Tickets
The honeymoon tickets are burning a hole in my handbag, mocking me with their glossy Italian skyline. I should have binned them weeks ago, stuffed them between gas bills and florist invoices and let them curl in the recycling bin with the rest of my mistakes. Instead, they’ve followed me like a ghost, tucked behind receipts, slipped into pockets, reappearing every time I think I’m finally past him.
Past us.
“You’re daft if you let them go to waste,” my sister Siobhán had said last night, tossing her hair as if life were simple. “Non-refundable, isn’t it? You’ve already paid. Bring someone. Make it a laugh.”
A laugh.
The bell above the shop door rings, dragging me out.
“Morning, Clare,” Eamon Kelly says, pushing in a stack of lumber against his shoulder, his carpenter’s shirt dusted with saw shavings. He’s been making the new shelving for the shop — a friend of a friend, a steady presence, a man who fixes things with his hands instead of breaking them with careless words.
“Morning,” I manage, brushing soil off my apron. He flashes that crooked grin, the one that suggests he doesn’t take himself too seriously, and sets the boards down.
“I’ve the brackets in the van. Thought I’d bring them by before you closed up. Still planning that big getaway?” His voice is light, teasing, unaware of how raw the word is.
I freeze. Do I admit it? Do I tell him about the tickets, the hollow ache, the absurdity of sipping cappuccino alone by the Grand Canal?
Instead, my mouth betrays me. “Actually… I’m thinking of going.”
Eamon blinks, surprised. “On your own?”
The air between us holds, charged. And in a moment I can’t explain, the idea springs fully formed, absurd and yet so desperately tempting.
“Not if you came along.”
Silence. Then his bark of laughter. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. It’s all paid for. And — ” I swallow, words tangling. “I don’t want to waste it.”
He studies me, expression shifting from amusement to something softer. His thumb rubs against the edge of the timber, like he’s sanding down the roughness of what I’ve asked.
“Clare,” he says finally, voice low, “are you sure?”
No. Not in the slightest. But the alternative is staring at wilting bouquets and empty beds for two weeks while he — the man I was meant to marry — posts sun-drenched selfies.
“Yes.”
That’s how it begins.
Eamon
She doesn’t mean it, not really. I can see it in the way her fingers twist at the hem of her apron, the way her chin lifts like she’s daring herself not to flinch. Clare O’Shea is heartbreak dressed in daffodils, pretending she’s fine. And I, idiot that I am, hear myself say yes.
“Alright then,” I tell her, leaning against the shop counter. “Let’s see Venice.”
Her eyes widen, as if she hadn’t expected me to call her bluff. Truth is, I hadn’t expected myself to either. But there it is — the words between us, solid as timber.
And maybe, selfishly, to stand beside her in the wreckage rather than trying to fix it.
And maybe, selfishly, to escape my own quiet flat with its half-finished projects and echoing rooms.
Her smile comes cautious, flickering, like the first light of spring.
And suddenly Venice doesn’t sound so mad at all.
Three days later we’re on a Ryanair flight that smells of crisps and cheap aftershave, his arm a warm line against mine in the cramped row. He cracks jokes about the safety card, about how he’ll build us a gondola if we need one. I laugh — laugh — for the first time in weeks.
The heartbreak is still there, a shadow tucked into my chest. But beside it, something unexpected stirs: possibility.
And when we step into the Venetian air, humid and alive with bells and water and the cries of gulls, I realise this borrowed honeymoon might turn into something neither of us saw coming.
The first thing Venice does is make me dizzy. Not with the canals or the glittering water taxis, not even with the warmth pressing down like a shawl, heavy and perfumed with salt. No, it’s the way the city tilts, streets that turn to water without warning, bridges that rise like questions I’m not sure I want to answer. My wheeled suitcase clatters over cobblestones as if it too is protesting.
Eamon lopes beside me, calm as anything, the strap of his duffel cutting across his chest. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t blink at the labyrinth of alleys. Of course he doesn’t. He’s built for steadiness. Solid shoulders, square jaw, easy humour tucked in his pocket like a carpenter’s pencil. He notices when I falter, grabs the handle of my suitcase without asking, and suddenly I’m walking lighter.
“Hotel’s this way,” he says, pointing towards a narrow calle that looks like it was meant for cats rather than people.
The desk clerk greets us with a stream of Italian I can’t parse, then clicks into English with a conspiratorial smile. “Ah, the honeymooners. Welcome.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. My pulse, meanwhile, is sprinting.
We’re shown to a room with wrought iron balconies and a bed big enough to swallow us whole. The porter sets down our bags and leaves us standing in the space, doors shut, silence heavy.
I can’t look at the bed.
Eamon clears his throat. “I’ll take the floor if you like.”
The words break the tension, jagged and clumsy. I laugh, a strangled sound, pressing my hand to my mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not camping.”
He grins, sheepish. “True. Might be a bit odd if the cleaners find me stretched out on the tiles.”
We settle it easily enough: two adults sharing space, nothing more. He’ll keep to his side, I’ll keep to mine. But the rules feel fragile, written on paper that could tear with the slightest touch.
That first night, jet-lagged and raw, I lie awake listening to him breathe. Not heavy snores, steady, calm. A rhythm that steadies me too, against my will. I turn my face to the window, watch the shimmer of moonlight across tiled roofs, and wonder what I’ve done.
Eamon
By morning, she’s already at the window, hair tangled from sleep, staring at the Grand Canal as if it might answer back. She doesn’t hear me stir.
“Clare,” I murmur. She startles, twisting around, cheeks flushed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” I push up on one elbow, watching her. She looks softer without the armour of her florist’s apron, softer than she allows herself. But there’s steel underneath, I know. The kind that dragged me into this mad idea in the first place.
We spend the day lost. Truly lost. Every street looks like another. Every corner spills us into a piazza I swear we’ve seen before. Clare laughs more than I expect, her voice bright against the stone facades. She points out flower boxes tumbling with geraniums, lingers at stalls where masks glint like secrets.
At lunch she orders too much pasta, eyes wide at the sheer mountain of it. I help her eat it, twirling forkfuls, watching the colour rise in her cheeks when she catches me looking.
“This doesn’t feel like pretending,” she says suddenly, wine glass halfway to her lips.
“Good,” I answer, though my throat feels tight. “Maybe we stop pretending then.”
Her gaze flickers away, to the water. “It’s not that simple.”
Of course it isn’t. She’s stitched together from fresh wounds, and I’m a man who’s failed enough times to know better. But still, the idea hangs there between us, impossible to call back.
By the third day, the city insists on turning us into a couple. The waiter brings us two straws in one drink. The gondolier sings a serenade as if rehearsed for us alone. Strangers smile at us, assuming.
We don’t correct them.
Something loosens in me, laughing at the absurdity, letting myself step into the story we’re telling. I slip my hand into his when crossing a bridge, because it’s easier than stumbling. His grip is warm, callused, and lingers a second longer than necessary.
That night, at the hotel, he sketches designs in a notebook — arches, shelves, bits of carpentry translated into Venetian shapes. I curl beside him, shoulder brushing his, and pretend to read while my body hums with awareness.
“You always work on holiday?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My head doesn’t switch off easy. Making sense of things on paper helps.”
I want to tell him my head doesn’t switch off either — not from loss, not from doubt. But instead, I watch his pencil move, steady and sure, and let the sound of the graphite soothe me.
Eamon
The kiss happens because of rain.
We’re caught in a sudden downpour, sprinting under an awning, drenched and breathless. Her hair clings to her cheeks, mascara smudged, and she looks so wildly alive that I can’t stop myself.
She turns towards me, laughter spilling out, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lean in.
Her lips taste of rain and wine and something braver than I am. For a heartbeat she freezes. Then she kisses me back, fierce and aching, as if the city itself demanded it.
When we break apart, her eyes are wide, mouth trembling.
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispers.
“No,” I admit. “But maybe it should be.”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t step away either.
I should stop this. I should remind him — remind myself — that we’re standing on borrowed time. This honeymoon doesn’t belong to us. It’s a relic of what I lost, not a blueprint for what I might gain.
But when he touches me, all those careful rules disintegrate.
We fall into bed that night, rain still clinging to our clothes. There’s nothing tentative about it. No pretending, no make-believe. Just heat and honesty, every kiss a dare, every touch a confession.
Afterwards, lying tangled in sheets that smell of him, I stare at the ceiling and feel something I haven’t in months: whole.
And it terrifies me.
Eamon
We wander St. Mark’s, we sip espresso, we argue over maps. Normal things. But underneath, the current runs strong.
At one point, watching her tilt her face to the sun, I think: this could be it. This could be home.
And then she catches me looking, and the panic in her eyes reminds me how fragile it all is.
Still, I hold on. Because if Venice has taught me anything, it’s that borrowed things can still be beautiful.
By the time we board the flight back to Dublin, I don’t know what story we’re telling anymore. The world will think we had a honeymoon. My family will tease, the neighbours will gossip. Maybe they’ll be right.
Eamon nudges my hand as the plane rises. “We’ll figure it out.”
I nod, though fear coils tight in my stomach. Because what if the real world takes back what Venice let us borrow?
But when I look at him — steady, smiling, his hand warm in mine — I almost believe it’s possible.
Almost.
The plane lurches in a pocket of turbulence, and instinct makes me grip his hand tighter. Eamon doesn’t flinch. He steadies me with that look of his — calm, unshaken, the kind of look that says everything’s fixable with the right bit of wood and the right bit of patience. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, not in a deliberate caress but in a rhythm so natural it feels like we’ve always done this, like we’ve crossed oceans together before.
“Not fond of flying?” he asks, voice low.
“Not fond of falling,” I mutter, trying for lightness, though the words scrape.
He grins. “Then don’t look down.”
I can’t help it — I laugh, surprising myself with how easy it is in his company. It’s dangerous, this ease. A borrowed safety, like everything else about these last days. Venice was a bubble, and now, as clouds peel back to reveal the quilt of Ireland’s fields, I wonder how quickly bubbles burst.
When we land, the air is cooler, damp with the scent of home. Dublin airport is loud and familiar, announcements tangling with the cries of children and the clatter of suitcases. We move through it together, shoulder to shoulder, and there’s a moment at baggage claim when I almost forget. I almost lean into him the way I did by the canals.
But then a familiar voice calls, “Clare?” and the spell breaks.
My sister Aoife stands there, coat half-buttoned, her hair caught up in a messy bun. She takes one look at us and raises her brows. “Back so soon? Well, don’t you look tanned and… couple-y.”
I flush. “We’re not — ”
But Eamon, steady as ever, smiles. “We had a good trip.”
Aoife eyes us both like she can smell the truth simmering underneath. She lets it go, for now, but I know my family — there will be no end of questions.
Eamon
The O’Sheas are not a quiet lot.
By the weekend I’ve been dragged into Clare’s family pub, introduced to sisters and cousins and aunts who all have opinions. The place smells of hops and stew, wood polished by generations of elbows. Clare looks both proud and mortified as they circle us like sharks scenting blood.
“So,” says Siobhán, the music teacher, leaning on the bar. “Our Clare finally brought home a man. And not any man — her honeymoon stand-in.”
“Siobhán!” Clare hisses, cheeks flaming.
I chuckle, because it’s easier than being unnerved. “Stand-in sounds about right. Not sure if I’ll make the final casting, though.”
The joke lands; the aunts cackle. Clare glares at me, but there’s laughter threatening her lips too.
Later, when the music swells and the family’s distracted, she pulls me into the courtyard out back, away from the smoke and chatter. The air’s cool, stars faint against the city glow.
“You didn’t have to play along,” she says.
“I didn’t mind.”
Her eyes search mine, sharp and uncertain. “They’ll think… they’ll think it’s serious.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her arms fold across her chest, a shield. “It can’t be. You know that.”
I do. I know her heart is still bruised, that she’s afraid to hand it over again, afraid it’ll come back cracked. But standing there in the cool night, I want to tell her that broken things can be mended. That maybe mended things are stronger.
Instead, I only nod. “Alright.”
Because pushing won’t help. Because if this is to mean anything, it has to be her choice.
The weeks after are chaos.
My shop explodes into colour with wedding orders, funerals, graduations — every ceremony life can throw at me. I bury myself in work, trying to silence the echo of Eamon’s kiss, the feel of his hand on mine.
But he keeps showing up. At first, under the guise of finishing the shelving. Then, with deliveries from the timber yard. Then, with coffee on mornings when I’ve clearly forgotten breakfast. Always steady, always near.
I tell myself it’s friendship. That we’ve returned from our little Venetian dream and tucked it away. But my body knows better — my chest tightens when I hear his laugh, my hands fumble when his brush mine.
One evening he finds me struggling with a delivery of roses, buckets slipping, water sloshing over the floor. Without a word, he takes the load, shoulders the weight as if it’s nothing. When I mutter thanks, he shrugs. “What else are stand-ins for?”
The words catch me off guard. Stand-ins. As if that’s all he is. As if Venice, and the nights tangled in sheets, and the way he looks at me, could be written off as a temporary role.
And maybe it should. Maybe that’s safer.
But when I lock the shop and step into the twilight, I see him waiting by his van, arms crossed, smile lazy.
And safety feels a long way off.
Eamon
I don’t know how to stop wanting her.
Every day I tell myself she needs space, that I’ll only make things harder if I push. But then she looks at me — truly looks — and I’m lost.
One Friday, I walk her home. The city hums, buses hissing, pubs spilling laughter onto pavements. She talks about flowers — hydrangeas and lilies and the miracle of making beauty last even when it’s cut from the root. I listen, fascinated by the way her hands move, by the fire in her voice.
At her door, she fumbles with keys. “Thanks for walking me.”
“No bother.” I hesitate, then add, “Clare, you don’t have to keep pretending nothing happened. Not with me.”
She stills, keys dangling. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t risk it.” She meets my eyes, raw and unflinching. “You saw what he did. How easy it was for him to leave. I can’t… I can’t go through that again.”
I step closer, not touching. “I’m not him.”
Her breath catches. For a moment I think she’ll close the distance. Then she shakes her head, unlocks the door, and slips inside, leaving me on the step.
But she doesn’t close it fully. The door lingers ajar, as if even in her fear, some part of her wants me near.
I dream of Venice more than I should. Of rain-soaked kisses and tangled sheets. Of a man who never let go of my hand on those crooked bridges.
***
Back in Dublin, before sleep finally takes me, I make the mistake of opening the suitcase. Venice spills out in small, ridiculous evidence: a paper napkin from a café, a receipt for espresso, the hotel soap I apparently stole with the guilt of a criminal mastermind. I sit on the rug and touch each thing like it might accuse me. The city is gone, but my body has brought it home. My mouth remembers rain. My hand remembers his. The flat is too quiet for what I now know quiet can hold.
Eamon texts at half eleven. Not a grand declaration, not a poem. Just: You ate today? I stare at the message until the screen dims. It would be easier if he were careless. It would be easier if he wanted too much, too loudly, because then I could call it selfish and shut the door. Instead he asks about food, as if survival is holy work and I am allowed to be someone worth checking on.
I type three different replies and delete them. Yes sounds too intimate. No sounds too needy. I settle on: Toast counts. His answer comes back at once. Barely. I’m making you soup tomorrow. I laugh into my sleeve, which is embarrassing because there is no one here to be charmed by it except the damp laundry and a spider with poor boundaries.
Then guilt arrives, punctual as tax. I see Darragh’s face as it used to be when he kissed my temple in supermarkets. I see the wedding dress bag hanging behind Mam’s spare-room door because none of us knew where to put an unworn future. Wanting Eamon feels like stepping over a grave that is not actually a grave, and that makes it worse. A dead love would be easier to mourn than a love that chose its own clean exit.
I stand, fold the Venice things into a shoebox, and write one word on the lid: Evidence. Not proof that I have betrayed anyone. Proof that I survived a trip I was afraid would swallow me. Proof that beauty did not ask whether I deserved it before it arrived. When I climb into bed, I leave my phone face-up. It glows once more before midnight. Soup tomorrow, he writes. No arguments. I put my palm over the light and sleep like someone holding a match in the dark.