He grins. He has a glorious grin, not to be confused with a smile. No, his looks are cunning and mischievous and drugging.
“I’m Kirby.”
“Summer.”
We both lean forward at the same time, still in our seats, to shake each other’s hands. When we sit back, we both cross our legs. He picks up his book; I pick up my phone. We go back to whatever was keeping us occupied, but we’re both smiling.
“Are you a member of the Mile-High Club, Summer?” he asks, flipping a page casually.
I post a story on Instagram with a picture of his feet, captioned: “Look at these feet! Just imagine the rest of him? #WinkWink!”
“Well, no, but as Groucho Marx once said, ‘I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.’”
Please be my Richard Gere.
Please be my Richard Gere.
Please be my Richard Gere.
He smiles.
“Then how about dinner? Fully clothed.”
“Partial clothing is fine, too, you know.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
One year later
Rory
A little hand grabs mine, pulling me toward the throng, her tiny feet secured in shiny, red Dorothy-style shoes.
“Pu-leeeeeease. You said five minutes. Surely at least a thousand have passed!”
“It’s been barely two.” I laugh, lowering my camera.
I give the subject of my photo shoot, an engaged couple, a helpless shrug. They don’t seem mad. Maybe because they haven’t paid me.
When I officially resigned from Blue Hill, I promised myself no matter what I do, I will always leave room to have one photo shoot a month that’s completely pro bono. Chicken soup for my inspiration, if you will. Last month it was the 100th birthday party of a woman named Joselyn O’Leary in North Dublin. I came to her retirement home and took pictures of her dancing with her new beau, Finn, who at the tender age of eighty-five, is fifteen years her junior.
Today, it’s a couple of teenagers—nineteen, I believe—who fell pregnant and decided to make it official. They don’t have a budget to speak of for their wedding. They’re going to use the bride’s mother’s living room for the party next month, and the dress and ring were bought at a secondhand store. They wrote me a touching letter asking if I’d be willing to take a few pictures of them, so here I am.
Their wedding will be held at a local council flat, and not only have I been invited, but I promised to come, too.
“Two or a thousand, it is time to go.” Tamsin pouts adorably, the way she does when she’s trying to get me to give her chocolate.
The couple laugh and shake their heads.
“Your daughter is just precious,” the girl tells me, adjusting the polka-dot dress that’s a little too tight on her swollen midriff.
I don’t tell her Tamsin is not my daughter, because frankly, it feels like she is. I move my hand along Tamsin’s ponytail, brushing flyaways behind her ear and smile down at her. I’ve found bringing her when I take pictures brings brighter smiles to everyone’s faces, and my photos have never been better.
“We’ll see you at the wedding, then? Next month?”
“You bet!” the soon-to-be-husband says. “Hopefully she’ll like us more when there are snacks and drinks around, aye?”
Tamsin and I walk hand in hand down Drury Street and toward the growing crowd in front of Mal.
It doesn’t matter that Mal is a millionaire. He will always busk, and I will always love him for that just a little more than I did the day before, because his passion and integrity for his art inspire me.
It also doesn’t matter that we are in the midst of refurbishing the cottage completely, gutting it from within, and are currently staying with Elaine, Lara, and Father Doherty while we’re waiting for our home to be ready.
It took a while, but Elaine and Lara warmed up to me. Father Doherty did his best to bridge the gap, but I think what did it was my relationship with Tam. They could hate me all they wanted, but the truth of the matter was—is—I am the one who fixes her hair every morning, does 2,000-piece puzzles with her, helps her with her homework, and binge-watch vintage Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It was also helpful that I turned out to be just as frugal and unaffected by money as Mal is, so they can see I’m not here for an inheritance or some other sort of free ride.
“May I have chocolate milk? And apple candy? And this dress? And these boots? Rory, can I? Oh,