“Don't let him be humble,” Oliver says. The two of them sit on a sagging old sofa against the far wall of, what I assume, is the bar's office. He leans his ear to the acoustic guitar in his hands, turning the knobs. “The man has perfect pitch.”
“Had,” Cillian corrects him. He pulls a chair from beside the desk for me.
Lucy scoffs. “Cillian, you got blown up and still have a better ear than most people.”
“I'm sorry, what?” The question comes out before I consider the implications. Lucy looks apologetically at Cillian and regret stirs in my gut.
Cillian clears his throat. “It's fine Lu.” He looks at me. “I was, um, in the military for a bit.”
“For too long,” Oliver says, not looking up from the guitar.
“Not gonna argue with that,” Cillian says.
I hadn't dwelt on the scars I'd noticed when Cillian and I were together. They could have been from any number of things. However, military service hadn't even crossed my mind. He just didn't seem the type.
Which, in retrospect, was ridiculous. The only real 'type' I knew of was people who lacked generational wealth. Plenty of kids I grew up with wound up either in the military or married to someone in the service. Less out of patriotism and more out of sheer desperation. Given the choice to rot in a single-wideor be treated like cannon fodder, many chose the latter; at least that had benefits.
It just seemed like a path I only attributed to those who grew up without access to public transportation.
The door to the bar opens, filling the small space with a flood of noise, chasing out any discomforting silence.
“We got 'em warmed up for you kids!” An older man with a head full of salt and pepper hair and a softened Irish accent announces.
“Mickey!” Lucy cheers.
“Hello, sweet Lulu!” The two embrace. Oliver sets the guitar aside and accepts his own warm hug.
As a couple of other older gentlemen filter in, I stand and move to hover beside Cillian, unsure where I should be. It's not something I have to consider for long.
“And who is this?” Mickey asks, catching me in eyes that match his son's.
“Dad, this is Toni. She's a new friend, just moved,” Cillian introduces me.
“Mickey O’Sullivan.” He extends a warm handshake. “Pleasure to meet you.” When most people say that, it feels hollow, just an empty platitude. When this man says it, you know he means it.
“Likewise.”
He leans in, mischief tripping off his words. “Now, anything this one may do to bother you, don't go blamin' me. All the bad comes from the other side.”
“I heard that!” A tall, bald man says. “Don't listen to a damn thing he says.”
“I assume he's from the other side?” I ask.
Mickey taps his temple. “Smart girl.” He looks up at his son. “What's she doing hanging out with you lot?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Cillian snarks. Mickey just laughs, patting Cillian over his heart.
“Alright, you kids go get set up, don't want to leave people waiting,” Mickey says.
“You not staying, Mick?” Oliver asks.
“Not this time. Promised my Kitty I'd be home at a reasonable hour.” He turns back to me. “You tell my niece to take good care of you at the bar.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Smart and respectful!” He declares. “Darling, you are too good for this lot.”
“Hey!” Oliver and Lucy object in unison.
