Thomas & January (Sleepless 2)

“No, I’m cool now. I want to get out and listen to a few bands.”

“All right, I’ll meet you downstairs then.”

I closed the door behind her and showered and dressed for Temple Bar quickly. I sat in front of the small mirror above my sink and wondered what the hell I was doing. I had no intention of looking for bands that night. I just wanted to stare at January. Oh, yeah, and make sure Ailin or anyone else for that matter, didn’t. I took a long look at myself in the mirror. I was twenty-two years old and appeared thirty, but that wasn’t because I physically looked thirty. It was because I wore my bitterness on my face like a second coat. I briefly thought for a moment if January could help me shed that coat but shrugged it off. I needed to remember that January would more than likely hurt the hell out of me and then I’d be an even bigger jerk than I already was and, to be honest, I was tired of being a jerk. It was wearing.

I took the stairs into the lobby below. The friendly desk clerk pointed outside. I opened the door and found January sitting on the stoop below me so I joined her.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yup.” She stood and wiped the dirt off her black skinny jeans. She carefully balanced herself down the steps on her ridiculous black heels.

“You’re gonna break an ankle,” I observed before grabbing her arm. A thick, syrupy heat spread through my hand and laced its way up into my chest, making another icy layer crack and spit in anger.

When she reached the walk, I let go like my hand had been at a hot stove. We walked in silence to Gogarty’s, my hand repeatedly wanting to guide her by her lower back around potholes or stumps. I had to ring my arm in every time it reached out.

Gogarty’s was packed even for a Friday from what I could remember, all tourists, but the unbelievable traditional music there was enough to wrangle even a few locals. The door swung open and we were hit with the fragrance of classic Irish cuisine, in other words, a bunch of meat and potatoes, and yeast but the music, the music that filled the pub was truly tangible. It rang in the air and swept over each expectant ear, swirling to the rooftop and guided back down. It was beautiful, incredibly beautiful.

Ailin saw us from across the bar and waved us over. We weaved our way through and he gestured to two empty seats beside him. January sat directly next to him and I next to her, but I got right back up.

“What’ll you have?” I asked.

“Uh,” she said, looking around, unsure.

My brows narrowed. “Do you drink, January?”

“Not really,” she shrugged sheepishly. “Just get me whatever you’re drinking.”

I laughed. “I don’t think you want what I’m having, sweetheart.”

“Condescension. Nice touch.”

“Fine,” I said, lifting my hands in surrender. “I’ll get you a pint of Guinness.”

“Good,” she said smugly, making me smile like a dumbass.

I leaned down into her ear. “Whatever you do, January, don’t take a damn thing from these clowns. You hear me? We don’t really know them.” Her eyes were round in her head but she nodded. I sat back up and gestured to the others. “Pint, boys?” They shook their heads, their glasses over half full. Not half empty. Twenty-two years of Tie-Dye Tom couldn’t be erased so swiftly after all.

I approached the bar and ordered two pints of Guinness instead of my usual McEwan's Scotch Ale. She would have been toe up from just the smell of it if I’d ordered her that. I gathered the pints and made my way back to January, setting the stout in front of her face and waited for her reaction. She smiled widely and picked up the pint. She hesitated, looking at me before bringing it to her lips.

“Drink up, baby girl.”

“I am,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows. “Stop ordering me around.”

I sighed deeply.

She took a long, deep swig of the stout and her face contorted to impossible angles, making me laugh my ass off.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I - I like it,” she answered, her face still slightly knotted.

“I can tell.”

She gave me a dirty look and I backed off, deciding to finally focus on the band playing that night.

They were just finishing up a lively tune when they shifted things a bit and started a deep, dark lament. January shot upright in her chair and grabbed my arm. “Molly Bán,” she whispered to me, never taking her hand from my bicep.

Molly Bán is a song of sad fates, a warning of sorts, meant for all young men.