copyright©2025
OUR FIRST TIME
It was February, and the Irish weather remained surprisingly mild. Winters here were rarely cruel, and people often wandered the streets in t-shirts well into the year. Rain was the only reminder that the season had changed—doing what winter couldn’t quite finish.
I met him in the evening at the Manor House. He was seated at the bar, nursing a pint of Heineken. I was nervous at first, but the moment he spoke, my anxiety dissolved. He seemed distant, though, and I couldn’t blame him. I had missed our last date, and I knew he hadn’t forgiven me.
“I want to apologise for not showing up,” I said, my voice thick with regret. “My head was filled with strange thoughts—I needed time to clear it.”
“I waited like an eejit,” he replied, eyes cast down, his tone weighty. “Then I saw you from the window at Phelan’s, getting into Ken’s car. That hit me hard. I told myself I was done with you. I swore I’d stop calling. I just wanted it to end.”
His words unsettled me. I hadn’t realised how deeply he felt, how seriously he had taken everything. I feared he’d only come to say goodbye.
“You really hurt me,” he continued. “I don’t have time for games. When you make a promise, keep it. If not, there’s no future for us. I’ll walk away.”
His honesty stung. I watched him closely, guilt weighing heavier with each word. Then suddenly, he changed the subject.
“What would you do,” he asked, “if I told you I had another love in my life?”
My heart lurched. I steadied myself, not wanting him to see how much that question rattled me.
“I guess it depends on what kind of love you mean,” I replied carefully.
He reached into his pocket, fumbled something in his hand, then repeated the question.
“Would you accept it if I had someone else?”
Before I could respond, he opened his palm.
“This is Julian,” he said softly, holding out a keychain with a small photo of a child.
Relief washed over me like a tide. The weight on my chest—enormous and suffocating—lifted in an instant. In the picture was a little boy, maybe two years old, beaming with innocent joy.
“I don’t usually do relationships,” he admitted. “Most women freak out when they find out I have a kid.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said gently. “If he matters to you, then he matters to me.”
He inhaled deeply, visibly moved. “You’re probably the first person who’s ever reacted like that. What you just said... it means a lot. You’ve earned my respect.”
He was an enigma—one moment he pushed me away, the next he lifted me into his world. But I didn’t dwell on it. I was simply grateful. We were close again.
When the subject of Ken resurfaced, he was firm. He wouldn't play second fiddle. A choice had to be made—and I already knew what that meant. My ties to Ken would have to be cut, and permanently. No more ambiguity.
As we said our goodbyes outside the Manor House, he pulled me into the alcove beside the door and kissed me, deeply and without hesitation. We giggled, whispered like teenagers in love. My fears melted. I felt weightless. I rested my hands on his chest while he held my waist tightly. I fiddled with his necklace, gazing into his eyes, wishing time would stop. He stood a full head taller than me, and for the first time in my life, I felt safe.
That night, I wrote everything in my journal. I had no one else to share it with. Marketa kept mostly to herself, buried in books or busy working. She’d once taught English at a primary school and still treated me like one of her students. We lived together, but we came from different worlds. I was here to live and explore. She had come to Ireland simply to earn money.
About a month later, after Jack and I had officially become a couple, he picked me up from work and drove me to Kilkenny, a charming medieval town just fifteen minutes away. Grey stone buildings from the Norman era lined the streets. The River Nore ran through its heart, and a proud castle overlooked it all from a gentle hill. Pubs and restaurants stood on every corner, alongside butchers, Chinese specialty shops, bookstores, music shops, and cafés.
He hadn’t told me where we were going—it was a surprise. Every time I asked, he evaded the question or mumbled something vague. I gave up trying. I was just happy to be with him. That evening, we sipped drinks at a bar and talked for hours.
“I’ll have to introduce you to my family soon,” he said, smiling.
“I’d love that,” I replied, filled with hope.
By then, I’d already ended things with Ken. I told him it was over and that I was truly sorry. He took it badly.
“I knew you’d pick him,” he said, hurt flashing across his face. “He’s tall, good-looking... I never stood a chance.”
“Don’t say that,” I tried to protest.
He looked at me, his voice heavy. “Just be careful with Jack. People talk. He’s seeing someone else—has a whole other life.”
I laughed it off. Small towns thrived on gossip.
“That’s nonsense. You’re probably talking about his ex, the mother of his son. He’s told me everything. There are no secrets.”
But Ken insisted. He claimed he had looked into Jack and found things that didn’t add up. I let it slide, chalking it up to jealousy.
That night, back in Kilkenny, Jack and I drank into the early hours before heading up to our hotel room. We were tipsy and teasing each other when, in a moment of ridiculous drama, I stormed out. He’d said something that rubbed me the wrong way, and in my drunken state, I marched into the hallway, down the stairs—and promptly forgot which floor our room was on. I wandered the corridors like Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre, mad but without a torch. Just as I was giving up hope, a door creaked open two floors above me. Jack stood in the doorway.
I ran into his arms, my pride forgotten. That night was ours. I don’t remember all the details—but I remember crying. Tears of joy.
In the morning, we shared a full Irish breakfast. The aroma of coffee stirred my senses. For the first time, I felt we were truly connected. He was mine, and I was his.
But I had to rush. My shift was starting in under an hour, and I hadn't even brought my uniform. In my disoriented state, I even left the hotel without a bra. I couldn’t find it, and there was no time to tear the room apart. I didn’t tell Jack. We drove back to Carlow, and I urged him to go faster—I was terrified of being late. Our boss, Paddy, was fair but ruthless when it came to punctuality.
Jack, as always, took his time.
Later that day, around lunchtime, he appeared at the bistro. I was shocked—he never came during work hours. Hadn't he had enough of me the night before? But love makes us strange, I thought.
He stood at the counter, signaling something. His fingers pointed discreetly toward his pocket. When I leaned in, cautious not to draw attention, I saw a familiar black strap peeking out.
“Forget something?” he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.
I froze. My bra.
“You’ve had it all this time?” I hissed.
He just smiled, handed it over like a magician revealing a trick, and walked off as if nothing had happened. I collapsed against the counter in silent laughter. Anyone watching would’ve thought I’d finally cracked under the pressure of my work.
In March, Jack celebrated his birthday. I gave him a beautiful metal clock and a Frank Sinatra album. He acted as though it was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received. In April, it was my turn—I turned twenty-one. Marketa bought me balloons, baked a cake, and gave me a collection of Oscar Wilde’s works. We spent the day in Kilkenny, shopping and enjoying lunch.
Jack called several times, but Marketa convinced me to ignore him. “You run to him like a puppy,” she said bluntly. I felt ashamed. Against my instincts, I didn’t answer his calls. All day, my hand trembled. I missed him terribly.
That night, I finally gave in and agreed to meet him at Din Rí, a popular nightclub in Carlow. But he never showed up. We waited inside until midnight, after which no one else was allowed in. We had no way to get home to Bagenalstown. I tried to reach him again and again, furious and heartbroken.
Eventually, he came. But he said nothing the entire drive back.
We sat in silence outside Roosters. Then the blame spilled out. He scolded me for not answering all day. I scolded him for abandoning me on my birthday.
After a while, we both softened.
“I had a present for you,” he said quietly. “But since I couldn’t reach you, I took it home. I’ll give it to you another time.”
Naively, I believed him.
He never gave me a gift.
copyright©2025
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