Luck of the Irish

I tug on my fleece jacket, zipping it all the way up. Spring in Chicago certainly is taking its time coming this year and the dark night keeps all possible warmth at bay.

I kiss my parents on the cheek, saying ‘oiche mhaith’ to them and Neall. Joan had slipped away just after closing-a good hour ago- on the arm of someone. A sinking feeling tells me it’s a certain hockey player.

On my mom’s instructions, I carry out a load of trash to the dumpster in the alleyway. It’s a balancing act, trying to keep my bag on my shoulder all the way heaving large plastic bags over my head.

“Here,” a deep voice says, lifting one from my hands.

I gasp and whip around, delivering a hard fist into the intruder’s abdomen. Breath whistles out of his mouth and he steps back, hunched over. I begin backing away, towards the street. My hand is rifling through my bag for my cell phone and pepper spray. But that’s before I realize who it is.



She punched me. Hard.

I suppose it’s my own fault. Sneaking up on a woman at night in a dark alley probably isn’t the best way of getting her attention. And neither is following her into the bathroom of her family’s bar.

“Patrick?” she asks, almost on the sidewalk and a good four feet from me. “What the hell?”

“I… didn’t mean… to scare…you,” I say slowly, in between gasps for air. “Sorry.”

She breathes a sigh of relief upon hearing my voice. “Don’t do that!” Jane’s footsteps approach me and before I can react, she’s leaning next to me against the brick wall. “Are you okay?”

“That was a pretty hard punch,” I bring myself upright. “For a girl.” I can’t help but let a smirk seep into my words.

She swats me, much lighter than our last contact. “That was a hard punch for anyone, Mr. I-Don’t-Fight.”

“I fight,” I defend myself. “I just…don’t do it often.”

“Uh-huh,” she rolls her eyes and smiles. “Seeing as you’ve scared me to death twice today already and seem to be just fine, I’m going to head home.”

“Hey!” I call after her as she begins to walk up the street. “What about earlier? In the bathroom?”

Jane doesn’t turn around. “What about it?”

I jog to catch up with her. “You said if I waited around, we’d go out.”

“I said maybe,” she reminds me. “And in all honesty, I didn’t think you’d stick around. I’m pretty surprised, actually.”

I’m surprised too. The old me would never have waited around for a girl that wasn’t definitely going to give me what I wanted. But now, here with Jane, I’m not quite sure what I want.

“But I did,” I say. “Come on, one drink?” I can’t even stop myself from persisting.

“Haven’t you been drinking all day?” Jane doesn’t looks at me as she prepares to cross the street.

“Jane,” it’s the first time I’ve said her name. I grab her elbow, keeping her in her place. “Come on.”



His grasp is firm around my arm and it stops me dead in my tracks. Slowly, I turn to face him.

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeats my question, furrowing his brow.

I can tell he’s not used to this-any of this, really. Patrick should be able to get what he wants when he wants- with no questions. But here I am, turning him down and asking questions about his motives.

Patrick doesn’t know how to answer and I shake my head at him, smiling a little. I shake my arm free and step down from the curb. The wind is picking up and I’m anxious to get home to where my sister surely waits along with my warm bed.

My sister. Inwardly, I groan, remembering who she most likely left with. Had they gone back to our apartment?

“Where did you learn to throw a punch like that?” now Patrick’s back to asking questions.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease; shocked he’s still following me.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you,” his voice is quiet, a little timid.

I’m not seeing much of the slightly awkward Patrick from that afternoon. My guess is that he knows how to act now that there isn’t the inevitable partying and alcohol. But there is still an underlying uncertainty, like he isn’t quite sure how to behave with his done over ‘image’.

“And it’s probably going to stay that way,” I answer half-mindedly. In my head, I’m thinking of the probability of me sleeping at the gym tonight. Do I have the key to the back door on me? Does Rachael still live above it? Why is my sister unable to keep her pants on for one night?

Too many questions of my own combined with Patrick’s persistency are enough to make me sit down on a building’s front stoop, my head in my hands.



Jane stops all of a sudden, sitting down and hanging her head. Frustrated, she rubs her temples and takes a few deep breaths. Awkwardly, I stand above her, looking down. Once again, I’m unsure of what to do.

“Your sister left with Shawzy,” I blurt out, hoping for the best. “They looked…cozy.”

In a foreign language that sounds almost made up, she says something, groaning. Swearing?

“One drink,” Jane slowly brings her head. “But it’s coffee and only coffee.”