Hello! Guess what today is? Today happens to be my birthday. *throws confetti* It seemed like the perfect time to start posting this idea I've had for awhile...an idea I'm still not entirely sure what I'm going to do with but just couldn't sit idle with either. I've only got a few vague notions, so we're gonna wing it, okay?

I never knew

I never knew that everything was falling through

That everyone I knew was waiting on a cue to turn and run

When all I needed was the truth

("Over My Head" - the Fray)

I consider myself a pretty boring girl. I don't like parties, I prefer painting to people, I never miss an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and my idea of a night out is...well, a night in.

Against my better judgment, I finally caved when some of the girls at work wanted me to go out after our shift ended, and we wound up at some dive in South Boston where half the people hanging out spoke with a legit Irish brogue, and while I'd like to say I resisted peer pressure and declined every drink offered to me, my mother didn't raise a liar. It's a shame she didn't, because while I'd also like to say I have at least a decent tolerance for alcohol, the truth is that the last thing I remember clearly was my third shot of whiskey. After that, I got nothing.

I woke up in my tiny bedroom in my slightly-less-tiny apartment the next morning, totally unsure how I got there and with a headache from hell. I groaned as I rolled out of bed and the movement made my brain throb; for once, I was glad I didn't have a window. Sunlight in my state? No thank you. After struggling with my doorknob a minute or two, I flung open the door and shuffled across the hallway to the bathroom and brushed my teeth...then brushed them again after puking my guts out.

No more nights out with the gals!

I paused after turning off the faucet, suddenly alert to sounds in the apartment. My roommate Corrie worked nights at a radio station and often puttered around in the kitchen before going to bed, but it was too early for her to be back yet... Heart hammering, I slowly crept out of the bathroom and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.

There was a man in there! He looked up as I looked around and there was barely a second for eye contact before I let out a terrified shriek and bolted to the bathroom again, slamming the door shut and locking it.

"Sorry!" I heard him call on the other side of the door. "So sorry, I didn't mean ta startle ye!"

"Who are you!" I burst out. "What are you doing here! How did you get in here!" I looked down at the doorknob, held on by two rusty screws, and the cheap hook-and-eye latch that served as a lock. If he tried to break in here, it wouldn't be much trouble for him. I looked around for a weapon and seized the plunger, holding it like a baseball bat. "Get out now," I yelled, "or I'm calling the cops!"

"Should I bring ye the phone from the kitchen, then? Unless ye have one in there with ye."

Fuck!

I tightened my hold on the plunger, ready to swing if that door budged. "Maybe I do," I answered, trying to sound confident. "I wouldn't want to find out, if I were you!"

"Phil, just calm down a second, would ye—"

"How do you know my name?"

"Ye told me at the bar last night."

Huh?

"I'm Connor. We met at McGinty's."

Connor...Connor...I scrambled my already-rattled brain trying to match a face to the name, and finally settled on a young Irishman, dark blonde hair standing up in all directions, the bluest eyes ever to blue, and a charming smile I felt stupid for forgetting in the first place. I have no idea how you're supposed to rate guys, but I know a ten when I see one. I mean...damn.

But I still wasn't about to open the door.

"Remember?" he prompted.

"Yeah," I said. "So, what, did you follow me home, or something?"

"Not exactly..."

My stomach dropped and I almost threw up again. Oh no. Oh no no no. Please, God, please tell me I didn't bring this guy home from the bar with me, not some random stranger when I was too drunk to think straight...

"Ye had a few too many an' ye nearly passed out at the bar, so I found yer address in yer purse an' called a cab for ye. I walked ye up as yer flatmate was leavin, an' she offered me yer couch for a few hours."

Swell. Corrie left me drunk and alone with a guy in the place with me. "I'll have to have a talk with her," I muttered.

"Don't be too hard on her, aye? She made sure ta lock yer door before she left an' promised she'd hunt me down an' feed me my own balls if I tried anythin."

"Don't defend her," I told him, though now that he mentioned it, part of my struggle with my bedroom door did involve the lock...

"Look, ye probly feel like shite right now," he said, "an' I was tryin ta make ye some coffee before I left, but I can't find a fuckin thing in yer kitchen. If ye want me ta go, fine, I don't blame ye. Can't imagine I'd be too happy ta wake up ta strangers breakin down me front door."

I still held onto the plunger, thinking it over. Sure, he seemed nice enough, but he could be a serial killer for all I knew, trying to lure me out with a hangover cure. Though as long as I had a few questions for him, I didn't necessarily want him to go. "You said you called me a cab last night. What else happened?"

"Nothin. Some fellas at the bar looked like they were gettin ideas, an' I just wanted ta see ye home safe."

"Are you always such a knight in shining armor?"

"Fuck no. Ma always taught me brother an' I ta be decent, is all."

Well, he played the sainted Irish mother card, and I think that's supposed to be a big deal. I checked my clothes and found I was still wearing the same shit as last night and while nothing appeared out of place, how would I know if he was lying to me or not? "Swear on your mother's life, nothing else happened?" I asked.

"Fuckin hell, sweetheart, I'll swear it on me immortal soul, if it puts ye at ease."

Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't, but a Mexican standoff sure wasn't helping. I unlatched the door and pushed it open, taking the plunger with me as I cautiously walked out of the bathroom.

He stood nearby but backed away as I came out, keeping his distance. He showed no reaction to my weapon of choice, though I felt more and more idiotic the longer I held onto it, and his tone when he spoke was as soft and coaxing as if trying to calm a spooked horse. "I'll leave now if ye want, if ye're not comfortable with me bein here."

Honestly, there was a little part of my brain still screaming stranger danger! but the rest of me was just, well, screaming. Aching head, unsettled stomach, the whole nine yards. It must have showed on my face because he added, "At least let me make ye that coffee. It might help ye feel more like yerself."

I nodded and instantly regretted it as my head throbbed. Setting the plunger aside, I went into the tiny little cubicle of a kitchen and started searching the cabinets. Connor followed me as far as the Mr. Coffee machine on the counter and emptied the old grounds out of the filter basket, then paused, hovering over the trash can. "Looks like bad news, darlin," he said, reaching into the trash and lifting the empty can of Folgers where I could see it.

I groaned pitifully and he went on, "Tell ye what, do ye mind if I take ye ta get some breakfast? It beats the fuck outta tryin ta cook for yerself when ye're langered."

"Langered?"

"Drunk off yer fuckin arse."

I almost muttered something about "not that drunk" but didn't have it in me to argue about it. And whether he sensed he'd won or was confident of victory in the first place, he said, "If ye wanna get changed, I'll use yer bathroom an' we can go."

Shrugging, I went back into my bedroom and through the walls I heard Connor close the bathroom door. I locked my door, just to be careful, then looked over at my cat curled up on my bed. I was ninety-five percent sure he'd been on his own corner at the foot when I woke up, but in my absence he had moved to my pillow and was staring at me as if daring me to do something about it.

"Jerk," I told him, but he only blinked at me, tucking his paws under his body and swishing his tail, sweeping a piece of paper off the edge of the pillow. I reached for it, wondering how I'd missed it earlier, and found a note from my roommate.

Junior, what the fuck did you do last night? Don't freak out, the guy who brought you home said his name is Connor and he was a concerned party saving your drunk ass from creeps who might press their advantage. Sorry to leave you, but I have to go to work. He seems okay, but I'm locking you in so again, don't freak out. And chica, you better get his number, for Christ's sake! If you don't want him, I do! C

Gee. Thanks, Corrie.

I didn't bother fussing over my clothes, picking my most comfortable pair of jeans and a black tank top, throwing my go-to red flannel over it. I didn't care what my hair was doing, either, combing it out with my fingers and sliding a scrunchie over my wrist in case of emergency. Clean socks and ratty Chucks later, and I was good to go. I grabbed my purse and gave Jerry a quick scratch, then left.

Connor was waiting at the front door, his coat draped over his arm. He didn't say a word as we walked out, breaking the silence as I was locking the door behind us. "Is there someplace close, or should we call another cab?"

"There's a Waffle House around the corner," I answered, and while it wasn't usually my first choice, it was as far as I was willing to go. The sunlight as soon as we stepped out into it was enough to make me think twice about going back inside, and I winced as it made my headache worse.

"Here."

I shielded my eyes with my hand and saw Connor offering me his sunglasses from the pocket of his coat. I took them gratefully with a word of thanks and he shot me that smile. "Tá fáilte romhat," he replied. "Seen that look a million times on me brother after a long night at the local. Ye're not much for drinkin, are ye?"

"Never saw the appeal," I answered.

"I see."

We fell silent, the awkward silence of strangers, but I wasn't built for small talk, so I said nothing. It wasn't until we got to Waffle House that he finally said, "Be right back, sweetheart. I'm just givin my brother a call."

"Sure. You know, you don't have to babysit me."

Damn, Phil. Way to sound like an asshole.

He smiled again, seeming unbothered. "Aye, lass, just bein polite. 'Twas my idea ta come out here, after all."

"Right, right, sorry—"

"No worries. An' don't stand on my account. Find yerself a seat."

I nodded and headed for the counter, picking a stool in the middle of a line of vacancies. The waitress behind the counter approached and I ordered myself a coffee, then one for Connor after a moment's consideration, and dove into my cup as soon as she set it in front of me.

Ah, sweet, dark nirvana...

Connor returned and gestured to the stool beside me. "Do ye mind if I join ye?" he asked.

I pushed his coffee towards him in answer and he sat down. "Ye're an angel, love."

"I wouldn't go that far..."

"Still. Thoughtful of ye."

"Just returning a favor," I told him, taking off his sunglasses and handing them back to him.

We ordered breakfast—the greasier, the better for a hangover, he assured me—and went back to silence for a few minutes. I doubt I could have kept up my end of a conversation if I tried; socially awkward on ordinary days, breakfast with a guy who brought me home after a random night out was a little over my head. It didn't seem to bother him, though. He told me a thing or two about himself, cracked a few jokes, just enough to keep things from getting weird without pushing me to contribute. Hardly for the sake of hearing himself talk, more like trying to keep me entertained and comfortable, and I wondered how antisocial I must have been at the bar to need entertainment and comfort.

"I hope ye don't mind," he said after awhile, "but my brother's gonna be poppin in pretty soon. I told him he might as well grab a bite before we head ta work."

"Okay," I replied.

"Ye kinda remind me of him a bit," he confessed. "He's a little shy an' keeps ta himself around new people, an' it's a whole other story if he likes ye...or if he's had a few."

"What?' I asked, wondering if he was teasing me—he did end up seeing me home, after all. "What does that mean?"

"Nothin too awful," he replied, "just that I'm havin a hard time adaptin ta this quiet girl when I met Phil Friedman, Jr. last night an' she was havin the time a her life."

Phil Friedman, Jr.? Did I tell him that story? By the way my head felt like I'd stuck it in an oven, I was blushing like crazy and suddenly my behavior the night before was a matter of grave concern.

He saw my face and repeated, "Nothin too awful, love. Ye talked ta anyone who'd listen about art an' music...also like me dearest brother, ta be honest..."

I nodded, feeling a little better.

"Speak a the fuckin devil," he added, looking past me to the door and waving at a new arrival. I turned to look and saw a dark-haired young man with an intense, interesting face and a stubborn, defiant set to his shoulders, and I felt a jolt as I realized I'd seen him before.

"Murphy?"

Well, what do you think? As I said, I'm not entirely sure what will happen, as I've only got a few vague ideas, but vague ideas have produced some of my favorite stories in the past, so if you're as curious as I am, you know what to do. Follow! Fave! Review! I can't wait to hear from you!

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