IRISH LOVESTORY - Blinded By Love

 

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Blinded by Love

I got Jack’s number under a false pretense. Pete had handed it over without a second thought, and in that moment, I felt a surge of relief so strong it almost knocked the breath from me. I needed to hear him, to speak to someone who knew me, really knew me—the one person who could understand the jumble of fear, longing, and confusion that consumed me.

We met the next evening at Din Rí. My message had been vague, a simple hint that I needed to talk. I found him waiting at the top of the stairs, leaning against the bar. The sight of him—the familiar lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes—washed over me like sunlight after days of rain.

“Hi,” we said almost in unison, and suddenly the weight I had been carrying lightened just a little.

He ordered me a drink, and I tried to gather the thoughts that were scattered like broken glass in my mind.

“So, tell me. What’s going on?” he asked, calm and patient, like he had all the time in the world.

I spilled the story, every detail of Sunny’s ex and the chaos she had brought into my life. I told him about the nights I had feared for my safety, the sleepless hours, the small terror that never left me. Jack listened, silent, his eyes steady.

“Then leave,” he said simply, concern threading his voice. “She sounds like real trouble.”

I hadn’t come for solutions. I hadn’t needed him to fix my life. I only wanted a witness, someone who could hold the truth of my fear and my confusion without judgment. That he listened, really listened, was more than enough. That night, even amidst the hopelessness, I felt a flicker of something I had thought lost: comfort.

Love flared quietly but fiercely inside me, a fire that seemed to burn brighter with every glance, every word, every moment we shared. With Jack, there was no need for explanations. He knew me. Truly knew me. And in that knowledge, I found strength. That evening, I went home lighter, braver, certain that for as long as Jack remained in my world, I could face whatever came next.

Weeks passed, and we met again, this time at Lennon’s, a snug bar with red walls and dark-lacquered tables, buzzing with young energy. I was with Sylvia, my friend from Jessie’s, waiting anxiously. He was late, as he often was.

When he arrived, it was with an entourage—three broad-shouldered men in dark suits. For a moment, I almost laughed, imagining them as mafia. And then I recognized Jack among them, moving with the casual command that always seemed to follow him. Women glanced, discreetly, but I only had eyes for him.

His companions, Ben and Tom, were striking in their own ways. Ben was friendly, with a sharp gaze softened by a warm smile. Tom was enormous, a quiet presence that filled any space he entered. I noticed them only peripherally; my attention was fixed on Jack—his hair slicked back, his suit sharp, and his impossible calm. The music of Elton John and Blue—Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word—wrapped around us like a private song.

Jack suggested we all drive to a nearby town, where he and his friends were “working security” at a nightclub. I didn’t question it. I would follow him anywhere.

Then Sunny appeared, leaning between Jack and me, begging for help at the bistro. I stayed silent, my loyalty torn but my desire clear. Sylvia stepped in for the shift, and Sunny left, apparently unbothered.

The car ride was absurd—a tiny vehicle barely holding us. Tom’s bulk filled the front seat; Jack squeezed into the back beside me, his long legs tangling awkwardly around the gearstick. The ride jolted with every turn, the chaos strangely thrilling.

At the club, the night was dim, almost lifeless. I sat with a drink, waiting. Jack came by occasionally, checking on me, but kept his distance. Ben filled the gaps, chatting and bringing drinks, keeping me company. Yet my heart remained tethered to Jack, yearning for even the smallest connection.

The disco closed early, the night ending in anticlimax. Jack was suddenly surrounded by teenage girls, laughter and squeals filling the room. I turned to Ben, masking my jealousy with sarcasm.

“Seems Jack’s not short on female attention,” I said.

“Just silly eighteen-year-olds,” Ben replied, shrugging.

The ride home was quiet. Jack and I sat side by side, a silence heavy with unspoken words. My hand trembled, longing to bridge the gap between us. And then, impossibly, his hand found mine. Light at first, tentative, and then firm as our fingers entwined. I pressed my palm to his, trembling, tears rising unbidden. It was a touch that spoke of homecoming, of solace, of every lost moment regained.

When he dropped me home, he kissed me softly, and the world seemed to still. Stars shone overhead, but none brighter than him.

Sunny was there, waiting. He didn’t question me, didn’t scold. My heart, still thrumming with Jack, turned to him in honesty. I confessed everything, every flutter of longing and every pang of guilt.

“I know you still love him,” Sunny said quietly. “You don’t love me. And you never did.”

His words struck harder than I expected, a neon sign burning in the dark. I could not deny it, could not argue. I left that light behind me, stepping into the night with only one star to guide my way.