His lips pursed and his head dropped. He scratched his cheek again. This was coming out all wrong.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to—I mean, not right this second, but if you don’t want to, then… Crap.” I shook my head. “I’m not making sense.”

“They’re forcing you?” he asked. “The Fae?”

I exhaled. “Yes.”

And now he looked sad, or hurt, or maybe worried. The pressure between us was awful. I should have never let myself imagine it would be as natural and easy as my parents’ getting together had been. They’d been forced to meet, but they had other options if they hadn’t liked one another. It sucked not to have a choice. But was I really so bad that he’d want to call it quits before he got to know me? Or maybe we were having communication problems. My hands were shaking, so I crossed my arms.

“McKale!” someone called from inside the Shoe House.

“I must go,” he whispered. His eyes met mine at the same time as the warm morning sun shifted through a break in the trees.

I had so much to say, but the only thing that came out was, “Will I see you tonight?”

“Aye.” He gave me an apologetic look before stooping to disappear through the open doors.

I spent the rest of the day pressing down paranoia that wanted to grow. Underneath it was a seed of hatred for the Fae. Such emotion was futile and would only cause bitterness, and yet the roots had sprouted.

“Maybe it was a misunderstanding,” Cassidy said at lunch, though she didn’t sound certain. “You guys will work it out when you talk tonight.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I chewed my grainy roll. “We just need to get to know each other. Right?”

“Mm-hm.” Cassidy glared across the field to where McKale walked, head down.

I knew she was thinking the worst. That he didn’t want me. And that hurt more than I cared to admit.

THE PARTY WAS IN full swing when we made it out that night. My eyes did a quick scan of the clearing until finding McKale among the musicians. As we entered the gathering, people began to approach and introduce themselves. I’d met a few people that day, but most had been busy working.

I stood with my family, shaking hands or hugging each male and female who bounded up to greet us. Brogan stood nearby, receiving claps on the back and hearty handshakes of congratulations from the men. I’d never be able to remember all of the names just yet, but they were all so friendly that my face hurt from smiling by the time we were through.

We found an open spot at a table near the musicians and sat, watching McKale on his fiddle and the people dancing. Other Irish instruments were played: wooden flutes, tin whistles, and even a small harp. McKale caught my eye between songs and held it for a few beats before giving me a bashful grin, turning me all toasty warm and confused inside. Maybe I’d made too much of our conversation that morning. Maybe he’d just been giving me an out if I wanted it. Cass saw the exchange and bumped my ankle with her own.

Across from us, Dad took a sip from his wooden mug and slapped a hand to the table, shaking his head before letting out a “Woo!” He leaned over the table and whispered, “Girls, do not drink the moonshine!” And then he took another drink.

“It’ll put hair on your chest,” Mom said, patting Dad’s pec.

“Ew.” Cassidy pulled a face.

Two Little Men with short blond beards approached Cassidy and me, asking us to dance. We looked at one another, hesitating.

“I don’t really know how…” Cassidy stammered.

“Och, not to worry!” said the one closest to her. “We’ll teach ye the steps.”

“Sure, why not,” I said. We’d most likely make fools of ourselves, but we were going to spend the summer with these people and we needed to make an effort. Better to look like fools than snobs. The men held out their small hands and we took them, allowing ourselves to be led onto the “dance floor,” which was essentially a circle of stamped down grass.

We lined up with the others and took their hands. I peered over at the musicians and McKale gave me a slight nod of approval as he raised the fiddle under his chin.

The dance required us to skip to the side, then skip to the other side. Our partners were supposed to spin us around, which was funny because we had to squat down and pivot. By the end, we’d gotten the hang of it and we were laughing and breathless. The song ended and everyone cheered. It took a moment to realize they were cheering for Cassidy and me. When I glanced at McKale again he was half grinning, the fiddle resting on his knee.

Cassidy and I smiled at the people and one another, but declined a second dance because we were thirsty. She and I headed to the corner of the field where a Little Man stood on a stool scooping drinks from barrels with a fire roaring at his back.

“Fine dancing!” he said when we approached. “What will ye be drinking? We got ale, mead, and a bit o’ fire water.”

Fire water sounded bad. It had to be the moonshine Dad warned us about.

“What’s mead?” Cassidy asked.

“Fermented honey,” I said. “You’ll learn all about it when you read Beowulf next year.”

She didn’t look excited.

“Refreshing after a good dance, it is.” He filled two wooden goblets and handed them over. We thanked him and tasted the mead. There was slight bitterness from the alcohol and a light, sweet aftertaste. I expected carbonation, but it was flat. All together not bad. He smiled at our approval and refilled our mugs before we walked away.