Love & Luck

by Jenna Evans Welch

  “That means we have to stand here for one more second,” I said. Are you surviving this moment of discomfort? Have there been other moments of pain or discomfort that you thought you couldn’t survive and yet you did?

  “Now!” I said, turning back to shore. We ran. My legs were so frozen, I could barely feel them churning the water to white, but Rowan’s warm hand found its way back to mine, and suddenly I felt that same lightening sensation I had back at the Burren.

  It was possible that Guidebook Lady was onto something.

  Bradley was not exaggerating about the nightlife at the Rainbow’s End. Music blared from a miniature speaker, and every light blazed. More people than I’d seen on the entire peninsula were crowded onto the porch and steps. Someone had built a fire in a garbage can, and flames licked the edges of the metal.

  “The Rainbow’s End’s infamous nightlife,” Rowan said, skidding to a stop. The way back had taken us twice as long since we had to pedal uphill, and my shaky legs meant sore muscles tomorrow. “Any sign of Ian?”

  “No, but there’s our host.” Bradley sat holding court in an anemic-looking lawn chair. He’d paired a too-small button-up shirt with a tee featuring Jesus on a surfboard. Bradley caught sight of me and waved, gesturing dramatically to the seat next to him.

  The seat of honor. Part of me wanted to coast on the calm feeling I’d carried back from Inch Beach by going straight to bed, but Bradley kept waving his hands excitedly at me.

  “I’ll take the bikes back,” Rowan said, grabbing my bike handlebars. “Better get over there. We don’t want to keep the king waiting.”

  As I made my way over to Bradley, Ian suddenly appeared at my side, latching on to my arm. He wore double hoodies, and his hair looked more tangled than usual. “Where have you been?” he asked urgently.

  I shook him off. “Inch Beach. Didn’t Rowan tell you?”

  “I didn’t think it would be all day.”

  “All day? We were only gone for a few hours.” Suddenly, I realized that Ian was rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, which was Ian speak for I have something to spill.

  My heart fell. Not another text. Please not another text from back home. “Ian, what is it? What’s going on?”

  He set his mouth in a grim line. “Mom called.”

  “And?” Huge rush of relief. That was manageable. Mom was manageable. “What did she say?”

  “She wanted to talk to Howard.”

  Yikes. I hadn’t even thought about that. “Oh, right. We should probably come up with a plan of what to say next time she calls.”

  He rocked onto his heels again, spitting the rest out. “I got nervous and I had Bradley pretend to be Howard.”

  “What?” I yelped so loudly that a cluster of long-haired girls looked up from the fire. “You asked Bradley to pretend he was Howard? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  He grabbed for his hair, twisting the same snarled piece. “It actually wasn’t too bad. His American accent was sort of . . . questionable, but I think she bought it.”

  “No,” I whispered. This was a disaster. Less than a day in, and Ian was already jeopardizing us. We were never going to pull this off. “Ian, what were you thinking? You should have waited to talk to me.”

  He threw his arms up defensively. “She kept calling and calling. You know how she is about the persistence thing—I think Catarina warped her brain. I had to improvise. And besides, you said you were stopping at a site, not leaving for the whole night.”

  The accusation in his voice was too familiar—You know what Cubby’s been doing, right? “This isn’t my fault, Ian,” I snapped. “It was your decision to stay in Ireland, not mine.” I shoved past him, heading for the porch steps.

  “Addie!” Bradley called. “Did you hear I talked to your mom?”

  “Sorry, Bradley, now’s not a good time.” I stomped into the building and made a beeline for the bunk room, collapsing onto my bed. I was exhausted. And starving.

  But instead of leaving the room to forage for food, I dug my phone out of my pocket and searched for Indie Ian. I wanted to see for myself what this trip—and the possible end of our sports careers—had been about. Two articles came up automatically: “Is the Garage Band Dead?” and “I Went to the Mall. Here’s What Happened.”

  “Here it goes,” I said aloud.

  Two sentences in and I fell headfirst into the world of garage bands. The article blew me away. Ian’s voice rang through loud and strong, but with an extra gloss, like it had been coated with furniture polish and set out in the sun to shine. It was well written and intellectual but approachable, too, packed full of personality and enough enthusiasm to make me actually care.

  I quickly pulled up the second article, “I Went to the Mall. Here’s What Happened.” This one was about him wandering around the mall near our house reviewing the music played in individual stores. When had he done that? The only time I’d ever seen him at the mall was when our mom dragged us at the beginning of the school year.

  I dropped my phone to the bed, my chest heavy. There was a whole part to Ian that I’d never known existed. One that he hadn’t told me about. That he’d chosen not to tell me about.

  You did the same thing, my brain nudged silently.

  I hadn’t told Ian about Cubby; he’d found out all on his own. And then he’d confronted me immediately.

  “Addie, not him. Anyone but him.” Ian’s voice startled me so much, I almost fell back out the window. It was two a.m., just a few days after our field trip to the troll, and he was sitting at my desk in the dark, his headphones pushed down around his neck.

  I recovered just in time, stumbling into the room and turning to pull the window most of the way shut. Cubby’s car was already gone. “What do you mean? Not who?” I said, pulling my shoes off and tossing them onto the floor. I’d taken to wearing running sneakers at night—it made the climb easier.

  “I just saw you get out of his car.” Ian stood, sending my desk chair spinning. “Addie, not him,” he repeated, his face pleading.

  A slow fury built in my center, surprising me with its intensity. Why did he think he got a say in who I dated? “Ian, I get that Cubby’s your teammate, but you don’t get to tell me whether or not I hang out with him.”

  He pulled his headphones off his neck, balling them into his fist. “Addie, I’m with him a lot. I hear how he talks about girls. You don’t want to hang out with him. Believe me.”

  But I didn’t want to believe him. And so I didn’t.

  I can usually count on sleep to polish out the hard edges of whatever I’m worrying about—like a broken bottle tumbling through waves to become sea glass. But I spent the night as jagged as they come.

  The mattresses were, as promised, utter crap, and a little after one a.m. the entire party, including Ian and Rowan, descended on the bunk beds in a stampede. Finally, morning came, and I woke to light filtering softly through the barred windows. I rolled to my side. An orchestra of different snores and breathing patterns wafted through the room. Most of the beds still contained lumps of people. Everyone’s, that was, except Ian’s.

  I jumped to sitting. Ian’s and Rowan’s beds were empty, the sheets and pillows removed. Even their bags were gone.

  “Are you kidding me?” I yelped into the silence.

  They’d left me. Again. Even Rowan. I hurled myself out of bed, stumbling over a child-size backpack propped up against my bed before crashing loudly into a bedpost.

  “Hallo?” a startled voice said from the top bunks.

  “Sorry.” I raced barefoot out into the hall and into the dining room, colliding face-first with Ian, who, of course, was holding a steaming hot mug of something.

  “Addie!” he yelled, the drink sloshing everywhere. “Why are you running?”

  The relief was so intense that I nearly folded in half. I rested my hands on my knees, waiting for my heart to slow. “I thought you left me.”

  “Left you? What would possibly make
you think that?” He opened his eyes wide and then snorted, laughing at his own joke.

  Laughing. He was laughing. Had he forgotten about last night’s fight? He grabbed a handful of napkins from the kitchen table and swiped at the spill on his shoes.

  “Yes, really funny. So, so funny.” I jabbed him in the shoulder. His black eye looked a little better today. The outer edges were already fading to a dull green.

  “What’s so funny?” Rowan asked, joining us in the hallway.

  “The fact that I now have PTSD over being left behind,” I said. Rowan’s hair was nicely rumpled. Today’s cat shirt featured a bespectacled cat with the words HAIRY PAWTER.

  “That’s not new,” Ian said. “You did that every time one of us graduated to the next level of school. I thought you were going to have a breakdown when I graduated from elementary school to junior high.”

  “Ian, shut up,” I demanded, but I relaxed a little. His tone was still teasing. “Why are you in such a good mood, anyway?”

  He held up his phone. “I’m only two followers away from ten thousand. Everyone loved the photos of Slea Head and the Burren.”

  “Ian, that’s great,” I said, meaning it. I wanted to tell him how much I’d liked his articles, but covered in coffee at the Rainbow’s End didn’t feel like quite the right time. I wanted it to be special.

  He nodded happily. “Hopefully, the next stop will put us over the edge. Get dressed—we’re leaving in five.”

  “How about six?” I asked. Rowan caught my eye and grinned.

  “Five,” Ian said. “Don’t push me, sis.”

  Killarney National Park

  Are you enjoying the wooded delights of Ireland, love? Have you noticed the trees standing in tight communal bunches, branches locked together in an embrace of mutual affection and appreciation? Does it remind you of me and you? The way we just get each other?

  Me too, pet. Me too.

  Muse with me for a moment—have you ever stopped to think about how much work a tree represents? How many steps it’s gone through to get to where it is today? Take one of those mammoth trees outside your window, for example. Their ancestors had to migrate to our bonny island. Birds and animals carried seeds like hazel and oak across land bridges that once connected Ireland to Britain and Europe. Other seeds—the light ones, like birch and willow—arrived on a puff of air. And that was just the beginning. Once they were here, those tiny seeds had a lot of work to do. All the growing, stretching, reaching.

  Makes me think about all the work you’re doing.

  What work? Heartache, love. The aching of the heart. And unlike so many other tasks, it’s one only you can do. No delegating or shortcuts allowed. We humans love to try to circumvent pain. We want a shortcut, a trapdoor, something that will slurp us up and spit us out on the other side, no sticky messiness necessary.

  But the sticky messiness is required. The process is built into the name. If you want to get through heartache, you’re going to have to let your heart, you know, ache. And no matter how many distractions you pile on—cartons of ice cream, shopping binges, marathon naps—you can’t outsmart heartache. It has nowhere to be, nothing to do. It will just stand there, buffing its nails, waiting until you’re ready.

  It’s a persistent little devil.

  So let’s get to work, sugarplum. Let’s quit drowning our pain in music and credit card bills and cyberstalking. Let’s confront it. Let’s own it. You’ve got a job to do, and the sooner you get to work, the sooner you can get back to frolicking through a forest like the sparkly little forest nymph I know you to be.

  HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: Ready to do the work, love? I thought so. Find a tree that speaks to you and nestle up at its base. And then, when you’re good and comfortable, name the thing that hurts the most about this heartache of yours. Don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Just face it. Why the tree, you ask? Because trees are exceptionally good listeners, of course.

  —Excerpt from Ireland for the Heartbroken: An Unconventional Guide to the Emerald Isle, third edition

  “WELL, THIS SUCKS,” ROWAN SAID from the other side of the tree.

  “Agreed,” I answered. We’d decided to use the same mossy-trunked tree, him on one side, me on the other. And so far, the Heartache Homework was making my heart feel . . . achy. Which I guess was the point. Looking right at heartache was like looking at the sun. It burned.

  I shivered, rubbing at my goose bumps. My clothes were soaked again. A night in the Rainbow’s End carport hadn’t done the magic we’d hoped for. Clover’s back seat had morphed subtly from soggy to mushy, and even though Bradley had donated a few towels to what he called Operation Keep Addie from Looking Like a Boiled Rat, my shorts were soaked through before we even hit the main road.

  I was also dealing with some extra stress. Lina had found a flight that would get her and Ren into Dublin by tomorrow evening, and Ren had even managed to secure three tickets to Electric Picnic so we could all go to the concert together. Seeing the e-mail sent insecurity ricocheting through me. What if I didn’t like Ren? Or worse, what if he didn’t like me? Could a boyfriend and best friend coexist if they didn’t like each other? And if not, who got the ax?

  I wrapped my arms around myself and looked up through the trees, trying to refocus my mind. The forest was absolutely drenched in moss. Every surface and every branch dripped and glistened with it, softening everything to a green glow.

  “We’d better do this before Ian gets back,” I said. We’d convinced him to take a walk, but I doubted he’d be gone long. He was antsy to get to the next Titletrack site.

  “Okay, you first. What’s the worst part of your heartache?” Rowan asked.

  Mine was a hard call. Was it public humiliation? Letting my brother down? An unexpected answer rose to the surface. “I didn’t listen to myself. There were so many red flags, but I ignored them. I let myself down.” I exhaled slowly, sadness coating me from head to toe. “What about you? What’s the worst part?”

  Rowan shifted, crunching some twigs. “Knowing I don’t have any control over the situation.”

  “I might steal that one.”

  Rowan hesitated again. “You can tell me to shut up, but what happened exactly? Did you break up with him, or did—”

  “It was him.” I pressed my head against the bark, my heart sending out another pulse of ache.

  Rowan absorbed my silence for a moment, then stood and crunched his way around the tree, sitting next me. “Hey, Addie, you know I’m here for you, right? Like if you need to talk?”

  I met his eyes. They were big and liquid, ready to absorb whatever ugliness I had for them. And suddenly the whole ugly story rose up until it was pushing against the back of my teeth. I did need someone to talk to about it all, but I’d been telling myself the story for ten days now, and it had become pretty clear what part I played in it: loser girl who throws herself at a guy because she’s desparate to keep his attention. Not exactly flattering. Or friend-attracting.

  “Thanks, Rowan, but I think I’m done here,” I said, climbing quickly to my feet. At the car, Ian narrowed his eyes at us. “Why do you guys look so mopey?”

  He was right. The time in Killarney National Park had really brought my mood down. I’d always heard you were supposed to distract yourself from heartbreak—not zero in on it. Why was Guidebook Lady so insistent on digging into heartache?

  “We don’t look mopey,” Rowan said. “We’re sad. They’re two different things.”

  “Well, this isn’t going to help,” Ian said, tossing me his phone. “Text from Mom. That woman is relentless.”

  “Great,” I groaned. I pulled up the text.

  How’s Italy? How are things with Addie?

  “Well, at least she actually seems to think we’re in Italy,” I said.

  He shook his head, unconvinced. “Or she’s testing us.”

  I wrote back, Hey Mom, this is Addie. Things are going great!! Italy is so beautiful and WARM. You were right, we just needed some time toget
her!!!! Really feeling some great sibling vibes!!

  I regretted the text the second I hit send. It sounded like it had been written by a deranged cheerleader. A deranged cheerleader who was obsessed with the fact that her body temperature hadn’t been normal in days. If Bradley’s cameo hadn’t tipped her off, this would. She wrote back immediately: Had no idea Howard was Australian. How interesting!

  Ridiculous. Either she was laying a trap, or spending so much time with Aunt Mel was warping her brain. She knew Howard was American—it was a requirement for running the American cemetery.

  I was so absorbed in trying to decipher my mom’s text that it took me several minutes to realize that Ian and Rowan were now arguing.

  “Ian, I’m being serious. I can’t get caught.” Rowan’s hands were as tense as his voice, and his eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror. I turned to look behind me, but the road was empty except for a long, fuzzy strip of grass growing through the middle of it. Roads had no chance here—Ireland liked to swallow them whole. “I just don’t think we should risk it.”

  Ian’s mouth settled into a hard line. “Rowan, it took us three weeks to track down where the Red Room is. And you just want to throw that all away?” He jabbed his finger accusingly. “I thought you were a fan.”

  “Whoa,” I said, perking up. Those were fighting words. But they didn’t seem to ruffle Rowan.

  He shook his head soundly. “Stop acting the maggot. Not wanting to see it and not wanting to get caught are two different things.”

  This sounded interesting. I abandoned Ian’s phone and scrambled forward to read the next site on the map. “What’s Torc Manor?”

  Rowan inclined his head slightly toward Ian. “Should I tell her, or do you want to?”

  “Be my guest,” Ian said, dropping his head back down to his map. Back at the Rainbow’s End, he had peeled the tape off his window, and now he had his right hand out, fingers spread in the wind.

  “I’m waiting,” I prompted.

  Rowan sighed heavily, then met my expectant eyes. “Torc Manor is a summer house that used to belong to the drummer’s uncle. They recorded an entire album in the sitting room there.”