Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“Shayla,” he moaned.

“Shh!” I warned him. “Ah-ah-ah-ah!” I cried out, forgetting utterly about keeping this secret from Auntie Fiona. I couldn’t have stayed quiet if I’d tried.

Oh. My. God. I felt so loose, so calm. I flopped over onto his chest, and listened to my own heartbeat for a few seconds. He didn’t say a thing. Like I said, he was good at this. Way better at it than I would have given him credit for. I rewarded him with a firm kiss on the mouth. He was still inside me, “Lie back,” I told him, “here comes yours.”

I left Des sleeping, washed up, and quietly pulled on some clothes. There was no hairdryer to be found, let alone a curling iron or a pair of straightening tongs. God, I hated dealing with all this hair. What happened to the days of wash-and-wear? Deep down, I knew Maggie was right about how a 20-something’s coiffure was supposed to look in the city, but I didn’t have the time nor the patience to maintain an amazing style that was meant to look effortless. I ran a comb through it, but it was not interested in being tamed. The clock said 7 a.m. I threw my wallet and new journal and pen into a tote. There were keys on the hooks by the door. I had to lock the door behind myself. I found the right one on the third try and set out walking in the pre-dawn glow, hoping that this was a safe neighborhood. I could smell salt water, so I tried to use my lizard brain to find the seafront. Auntie Fiona had said it was about a kilometer away. “About a mile,” I thought. Then I questioned myself. The half-assed attempts to teach us the metric system in school hadn’t really stuck. I walked blindly on, hoping I’d get where I wanted to go sooner or later.

I sat down on a flat rock and gazed out at the horizon. Breathtaking was the only fitting word for it. I pulled out my journal and wrote:

Dear Mags, It’s hard to believe I’m in Ireland sitting on a seawall, watching the sun rise. The blazing orange and pink of the sun is illuminating everything, but leaving the edges soft. I wish I could show it to you. Sunrises, like dreams and falling in love, mean so much to the person they’re happening to, and always pale in the description. There are plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of the clean-lined houses, scenting the air. It doesn’t smell like the smoke from houses upstate. It’s earthier than woodsmoke, and mixed with the sea breeze, it calls to mind both dried blood and babies being born. It’s not unpleasant, though. The only word I can think of to describe it is organic.

I think the air here is giving me superpowers. With each breath I take, I feel like I’m connecting. To the rock I’m sitting on, to the calling birds, to the tall grasses waving in the breeze. It all looks so foreign and unfamiliar. The rugged landscape, the quirky rusted red and brown tug moving along next to the wooden fishing boats. I wonder if this actually is the prettiest view I’ve ever experienced, or if it’s simply the post-coital buzz talking. Oh, right. I suppose I have to tell you: I had sex with Des. I know, I know! It just happened. I’m glad, though. I wouldn’t have wanted to break my dry spell with someone real, if you know what I mean. I got it out of my system. There. Done. Weeeeeelll, maybe it’s not quite out of my system. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with him or anything, but you know that expression, “A taste of honey’s worse than none at all?” I have to admit, it was pretty good for a desperate quickie. And look, I know Des didn’t go to college or write a book, or cure polio, but that’s OK. Am I a snob for saying he’s not husband material? On the other hand, maybe marriage could be pretty sweet if you got a dose of that every night. Whatever, he’s pretty cute and it was super-fun for what it was. I’d die of embarrassment if your aunt found out, but if I had the chance to do it again, I feel like I might. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself. But in a good way. Have you ever sat quietly, and said your name over and over, and asked yourself, who am I, really? What does it mean to be me? Well, you probably haven’t. You’re so much more grounded than I am. When I was a little girl, I felt ethereal and unformed, like I hadn’t landed in my body yet. I thought that when I grew up, it would click into place and I’d feel whole. I’m still waiting, I guess. But today, I don’t know…I feel more like I’m in here, you know? I think I’m getting a glimpse of what it would be like to land in…well…me

All right, the sun’s completely up now, and I see what looks to be a touristy coffee shop by the waterfront. I don’t even have any Irish currency yet. Cross your fingers that they take plastic, because I think a cappuccino is in order before I pick up the phone to call Tom O’Grady. I’ll let you know how it goes! Love, Shay.

Walking back to Auntie Fiona’s with my large takeaway latte, I unzipped my fleece a few inches so I could soak up the maximum amount of sun. After the early morning sex and the caffeine boost, the only thing that could make me feel better would be sealing the deal with Tom O’Grady. I walked up the drive and turned the key in the lock as quietly as I could. As I was fiddling with it, the door swung open and I stood face-to-face with a girl with shiny dark hair, pulled into a high ponytail. She had on a full face of evening makeup.

“Hiya,” she said. “Come through.”

I peered behind her to make sure I was in the right house. I saw the back of Auntie Fiona’s head at the kitchen table, where she was sipping tea. I combed back through the stories Maggie had told me. Her uncle had passed away at a young age, and I thought Fiona only had the two boys, Des, and Michael, who was married and out of the house.

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