Page 8 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“How are you both gettin’ over? It’s an hour or two from Shannon. Maybe you could go together?”

My blood chilled.

“Well, a couple of buddies are meeting me at the airport, renting a car, and driving up. But yeah, I’m sure we could give you a ride, Maya, if you want. The more the merrier!”

This is getting out of control. Shut it down! “Nope.” Don’t be an asshole! “I mean, that’s just . . . the nicest! But no, I really. Shouldn’t. I already have a driver arranged, and . . .” I didn’t. I’d be taking the bus. “It’s . . . you know . . . can’t cancel it!” I looked at my phone and pressed some random buttons as if I could somehow magically call Ireland in the middle of the night from forty thousand feet in the air to cancel my imaginary limousine. “But damn. You know, too late. Grrrr!” I clenched my phone in my fist and shook it in the air.

What. The actual fuck. Are you doing right now, Maya? Okay. Section 3a of Protocol for Awkward Conversation Extraction: Where full and permanent extraction is not possible, initiate temporary self-removal procedure and return only when it can be deduced that the conversation has moved on without you. Note: A small lie may be necessary. Mention bathroom stuff.

“Would you . . .” I stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry, Sheila, but could you? I suddenly have to pee. Like real bad.”

When I had returned from pretending to pee, I smiled, said I was feeling sick, put in my headphones, and politely ignored them for the rest of the flight. Thank God for protocol.

AS THE BUS made its way slowly northeast, I caught my first real glimpse of Ireland. And it was every bit as green as they say.

The fattest black-and-white cows I had ever seen seemed to be everywhere. Masses of sheep slid across huge swathes of land like cotton balls in a hurry, somewhat haphazardly contained by crumbling stone walls. It was gorgeous. I reminded myself that I liked getting out of my comfort zone and smiled. I took a B-roll video from the window and sent it to Simone.

Two hours later, I arrived at the bus stop in Lisdoonvarna. Jackie the matchmaker had promised to be there to pick me up, but he wasn’t. This struck me as perhaps not the very best of signs. I called him, but there was no answer, so I left a message.

The village itself looked adorable. Colorfully painted stone buildings huddled around small streets and squares, all decked out with bright bunting strung across the street from shop to pub. Music played somewhere nearby.

When I finally got a text from Jackie, it was in all caps.

BE UP IN TEN IRISH MINUTES.

I smirked. What a ridiculous thing to say. I was sure he’d never say that to a local. It was just something to charm the tourists. But it worked. I was charmed.

I recognized him instantly, of course. His pictures and videos had been all over the Internet. There was even a pub here called the Matchmaker with a giant mural of Jackie’s face right on the front of the building. He was a short man, a little bit round in the middle, with a wild, unreasonable amount of dark gray hair that he either had not bothered to tame or was incapable of domesticating. It stuck out in all directions to match his eyebrows. I stood and smiled wide.

“Is that yourself, Maya?”

His stride didn’t slow as he walked right in and grabbed me for a swift, tight hug that I hadn’t seen coming. I wasn’t usually a stranger hugger, but somehow I found I didn’t mind. Then he pulled away and held me out to study me. “Well, you’re the spitting image of Angelina Jolie.” A laugh burst out of me. I was absolutely no such thing! I wouldn’t look like Angelina even if she got stung in the face by a bee and then fell off her bike into an electric fence. “They’ll be lining up from here to Ballyteige. Easiest money I’ve ever made.”

“Ohhh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” I grinned, and he clapped me on the back with a laugh, grabbed my suitcase, and started walking. I followed along, but despite having the longer set of legs, I had to work to keep up.

“Now, what kind of shoes are you wearing?” He looked back and nodded. “Good. I like a sensible woman.”

Oh boy. That gave my intuition a prickle of unease. “Why? Where are we going, Jackie? To your cottage?”

“Oh, no. It’s after five already. Sure, why would we want to waste time with driving all over the county just to escort your luggage home and drive all the way back here for the festival?”

I stopped short in the middle of the empty street. “Oh. But I’ve been traveling all day, and it was a lot, and there were a lot of people, and I was kinda hoping to have a shower before I . . . you know.” I nodded in the direction of the music but couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Don’t you be worrying about yourself, now. Most of these young fellas have just come in from working in the field, and they didn’t bother themselves with showers either.”

That sure doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Don’t you want to . . . umm”—I swallowed—“ask me some questions first or something?”

“Now, Maya, listen.” He stopped walking and gave me a serious look. “I’ve been making matches for a fair few years now. And the best thing is just to strike while the iron’s hot.”

I grimaced. It was absolutely not what I wanted to hear. But I nodded seriously and decided to go with it (see fig. 1).

I had to stop letting Simone help me with my decision trees.

We walked past a statue of a couple dancing and made our way to the square, or more like Jackie grabbed my hand and pulled me along behind him. For such a tiny village, it was packed. I couldn’t see through the crowd, but as we wove through, space opened up, and with a twist of trepidation in my stomach, I saw what everyone was watching. Good God, no. Dancing.

Was I going to have to dance?