I can’t tell if he’s smirking or serious when he says, “Tousled hair brings to mind all the things you did to mess it up.”
“Guess you didn’t catch the whole airport debacle. I kind of screwed it up there.”
“Ah. So, no night of fun did that to you, eh?”
Another laugh. “No. Just got dumped yesterday, so the lack of styling is a bit of rebellion. I don’t need to look pretty for him anymore, so…” I sigh, trying to ignore the ache in my chest.
“I see,” he says quietly. “Truly, I am sorry for your loss.”
The pilot warns of takeoff, and soon, the plane levels out above the clouds. The engines hum steadily, and the cabin must have some good soundproofing because this is much quieter than our flight to Ireland.
Ronan folds his coat with careful precision before placing it overhead. Even the smallest movement seems considered. I can’t decide if it’s intimidating or deeply attractive. “Would you care for a cocktail? Might take the sting out of things.”
“Yes,” I answer dramatically, earning his chuckle. We settle on whiskey, which he pours into two glasses.
He lifts his glass. “Here’s to those who have seen us at our worst and at our best and don’t care about the difference.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And I do.
“So you came all the way to Galway for a man?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And he dumped you for that.”
“Not for that,” I explain. “I think I was way more invested than he ever was, and this was a shiny photo op for his social media, nothing more.”
Ronan thinks for a moment. “Sounds like a man who didn’t know what he had when he had it.”
“Accurate. What brought you to Ireland? By the accent, I’m assuming it was family.”
He nods. “We tend to get together a few times a year, St. Patrick’s Day being one of them. Though this time, I wonder whether luck played a role in being here.”
“How’s that?”
“I had thought to skip it this year. My work keeps me busy?—”
“Yeah. What is it you do that puts you into a private plane?”
“I’m a cardiologist. I’ve developed some medical devices, as well. And my family owns a chain of laboratories?—”
“You’rethatCallahan? Callahan Labs?”
He smiles and nods once again. “That’s us. As I was saying, my work keeps me busy, so I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to make it. But then my son said he was coming, and I always try to make time for him whenever I can.” He says that with a tone I don’t like.
“He didn’t make it?”
“No. Busy, I suppose. But that’s life.” His sentence does not invite prying into that, so I don’t. There’s a pause between us that doesn’t feel empty or intrusive.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, the conversation changes shape.
We talk about Boston. About Irish weather. About medicine and consulting and the strange ways ambition can distort people.
“You’re very young,” he says at one point.
“I’m twenty-five. Not so young.”
“I did not imply you were a child,” he replies calmly. “I meant you have time to decide what you will and will not accept.”