Mismatched
think I’ve enough to carry!” retorts Miley, with a wink of his own. He brings the drinks over to our table and sets them down without spilling a drop.
    “Would’ya give us a job in yer pub over there in Boston, Erin, would’ya?” he asks.
    “In a heartbeat, Uncle Miley. In a heartbeat.” I take my first sip of the black stuff, and God, it tastes good. I look at Ridlee who is staring at her pint glass.
    Everyone’s watching her as she tentatively takes her first sip. “Mmm, yummy!” she chirps, but you can tell she doesn’t think it’s yummy at all with the way she winces after. Guinness is definitely an acquired taste. Still, plenty of time for that. Aunty Ger arrives at the table with an armload of cheese and onion crisps.
    “So, Pet, ye’re the proud owner of a pub, are ye?” asks my dad.
    “Half a pub,” I mumble into my glass while taking a slug of my Guinness.
    “What’s that?”
    “Half a pub.” I look up from my drink. My mother, father, and my aunt and uncle are staring at me.
    “The old bint didn’t give the whole thing to ye?” asks my father, his voice rising. “After all the work you put in?”
    “Jack! Keep it down. And don’t talk about my mother like that. It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead.” The last part my mother says under her breath.
    “It’s just a legality. We’re gonna fix it.” I smile confidently in Ridlee’s direction.
    My father looks from me to Ridlee, and back to me again. “You and ... I’m sorry, what’s yer name again, Love?”
    “Ridlee. As in Scott. Like ‘Alien’ but with an ‘E’. Well, another ‘E’. Two Es, really.”
    My father does his pirate face — one eye cocked, mouth askew — and turns to me. “Is she right in the head?”
    “Ridlee’s a lawyer, Dad.”
    “Oh,” is all he says, taking another swig of his pint.
    “So, what’s the story with yer granny’s pub then, Erin?” asks my Uncle Miley, shifting his stool closer to the table.
    “Well, she seems to have left half of the pub to someone called Padraig Flanagan. Ridlee and I are going to find him and buy him out. For a fair price of course.”
    “A fair price, is it?” asks Uncle Miley, all wily now.
    I smile at him. We understand each other perfectly. Ridlee smiles too.
    “Well, a fair price of what the bar used to be worth,” I explain. “Before I did all the renovations and basically saved it from bankruptcy. Here, look.” I pull some photos out of an envelope I have in my bag. They show the pub before any of the renovations were done. The plaster is hanging off the walls, there’s sawdust on the floor, and crap everywhere— teapots and plates and all sorts of junk from the old country.
    “Nice,”says Uncle Miley, “but what did it look like before?”
    “That is before!” His response deflates me a bit. Doesn’t he see the sawdust? The tired tea service?
    A collective “oohhh” goes up as the photos are passed from person to person.
    “What does it look like now?’ asks Aunty Ger.
    I grin and pull out the brochure that I had recently put together for a marketing campaign. My family leans in to have a look.
    “I’ve gutted the place so that it’s now one huge room instead of little snugs and nooks and crannies.”
    The brochure shows an immense bar with stools running the length of it and a neon Fightin’ Irish leprechaun above it. There are neon shamrocks here and there and gaelic football jerseys on the walls. There’s a photo of me pulling a pint, wearing a green shirt with the words Kiss Me I’m Irish emblazoned on the front. A huge, green, cardboard shamrock behind me offers three shots for three dollars during happy hour.
    “Lovely, sweetie,” says my mum, handing the brochure back to me. A general ‘ mmm ’ is emitted from my dad, aunt, and uncle.
    “You don’t understand!” I hear myself whining. “That’s the kind of thing they want, right Ridlee?”
    “Right!” says my loyal friend, but I can tell she doesn’t really know
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