Free Mother of the Bride by Marita Conlon-Mckenna

place,’ he suggested half an hour later, bored by the noisy pub.
    Back in Rathmines, in the second-floor apartment, they both watched a pirate copy of the latest Quentin Tarentino film. Jay loved it, and kept stopping it and replaying it over and over again, as they smoked and laughed and made love and eventually fell asleep together.
    At 10 a.m. Ciara woke with Jay asleep beside her. She studied the tattoos on his back and arms, noticing that he had got a new one of an owl near his shoulder blade. She kissed it and he stirred.
    â€˜Love the owl,’ she whispered.
    â€˜I got it a few days ago,’ he explained, leaning over. ‘Just came to me that I needed an owl, and I went down to Pete and got him to do it.’
    Pete Freedman lived on the landing below, and ran a small tattoo parlour off Essex Street.
    Ciara ran her fingers over Jay’s skin, tracing the owl’s outline.
    â€˜Lisette gets a tattoo,’ he said nonchalantly.
    â€˜What kind of one?’
    â€˜A dragonfly.’
    She rolled over on her side. She had considered on and off over the past five months getting a tattoo to prove her individuality and her love for Jay, but she knew if her parents or family saw it there would be war. Also, she wasn’t into needles and pain!
    â€˜Pete’s the best in the business,’ Jay said, kissing her shoulder. ‘You tell him what you want and that’s what he’ll do. He’s a true artist.’
    â€˜I’m just not sure.’ She sighed.
    â€˜You’re beautiful,’ he soothed. ‘My beautiful dragonfly.’
    She liked Jay calling her that, and the thought of a dragonfly tattoo perched on her pale skin was appealing.
    â€˜Do you think Pete would do it?’ she asked.
    â€˜Pete can do anything once I ask.’
    â€˜I’ve to go in a few hours,’ she explained. ‘I’ve an assignment due on Tuesday, and I’ve got to work on it. Plus I’ve an essay to write.’
    â€˜You do what you’ve got to do, Ciara,’ he said, rolling over on his side. ‘I just want to chill today.’
    Ciara knew that Jay hated being tied down to any form of routine. She saw him twice a week maybe, and that seemed enough for him. He worked in a big computer call centre during the week, telling herthat it was only a stopgap till he got some kind of recognition for his writing. She had asked him a few times since they had met to come to her house, even when her parents were away, but he always had some excuse not to. Even on the night of her sister Amy’s engagement party he hadn’t bothered to show. Jay was like that, immersed in his own life. He was mature, and so different from all the other guys she had dated, who were students and spent their time hanging around the UCD and Whale, the unofficial college hangout, trying to impress everyone with their drinking and stupid talk and stupid music. Jay cared about all kinds of things, and had big plans for the future. He talked about getting out of Dublin and moving overseas.
    â€˜New York or San Francisco, that’s where it’s at,’ he explained. ‘There’s plenty of opportunity and none of the bloody begrudgery and putting you down you get here. People outside Ireland want new voices, experimentation.’
    Ciara knew that one day Jay would make it big in whatever field he chose: his writing, his poetry, his scripts. He said she was his muse, and she loved watching him work, and the intensity that surrounded him. He made her feel grown-up. She loved to listen to him read out loud to her or to pore over his laptop screen, trying to make sense of his words and imagination. Jay was confident that it was only a matter of time before he was discovered. He wanted to immortalize her. Immortalize his characters. Being with Jay was so surreal and removed from college life and everything else around her.
    â€˜Chilling is good.’ She laughed, slipping back into the