. “Then again, I didn’t see you either. I guess I was more focused on my map.” A pause. “How did you know it was going to go off when it did?”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “I saw it and I saw you, and I ran as fast as I could.” My gaze drifts over that creamy, perfect skin, that long neck, those slender arms. What would she have looked like, shredded by flying plastic?

“But why wouldn’t you stay and tell the police? The . . . gardai.” She tests that word out on her tongue with a cute scowl.

Selma slides in then to grab napkins and more drink orders, stalling the conversation. I wait until she’s gone to lean over the bar again, this time closer. Close enough to avoid ears, close enough to catch the smell of spearmint on her breath. I remember it now. It’s all coming back to me, the feel of her beneath me on that grass. The terror that stopped my heart as I ran for her, believing I wouldn’t make it. The overwhelming relief I felt when I knew she’d be okay.

When I don’t answer, she pushes. “You saw the guy who did it. You could identify him.” She watches me and I can’t help but think that this innocent-looking American bird is weighing my answers with the skill of someone who can see through bullshit.

So I decide on a skewed version of the truth. “What if I don’t want that person knowing who I am, or that I could put him in prison?” I’m sure she’s read the papers. They didn’t waste time throwing out suspect groups. One, in particular. Pipe bombs are one of their signature methods, after all. She can’t be so ignorant as to not understand the dangers associated with those three little letters that mean so much when combined. IRA.

She nods slowly. “You’re scared of what he may do to you.”

“And to my family.” Now it’s my turn to ask a question. “What did you tell the gardai about me?”

A flash of guilt fills her face. “They were asking me a lot of questions and inspecting my backpack. At first, I’m pretty sure they thought I set the bomb and was pretending to be a victim.”

“You’re joking.” I definitely didn’t see that coming, but I guess female bombers aren’t unheard of. Especially young, innocent-looking ones.

“I wasn’t hurt, right? Other than this gash on my lip.” She touches it lightly with her fingertip, drawing my attention to it again. She’s got a wide mouth and plump lips, the kind that can’t handle a bright lipstick without looking clownish.

The kind that I like.

She shrugs. “So I told them that a man with an Irish accent saved my life. I said you knocked me down before the blast. But I told them I didn’t remember anything else.” Her gaze roams my face until her cheeks flush and she ducks away with a coy smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was flirting with me.

A string of notes finally catches my attention. Collin, beginning the first of many cheery Irish jigs. In the minutes while I was lost in conversation, regulars lined themselves up at the bar, perched on their stools, and waved for my attention. Delaney’s regulars aren’t patient when it comes to that first, cold after-work pint.

“River! You planning on working at all today?” Rowen hollers, glancing at Amber again with a knowing smirk.

“Go ahead.” She dismisses me with a smile. “I don’t want to keep you.”

I stall, torn between my job and what I really want to do—get to know this American more. Even though I know that’s a piss-poor idea. It’s best that I let her walk out of here and never look back. Definitely best for me. But also best for her. She doesn’t know me and I’m guessing, by the pretty little silver chains around her neck and the bangles on her wrist and the way she looks so put together, that if it hadn’t been for what I’d done for her, she might not be peering at me in that awestruck way.

“I’m glad to see you’re fine, Amber,” I finally offer.

She bites her bottom lip, stirring my blood. “Same here. I mean, with you. That you’re fine,” she stumbles over her words. Is she always this shy?

“Make sure you see all of Ireland while you’re here. It’s a beautiful country.” I take a deep breath. And then I turn my back on her, forcing myself to let the rush consume my attention as I dismiss Amber’s presence. It’s hard but not impossible to do, with the customers at the bar parched and hollering their needs at me. I lose track of time, working my half of the horseshoe-shaped bar with smiles and pours and quips to keep people laughing and drinking.

I get so good at avoiding her gaze that, at some point, she manages to duck out unnoticed, leaving nothing but an empty glass atop a napkin, with “thank you” scrawled across it.

It’s for the best, I remind myself again, pushing aside the edge of disappointment.