Free Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon Page A

ye?” He isn’t from Doolin, but I figure it can’t hurt to ask.
    “I knew a Padraig Flanagan of Lisdoonvarna. Might that be him?”
    “Could be. Do you know where he lives? Or even, if he lives?”
    The barman looks at me trying to get the measure of me. I feel my heart-rate begin to quicken. Maybe he’s already dead and had no family…
    He raises his hand to his chin and rubs thoughtfully. “I went to school with a Padraig Flanagan. Nice fella. Dead now, though. Some young lass broke his heart when he was only a young fella. Don’t think he ever got over it. I’m almost sure he never married.” He looks at me closely. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”
    “Oh no, not at all. You’ve been very helpful.”
    I can’t help grinning as I sidle over to Ridlee who is sitting at a low table by the fireplace. It’s September but there’s a turf fire going and we’re glad of the heat it gives off.
    “Things are lookin’ up, Rid.” I tell her what I’ve just learned. “We might be on a flight back to Boston in a day or two if we play our cards right.” I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement.
    “Cool,” she says in response, looking round the place.
    It takes an age but our pints eventually arrive. The old man hovers at the table as I take a long swallow.
    “Wow!” I exclaim. Even Ridlee seems to like hers.
    He smiles. “You’re an American, so here’s one for ye…” He’s looking at Ridlee. “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”
    Ridlee raises both her eyebrows and looks to me for help. I take another mouthful of creamy Guinness as I shrug.
    “Ummm, I don’t know. How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” she answers gamely.
    The old man beams. “Practice!”
    We all have a good chuckle and the barman shuffles off to read his paper. The pints of Guinness are going down very nicely. Even Ridlee is drinking hers at a reasonable pace.
    We’re almost finished when Ridlee leans into me and whispers, “Great, now we’re stuck here all night. We can’t exactly leave; he doesn’t have any other customers.”
    “Don’t be silly, Ridlee. We’re on a pub crawl. He understands that.” I look over at the barman who’s looking up at us again, and raise my glass in salute. He has exceptional hearing.
    “A pub what?”Ridlee is yet again perplexed.
    “Crawl.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s like bar-hopping on your planet.”
    “Figures.” She shakes her head slowly, chuckling to herself.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her expression and tone make my temper flare just a bit; I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s sounding as though she feels superior.
    “Well, you must admit; it’s kind of telling that in your culture people crawl from bar to bar, whereas in mine, we hop.”
    “You had better not be spouting that drunken Irish stereotype bullshit, Ridlee. That’s too lazy, even for you.” I can feel my colour rising. Why do I give a shit? I couldn’t wait to leave Ireland and never look back.
    “Okay, okay, I see I’ve hit a nerve. I didn’t mean to offend the Old Country. It was just an observation. Come on, drink up. Let’s crawl on over to the next pub.”
    I do my best to shrug off the offended feelings as we drain our pints in one. Standing to leave and headed for the door, we yell “Thank you!” in chorus.
    Linking her arm through mine once we’re outside, Ridlee leans in and tries to tickle me. I refuse to laugh, milking my hurt cultural pride for all it’s worth. Thing is, her remark did kind of annoy me. Sometimes I get tired of the Irish jokes that people expect me to enjoy so much. Ireland’s full of drunks and leprechauns and not much else, apparently. Of course the irony that I make my living out of those stereotypes is not lost on me and only makes me crankier.
    Ridlee drops onto all fours.
    “What the hell are you doing, Rid?”  
    “I’m crawling to the next bar.” She looks up at me with cute puppy dog eyes.
    “Get up, ye