I was at a pub in the quaint town of Mullingar, Ireland. Why you ask? My good friend Amy was getting married in the next four and a half months and she had selected me to be one of her bridesmaids.

She asked me to come to the location early (about five months early, to be exact) because she said (and I quote) "You are the most honest and trustworthy friend I have and I need your presence now because I'm freaking out!" in a frantic phone conversation she and I had about seven and a half months ago. I don't know why she couldn't have picked Rachel, who was her maid of honor, and who was definitely more intrigued with this wedding crap than I would ever be able to. I never cared for frills and ribbons. It would have to be a pretty damn important occasion to make me wear a dress, let alone heels.

Amy wasn't the girl to admit she was freaking out; she mainly just freaked out with only a few and often over-exaggerated reasons to justify her episodes. The poor dear, she was probably having a constant anxiety attack during the whole process of planning a wedding.

The wedding was being held in the town of Mullingar, Ireland. I've never heard of the place but I heard they had good Scotch so I agreed. It would also be in the summer. Now, normally I would be annoyed about the heat, but Ireland isn't Virginia (which gets pretty hot in the summer) so I wasn't worried about standing there next to Amy, dripping in sweat.

She was getting married to her boyfriend of three years, John Elliot. John was her longest relationship, and it looks like it will be her longest relationship for the rest of her life. They got together in high school. It was the classic couple. She was cheer captain and he was the quarterback of the football team. John was in the corporate business. I didn't know what his job was; only that he worked in a big skyscraper in New York City and wore a suit every day to work. I think he was in the finance department of some huge corporation that paid its employees very well. I knew all of this because Amy couldn't stop gushing about it after their first date. They loved each other, nobody could deny that. Even me, a non-trusting nineteen year old chic, couldn't deny the love that they shared.

It was almost disgusting how much they loved each other. It was a mushy, showing lots of PDA kind of love. Some people call it puppy love. I call it gross. We were all still in college for God's sake!

But Amy is my friend and with that comes the duty to support her and her choices (no matter how stupid they may be and trust me, she's made some stupid ass choices in her life).

---

So back to the pub: where I was finishing my small glass of scotch. I was in a pissy mood, but it wasn't an angry pissed. It was more a mopey pissed. Now I know you shouldn't drink when you're emotional, but at that moment I couldn't two flying fucks. I was pissed that Amy, a bubbly, tart, poppy girl who has the brainpower of a thirteen year old can get a man to marry her when I can't get a man to go on a frickin' date with me.

I didn't want to admit it was jealousy; I didn't like John that way. He was way too stupid. He was the kind of guy that would be the stereotypical dumb jock in a movie about a high school back it the 90’s. But at the back of my mind, I knew it was jealousy. Being lonely sucked. I deal with it with ease most of the time. But when your friend, who’s getting married at the age of twenty, is trying to set you up with the groomsmen at her wedding, you feel pretty God damn lonely (and a bit pathetic).

He walked in the door like any other person would at 7 p.m. on a Monday night. There were only a handful of people in the pub and the majority of them worked there. I know it’s Ireland and it's full of drinkers, but come on. Nobody's drinking at 7 p.m. on a Monday night that isn't an alcoholic. Most sane people would be having dinner right about now.

As the door slowly closed, a cool gust of wind blew into the bar, filling it with the fresh scent of the busy street outside. I'm not an alcoholic, despite my taste for strong liquor such as Scotch. But when you're dragged around a church helping prepare your friend's wedding when you can't even get a boyfriend, let alone keep one, you need a drink or two of some strong stuff.

He came in and sat a couple spots down the bar from me. He ordered a pint with the classic Irish accent that after a week of hearing it, I had gotten way too used to. He drank silently with a slow pace, like he was savoring every drop of liquor that filled his mouth. He wore a farmer’s cap on his head, classic Irish boy. It was low enough to shadow his facial features so I couldn't see his expression, not that I cared anyway.

I was now finished with my scotch and asked the bartender for another. One thing you should know about me, I may be a lady, but I can hold my liquor. I don't get drunk easily, which is weird because I wouldn't consider myself a drinker.

He glanced over towards me with a curious eye. Probably wondering why the Hell an American girl in ripped skinny jeans, a Dave Matthews concert t-shirt, black boots, and little to no makeup on was doing in a place like this. The pub was somewhat hidden from the public eye, making it the perfect watering hole for someone who just needs a drink after a long day, like me.

I didn't look back at him at first. This wouldn't have been the first time a guy at a bar has looked at me. I don't consider myself beautiful, but I had enough confidence in me to think of myself as somewhat attractive. I certainly didn't look attractive though, who does without makeup nowadays? You have to plaster at least fifteen products to your face to be considered the smallest percentage of “cute” by the public. It's fucked up.

"Jack Daniels." he finally spoke with a somewhat deep voice. I guess he seemed to have noticed what the bartender was pouring into my glass.

OK, so he's gone through puberty. I thought to myself, for he looked like a teenager from where I was sitting. I didn't see that he was talking to me until he spoke again.

"Nice choice…. for an American." he muttered.

I raised my head slowly, turning towards him. I wasn't pissed at him for calling me an American, just annoyed that he didn't have the decency to at least say it to my face.

"First of all, laddie." I spoke in a fake Irish accent, "It's Am-mur-ri-can." I sarcastically declared in a mock southern, redneck tone.

He lifted his head to reveal his face. My mind clicked. It was a dude from I believe that British boy band that everyone couldn't stop yapping about. I think it's called One Direction or something. I wasn't into that kind of music so I didn't fangirl and throw myself at him like most other females would if they were in the position I was in. I didn't know which one he was, let alone how many of them were in the group.

He cocked an eyebrow at my remark and I smirked.

"And second of all, boyo: if you got something to say to me, at least have the decency to say it to my face." I continued in a less than friendly tone. I wasn't trying to be mean, but I wasn't trying to be Ms. Sugary Sweet either.

"I don't care who you are, where you're from, and in this case what band you're in. To me you’re the same person as the bastard up in the booth over there who’s probably piss drunk right now." I stated in a stern tone as I pointed my thumb to a man in a booth at the back of the bar, who was (as I guessed) really drunk.

I returned my gaze back to the bar and took another sip of my drink.

"My apologies." he replied. "Lassie." he added in with a smirk slapped on his triumphant looking face.

I didn't bother to look at him again. We drank in silence for the next 10 minutes or so. I wasn't keeping track of the time, only of how much drink I had left in my glass.

"So why do you treat everyone in here the same?" he asked in a curious tone with his Irish accent that was woven in his voice like the stitching my grandma’s quilt.

I sighed and got up from my chair, having finished my second and last drink (in public) for the night. I was too tired and didn't have the care left in me to answer his question. Why the Hell would he care? He’s an international superstar; he’s probably got enough confidence to make even Prince look like a coward. I left some bills that would cover the cost on the counter, put on my coat, and began walking towards the door.

I was walking past him when I felt a hand grab my forearm and pull me back. I whipped my head around and saw it was he who had snatched me off my path. He gazed at me with searching eyes as I looked straight into his, wondering how the Hell can one's eyes be so blue and yet still be human.

"Why do you say treat everyone the same, yet you treat me with such a negative difference?" he asked again, glaring at me with his icy blue orbs, keeping a firm grip on my arm so I couldn't escape him or his question (again).

His tone was slightly harsh, obviously annoyed with my lack of response. His thick Irish accent jolted me out of my trance and I sharpened my gaze towards him.

"Why do you need to know?" I snapped.

"Because I need to know." he shot back quickly, his eyes still searching for some sort of answer in my face.

We stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like days before I made the first move in my attempt to have his grip on me loosen. His expression was firm, determined to find the answer he was looking for. I wriggled my arm and he let go, his eyes never leaving me and his expression unmoved. I fixed my coat and looked back towards him.

"I'll write you why." I told him boldly with such a casual tone that it surprised even me. And with that I walked towards the door of the pub.

I stopped just as I was about to walk out, my body in the middle of the frame. I shifted my position so that I faced him once more.

"Laddie." I added with a smirk before I shut the door and walked into the night.

---

Holy fucking shit. Was I just saucy with an internationally famous pop star?! I thought to myself as I walked over to the curb to hail a cab back to the apartment Amy and John had rented for me to stay in.

John, with all of his money, and Amy, with her talent of begging and convincing people with just a few syllables, insisted that I live in a really nice apartment until the wedding is over. It wasn't a mansion, nor did it have room service, but it was on the top floor. But it was quiet, had a wonderful view of the city of Mullingar with a couple of tall trees surrounding it, and was cozy. There were bookshelves full of classic titles, most of which I've read to keep myself busy during rainy days. Oh how wonderful the view was on a rainy day! There was a queen bed in the bedroom with a dresser, nightstand, and big windows with black out curtains (I like to sleep in.) and an attached bathroom. There was a kitchen with a stove, oven, dishwasher, sink, and even a microwave! The TV set was a flat screen TV that sat adjacent from a large, deep crimson red couch. On one side of the couch was a leather recliner that I liked to read in. There was a fireplace under the TV (my favorite feature!) and the atmosphere felt like a cabin instead of an apartment. It was wonderful.

A cab pulled up shortly after I raised my hand up and I climbed in. I gave the driver my destination and I sat back against the black cushion. Nice job there Abby, or should I say Lassie. I thought and I couldn't help but beam with victory as I had grown a new level of confidence. My joy was short lived as my promise had shot back to the front of my mind.

Holy shit. I thought.

What am I going to write him?

Notes

So comes the end of Chapter 1! I hope you liked it!

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- NightShade ❤ :)