Honestly, I hate weddings.

I know I shouldn't, given that mum is a wedding planner and both my sisters had beautiful ceremonies. It's not that I don't like celebrating love, I do. It's kind of what my whole column in the magazine is about. And it's not because I've never been married, even if mum tries to convince you that's why.

I hate weddings because it means I have to go back home to Ireland. Not that I hate Ireland, I miss home sometimes. I just hate my ex-boyfriend. Unfortunately for me, everyone in Callan loves him. They love to tell me so.

In addition to having to see my ex, going home means I have to spend time with Uncle John and Aunt Mary. Uncle John likes to talk about when my sisters and I would run around the lawn with no clothes on, and everyone laughs like it's funny. I question why a man in is fifties likes to recount stories about his naked nieces, mum tells me to shut up.

None of this really matters though, because regardless of not wanting to see Padraig (also known as Paddy) and my hatred for weddings - I'm currently sat in the airport waiting to catch a flight to Dublin.

My best friend is getting married.

Which, on most counts should make me happy and in many ways it does. Nimah's chosen some English fella I've only met once. She convinced him to move to Dublin with her and six months into their relationship, they're getting hitched.

Do I think it's fast? Yes. Has Niamh always been quick to rush into things? Absolutely. Would I dare voice any concerns to her? Never.

Sure, when I met him he seemed nice enough. If we ignore the tiny (and important) detail that I didn't actually get to know him. They spent most of their time ramming their tongues down each other's throats. But Niamh seemed keen and happy, so therefore I'm happy for her.

"Is this seat taken?"

I look up, startled. Towering over me is a tall, dark haired man with crystal clear blue eyes. He's all in black but it suits him. His denim jacket is hugging his frame. He's beautiful, and he's looking right at me, pointing to the seat next to me. I realise far too slowly that he's asking to sit there.

"No!" I squeak, moving my stuff away from the empty seat. "No, feel free."

"Thank you," he says. His voice is deep. Really deep. Dreamily deep.

"You're welcome." I murmur.

Neither of us speak again as he lowers himself into the seat. I turn back to my book which I'm not really reading because all I can think about is how much I do not want to go to this wedding.

But how could I say no? I've known Niamh my whole life. She's been talking about getting married since we started playing kiss-chase. This is her dream and I was always going to be her Maid of Honour. I knew she would ask.

But you hate weddings, my brain tells at me.

I do find them boring. It's a lot of standing around and staring. A boatload of awkward conversations and small talk - desperately trying to avoid people I don't want to see (like Paddy).

God, that bastard really did a number on me. I haven't been able to date anyone since him. It's been three years.

I can't tell anyone any of this. Everyone knows what the town is like, they'll just paint me out to be miserable and lonely; like this is the eighteen-hundreds and you need to be married off to be happy. Hard to believe we're in the day of modern technology when towns like mine exist.

"I'm sorry. I have to ask... do you usually cry in airports?"

I turn to look at the man who has taken the seat next to me. He's English, not Irish, he's probably going to Dublin on a romantic break. Someone who looks like him nearly always is.

I immediately wipe my face only to find it's bone dry. I feel myself flush red. "I'm not crying! I don't think I am anyway."

"You are." He insists. "Maybe not a lot but a little."

I sniffle. "Have you been watching me?"

Look, if he wasn't so hot it would be creepy. But because he is hot it's kind of flattering.

"Only when I thought you were crying."

"I see..." I say. "Is that your kink then? Upset women?"

"What?" He laughs.

I can't help myself. I give him a small smile. "There's no shame-"

"No!" He's horrified. "Bloody hell! I have five sisters and if one of them were crying I'd want someone to ask if they're okay."

"Oh." I say, surprised. That's actually quite sweet. "Well, thank you, but I'm okay."

"Are you sure? In my experience people don't cry in crowded places unless they're upset."

I feel myself smile. "Have a lot of experience with people crying in airports then?"

"No. But as I mentioned, I do have five sisters... Haven't you heard a problem shared is a problem halved?"

God, he's a pushy thing isn't he? I can tell by the look on his lovely face he's not going to let it go.

I sigh, "Are you really going to make me talk about it?"

"Yes."

His face is as serious as Granny's when I stole a euro from her purse and I figure there's no harm in admitting my feelings to a stranger.

I lean forwards and whisper, "I hate weddings."

He blinks. "And you're upset because you're getting married?"

I sit back, "No. I don't think anyone is insane enough to marry me. My best friend is getting married. I'm the Maid of Honour."

He chuckles, "Isn't it supposed to be an honour? Not something to cry over?"

I sigh, "This is why I don't tell people I don't like weddings."

"Why's that?"

"They all look at me the same way you are."

"What way is that?"

"Like I've got a screw loose."

He shakes his head but his eyes are shining with laughter. "I don't think you've got a screw loose. I question why you'd agree to be maid of honour if you don't like weddings though?"

I suck in a breath and then blow air out my cheeks. "It's not so much weddings. It's having to see creepy family members and be around my ex-boyfriend."

Why, oh why, am I telling this beautiful stranger all of this? I've not told anyone. Not even Niamh, and she's the one whose wedding I'm an honour at. This is a conversation I should have with her.

The stranger gets a knowing look. "Bad breakup?"

"He cheated." I say. "Six times."

His eyebrows disappear under his floppy-movie-star hair. "You forgave him five times?"

"No! I found out about all of them at the same time and broke up with him. He was actually my fiancé at the time, and the signs were there. I think the problem with red flags is that I'm attracted to them."

He laughs. "Aren't we all?"

I continue. "Everyone in my town is okay with what he did because he helps old ladies cross the road and is always polite, they chalk it up to him being a young lad and not, you know, a complete asshole."

"Christ."

"I know. Even worse is I was labelled as the bad one for breaking his heart, according to Mavis."

"God damn Mavis." He says. "Whose Mavis?"

I laugh. "The oldest and most respected woman in town, not because she a decent person, just because she's old. Do you like weddings?"

"Sometimes. The more casual ones."

"What about the ones with free food?"

"More of a fan of the ones with free drink."

I nod. "I hear that."

"Sometimes they're just not worth all the small talk."

"Right!" I say, more animated than I mean to. "Exactly!"

Maybe telling a stranger is a problem halved. I immediately feel lighter. It doesn't feel like he's judging me or thinks I'm a spinster (at the ripe age of twenty-five). If anything, he's sort of agreeing with me.

Not just about weddings either. It's clear that anyone I've spoken to outside of Callan can see what a complete waste of space Paddy is. Everyone in Callan thinks he's a golden boy. Which is why I moved to London the day after our breakup. And why I'll never be moving back.

"Have you told the person who is getting married how much you hate weddings?"

"No." I sigh. "You're clearly not from a tiny Irish town. Telling anyone this information will turn me into the towns pariah."

"I don't believe that." He says.

"I bet you were raised in London or a big city. A place where a woman's value isn't directly tied to her marriage."

He gives a low laugh and his eyes sparkle as he looks at me. "You do not like home at all, do you?"

"I do!" I chuckle, then I look at him seriously. "I miss it quite a bit. I just don't like weddings. And the questions. And the stares."

"And having to see cheating ex's?"

"Yeah. Or that."

"Why don't you bring a date?"

I reel. "Why would I do that?"

He shrugs. "Seems like an easy fix to me. Make your ex jealous, make everyone else shut up. Actually, that's a great idea. Why haven't you done that?"

I'm quiet for a long while. "Because no one wants to date me."

The guy stares at me, unblinking, waiting for me to say more. I don't and so he says, "That definitely can't be true."

I laugh, "Now I'd say you're flirting with me."

He laughs back. "Maybe I am."

Never has a hot stranger hit on me before. Never will it happen again. I wouldn't say I'm unappealing but there are many more striking women out there.

As proven by Paddy's willingness to bed all of them. Further hammered home by Mavis calling me "damaged goods" at the last wedding I attended. I couldn't be too mad at her, she's eighty and doesn't know what she's saying half the time.

Also, she's right. Whatever self-esteem I had before Paddy was utterly annihilated by him. I never want to let another man in again. Not even hot airport ones. 

I'm twenty-five and alone. I have two friends in London, one is Irish and one is English. If I'm ever to be married, it'll be to the column I write for a national magazine. I'm lonely, but I've made it that way on purpose. If I could go back in time to before I met Paddy I would, but I can't.

"Look, I don't want to be too forward, but do you want to get a coffee?"

I stare at him, not knowing if I want to or not.

Thankfully, I don't have to answer because my gate gets called and we say an awkward goodbye before I rush away. I realise with relief, I never got his name and I'll probably never have to see him again.

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1870 Words