Page 121 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“Why?” I snapped.

“Because now that I know this is what you’re listening to, I’ll never be able to get the thought of it out of my head.”

Chapter 37 An Experiment in Losing a Competition I Didn’t Know I Had Signed Up For

We said nothing and rode in complete silence all the way to Galway.

I loved Galway, but unfortunately, we didn’t have much time. I squeezed in a date at the trendy Coffeewerk + Press with Charlie the Uncharmed, who was not, despite my many progressively unhinged attempts at making jokes, the least bit charmed. Tadhg sat only two tables over, looking particularly broody and protective, shooting angry looks at Uncharmed Charlie, presumably in case the man should try to adult-nap me. Nothing of the kind happened.

Conclusion: date unsuccessful.

Uncontrollable variable: my sense of humor.

Tadhg and I had an incredible dinner at Caribou, a cool hipstery spot where the buffalo cauliflower wings changed my life, but the stilted, awkward conversation had to be choked down with large gulps of beer. We were both relieved when we stepped into The Crane for a trad session where conversation over the rousing beat was not an option.

The next morning, the three of us said goodbye to Tadhg’s Jeep and set off on the ferry. It was a large ship, but Tadhg had to take several motion-sickness pills—the last ones he had—close his eyes, and sink down in a chair, plastic bag at the ready, just in case. He refused to let me sit next to him, and there was no arguing, so I went to the top deck and enjoyed the incredible views. I offered to take Finn with me, but she couldn’t be persuaded to leave the side of her master when he needed her. It started to drizzle on the way, but by the time we pulled into the port on Inis Mor, the sun was shining again. It was beautiful.

Apparently, bikes were the thing to do here, they were how most tourists got around, but Tadhg needed a minute to regain his threatening macho demeanor after his fight with the sea, so I parked him at a café and walked up the slope of the road to a sweater shop and bought some beautiful mittens for my mom, who adored mittens, despite them being obviously ridiculous. Then Tadhg was ready, and we were off.

Cycling was glorious. I felt like I was flying. Finn was freed from her leash and ran alongside, yipping in sheer joy. This was not like cycling in the city; it was hilly and green and mostly car-free, and rolling downhill was absolute bliss. The air was clean and crisp and blew back my hair in a way that stoked my craving for adventure.

Whatever ridiculous date Jackie had planned for me, I didn’t care, because it had brought me to this amazing place. A man named Miles texted to say that he was going to be late: The plan was to walk up the hill to the three-thousand-year-old ruin of Dún Aengus, then go to a café for cake and tea afterward. I was sure that I could enjoy that even when the date was inevitably terrible.

This was the biggest tourist site on the tiny island, and at the base of the hill was a little cluster of ancient whitewashed cottages with plenty of things to buy. We went in one, and I started to make conversation with a lovely, chatty knitting lady, needles clacking away as we spoke. She told us that she was one of the few shopkeepers in Ireland who still hand-knitted all her sweaters, and we ended up getting into a long conversation about yarns and traditional techniques, and she even showed me a new trick and let me practice on her needles. She had knitted a tea cozy that resembled Michael D. Higgins, and she asked me to take several photos of it so she could look at them on my phone, but she wouldn’t sell no matter how I pleaded.

Tadhg watched patiently from the doorway with Finn sitting at his feet, mostly because the shop wasn’t big enough to fit him comfortably.

I bought five beautiful moss-colored skeins of hand-dyed yarn at nineteen euro a pop.

“How many sweaters would that get you?” Tadhg asked.

“Five skeins? Just one.”

“What?” He held his arm out to the wall of perfect sweaters. “But you could buy one already made for the same price. Hell, you could buy ten regular sweaters at H&M for that price.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to knit it myself. Where’s the fun in that?”

He lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.

“It’s gorgeous. Look at that. Feel it.” I shoved it into his big hand, and he gave it a half-hearted squeeze and shrugged. “You’re a nutter.”

The lady, who had already bagged the rest of my yarn but was holding it hostage, tried to rope Tadhg in for a little extra conversation. “Your wife is a pro on those needles.”

I gulped and choked on air and then coughed my lungs up.

“Aye, she’s good, isn’t she? Not my wife, though, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? What are you afraid of?” She laughed and then said something in Irish. Not wanting to leave me out of the joke (see: embarrassment), she translated for me. “I told him that you look like you know how to keep him warm.” She laughed again and I died and my carcass fell on the floor and I hoped she would knit me a pretty coffin. “You know”—she nudged me—“because you can knit him a sweater or two.” She cackled this time, like a happy old witch, and then winked a very big wink to me, and then one to Tadhg, just in case we had somehow missed that she wasn’t talking about sweaters.

“Oh, I think that’s him there.” Tadhg mercifully changed the subject. “He said he’d be wearing a red rose in his lapel.”

At that, the knitter’s eyes were alive with mischief, but I thanked her profusely and ran out before she could get her claws into the meaty details.

The gentleman in question was handsome and distinguished-looking, probably in his early fifties, and his face stretched into a huge smile as he walked up to Tadhg and shook his hand.

“I’m Miles, and you must be . . .” he said, looking all the way up to Tadhg’s face.

“I’m Tadhg. This is Maya.”