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May 2004
“Are you gonna pout for the rest of the trip?”
I stared out the chartered bus window at the rolling green hills and fat, fluffy sheep passing by. The sheep all had different-colored dots spray-painted on their butts. I wanted to smile and tap the glass with my finger and ask Ken what it meant. He would know. He actually listened when the tour guide talked.
But I was far too busy being a brat.
“I’ll stop pouting when you stop being an unromantic asshole.”
I actually said that. I called Ken an unromantic asshole while riding through Ireland on a trip that he’d paid for.
“Wow. Okay. So, because I don’t want to get sand in everything I own, I’m an asshole?”
I kept staring out the window. “That was the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen, and you wouldn’t fucking hold my hand and walk on it with me because you didn’t want to get sand in your shoes!”
“If I get sand in my shoes, then it’ll get into my suitcase, and once that happens, it’ll get into fucking everything. We can’t just go do laundry, Brooke.” He said my name like you would say the word dumbass.
I swung my head around to face him. “It’s not just the fucking beach. You wouldn’t stand on the top deck of the ferry boat and look at the castles with me because it was too windy.”
“You weren’t even supposed to be up there. The wind almost blew you off the deck!”
“And you wouldn’t let me wear your jacket in London.”
“I told you to bring a jacket. Why should I suffer because you don’t listen?”
“And remember at Stonehenge? There were all those pretty yellow flowers growing by the ruins, and you wouldn’t even pick one for me.”
“Brooke, the ruins were fucking roped off.”
“It was just a tiny little rope! No one was even looking!”
Ken huffed and turned to stare out the windows on the opposite side of the bus.
“We are surrounded by romance, and I feel like all you’ve done is find excuses not to share it with me. It’s too sandy. It’s too windy. The sign says no. We better get back to the bus. Wah, wah, wah.” I tilted my head from side to side, mocking him in my best whiny voice. “Is it so much to ask for you to fucking kiss me in front of a castle? Jesus!”
Ken didn’t reply. He’d shut me out, just like he always did when the topic of his romantic shortcomings came up. We’d been living together for nine blissful, uneventful months, but every once in a while, Ken’s emotional deficiencies would cause me to erupt into a volcano of whiny bitchiness.
It didn’t help that Allen and Amy had already gotten married, and Chelsea and Bobby’s wedding was weeks away.
When Ken had said he was going to propose, I’d thought he meant soon. But when Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and my college graduation came and went without a ring, I’d started to think maybe he was waiting for our Europe trip.
Yes! That has to be it! Ken is going to get down on one knee in front of Westminster Abbey! Ooh, or maybe he’ll wait until we’re at the top of the London Eye! Or he could steal me away to a quiet little meadow on the coast of Ireland during one of our walking tours, or maybe he’ll do it on top of a mountain in Wales!
It was horrible. Every time we came upon some beautiful, scenic overlook or some magical, ancient cathedral, I’d turn to Ken and bat my eyelashes and tell him, Do it! Do it here! with my mind.
And then he would complain about leaving his sunglasses on the bus or the crowds or the drizzle and ruin the moment—every…single…time.
When we finally pulled up to the gates of Blarney Castle, I decided I needed to let it go. Kissing the Blarney Stone was on my bucket list, and I wasn’t going to let anything ruin this experience, especially not my own unrealistic expectations.
He can’t help it, I reminded myself as I followed Ken off the bus. Stop trying to make him feel bad for something he can’t help.He brought you on the trip of a lifetime, so at least try not to be a shithead, okay?
Okay. I nodded to myself as our group followed the gravel path down to the castle. Commencing Operation Don’t Be a Shithead…now.
I thought it was going to be hard to give up my pouting streak, but when the woods opened up and I found myself plunged into the most idyllic scene I could have ever imagined—poof!—there it went.
Blarney Castle wasn’t some imposing medieval fortress, full of sad stories and old ghosts, like the other castles we’d seen. It was just a charming little stone tower, crumbling and fuzzy with moss, nestled into a grassy hill next to a glittering pond. It was the kind of place that made you want to craft a scepter out of a tree branch and play kings and queens inside its hollowed-out walls.
I grabbed Ken’s arm and ran down the path, stopping abruptly every ten feet to take at least as many photos.
