Amelia bursts out laughing. We’re sitting in a corner booth near thestage, Myra complaining about the lack of mixed drinks while Amelia and I discuss getting a flight of the local craft brews. The place is packed, but the pub owner, Pat, is on stage plucking at a guitar and singing an old Irish jig. Being here always makes me think of my trip to Ireland. It was overwhelming going by myself, but I fell in love with the country and soon learned that I could manage just fine as long as I had a Guinness in hand and could find my way back to Temple Bar. I can’t wait to go back.
“You bitches are so rude!” Myra glares at us before glancing around the room. “When do those soccer players go on stage? I call dibs on the hot one.”
“The hot one? And which one would that be, My?” Amelia laughs.
“Whichever one I decide! You can have whoever is left over.” She turns her nose into the air and waves a dismissive hand towards the stage.
“I hear you kidnapped poor Norie here!” Charlie says, appearing out of seemingly thin air and plopping herself down next to me. “You know Friday nights are for Outlander.”
Both Myra and Amelia roll their eyes. They’re clearlyveryremorseful.
“Charlie, she can’t just stay sitting in that house every weekend. She’s never going to meet anyone,” Myra says.
“Well, maybe she doesn’t want to meet anyone. Maybe she’s satisfied with me. Ever think about that?” Charlie asks, leveling them with a playful scowl.
“Guys, I’m literally right here. I can hear you, ya know. And yeah, maybe Charlie is all I need in life. She understands me and doesn’t make me do things that Iclearlydon’t want to,” I say with a pointed look in their direction.
The girls tease me relentlessly about not dating anyone, even knowing my history. I’ve gone out a time or two since being in North Carolina, but nothing ever lasted more than a single date. Myra opens her mouth to say something, probably highly inappropriate when the lights dim and Pat O’Nelly taps on the mic.
“Good evenin’, friends! I’m so glad to be seein’ ya in O’Nelly’s tonight! We have a special surprise for ya! As some of you know, our very own UNCWfootball team—no, not that rubbish American pigskin game, but therealfootball we play in my homeland—is here tonight…”
Cheers erupt all over the pub. Over in a corner closest to the stage, I can finally see where the team sits—half of them in their jerseys and the other half in t-shirts. Most of them whoop and holler and high-five each other while only a few remain silent. My eyes snag on one in particular. There is nothingnotattractive about a soccer player, but this one has something extra. His hair is inky black, cut close on the sides but long enough on top to drape across his forehead. His sharp jawline is lightly stubbled and has me wondering what it would feel like if he nuzzled my neck…wait, what the hell? I shake my head to dislodge that line of thinking and turn back to the stage.
“Now, calm down!” Pat barks, his Irish brogue thickening the more agitated he gets. “As I was sayin’, our boys here have agreed to perform a little ditty from the Green Isle to start Open Mic Night! Isn’t that wonderful? Let’s give them all a big welcome to O’Nelly’s stage!”
Cheers explode once more as the team rises from their chairs and walks toward the stage. It’s a small platform, so anyone not playing an instrument has to stand in front of it, much to the ladies’ delight on the first row. The three players who had been silent at the table take to the stage, moving toward the instruments. The dark-haired mystery man grabs a guitar and sits on the bar stool at stage left while the other two—a tall guy with thick, wavy copper hair and matching beard, and a shorter guy with tousled brown hair—grab a violin and a harmonica.
“This should be interesting,” Amelia whispers in my ear, making me snort in amusement.
“Look at that blond in the front!” Myra blurts out, eyes wide. “Look how ripped he is!”
She’s not wrong. He’s extremely handsome with the body of a Greek god, smiling like he knows exactly how good he looks too, and the girls closest to him aren’t helping his ego any. As handsome as he is, my eyes keep getting drawn back to the guitarist. I try not to ogle random men, butdamn, he’s beautiful.
“Stupid,” I mutter.
“What’s stupid?” Charlie asks, brow raised.
“Oh, nothing. Just all these girls acting like these guys are superstars or something.” I fold my arms on top of the table.
“Well, they kind of are. They did win Nationals last year,” Amelia reminds me. She would know since she grew up playing sports and is a walking ESPN channel.
“True. But they’re just people, like the rest of us,” I say with a shrug,
“Oh, yeah? Is that why you can’t take your eyes off the guitarist?” Myra asks loudly.
My face flushes as I shoot daggers at her. It’s my biggest tell. I blush over literally everything. “Shut up! I was not staring. I was just trying to figure out how all of those guys are going to do any justice to Pat’s song. That guy probably doesn’t even know how to play the guitar.”
Nice save, me.
Then the music starts, with the guitar no less, and it turns out I’m wrong. Very wrong. Tall, dark, and handsome strums gently at first but then picks up the pace. Somehow he manages to transport me right back to the streets of Dublin—music spilling out of the pubs, people laughing and singing loudly along. I’m completely mesmerized. It feels like a lifetime of music, but it’s only a handful of seconds. The harmonica and fiddle join in, and I’m officially a goner.
Until the singing begins.
It’shorrible. They’re loud and off-key. Pat O’Nelly stands offstage with his fingers in his ears, grinning. Nothing makes Pat happier than bringing his homeland to this pub. That’s why it’s my favorite. There are pubs all over the Wilmington area, and each one boasts its authenticity, but Pat’s is the real deal.
When he lived in Renvyle, Ireland, he owned a small pub with his wife, Ellie. He came to America after she passed away. His oldest son was getting his medical degree at UNCW at the time, so he moved over to be close to him and open up O’Nelly’s. Above the polished mahogany bar, there’s a black-and-white picture of Pat and Ellie when they were in their latetwenties or early thirties. You can tell in the picture that Ellie was a redhead and full of the fire that accompanies it—I’m more than a little aware of that stereotype. Having been born towheaded and then progressing naturally to a shade somewhere between copper and auburn, I’ve heard every remark under the sun. Some playful, others downright perverted.
As the horrible rendition of “All For Me Grog” ends, everyone stands to applaud and cheer. Myra puts her fingers in her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle, quickly attracting the attention of the blond Neanderthal she set her sights on earlier. Amelia and I give each other a knowing look. She won’t be leaving the pub with us tonight.
