“Mediocre?” Ian’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you felt that way?”
“Why should I have to tell you? It’s so embarrassingly obvious.” A bird hopped happily over, a french fry clamped in its beak. “And, Ian, I’m really sorry that I sent the photo, but—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up.” Ian’s hands shot into the air. “You think I’m mad at you because you sent the photo?” He looked me square in the eye, his knee bouncing. “Addie, that’s not what this is about. Sending a photo was your decision. It’s your . . . body.” We both grimaced. This was firmly out of the realm of brother-sister conversations. At least it was for us.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, blush forming on his cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m saying this the right way, but what I mean is that I wasn’t mad that you sent the photo. Your picture getting passed around the team wasn’t your fault—Cubby’s the one who did that.” He kicked at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. “I was mad that you didn’t trust me when I told you to stay away from him. I’ve been around Cubby for years. I’ve seen how he’s changed, and I just wanted to protect you.”
Tears prickled my eyes, and I leaned over, resting my elbows on my knees. The knot in my chest felt like it would never unravel. “Ian, I’m so sorry about football,” I whispered.
He exhaled slowly. “Okay, now it’s my turn to come clean on something else. I didn’t mean what I said back there in the room. I was just angry. And trying to make a point.”
I shot up quickly. “You mean you’re still on the team?”
He shook his head. “No, I am one hundred percent off the team. What I mean is that’s on me, not you.”
“So it wasn’t about the photo?”
“Well . . .” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. But more happened than just me confronting Cubby in the locker room. I mean, I definitely lost it that day. But it was all the other fights that put things over the edge.”
“Fights?” My head snapped up. “As in plural? How many did you get into?”
He hesitated. “I’m not really sure. And I’ll be honest, at first they were about you, guys making stupid comments to get under my skin. But then it was like I just snapped. I couldn’t handle my teammates anymore, and everything set me off. Coach kept giving me warnings and then . . .”
He straightened up, throwing his shoulders back. “But it’s okay that I got kicked off, because I hate football. Always have, always will.”
“What?” I ripped my gaze from the ocean. Enjoying writing more than football was not the same as hating football. And he couldn’t hate it, could he? Not when he was so talented. “Like you hate practice or . . . ?”
He shook his head, sending hair into his face. “No, I hate football. All of it.” His eyes met mine. “I hate practice, I hate games, the pep rallies, the banquets, the uniforms . . . I hate how people treat me differently—like I’m special just because I’m good at this one thing. And it’s been this way for so long. Once everyone figured out I was good, it was like someone threw this big football blanket over me—no one could see anything else. Everyone just wanted me to fall into this stereotype, and it just never . . . fit.”
I had never even considered that Ian didn’t like football. Suddenly, it all fell into place: the rush out of practices, the grumpiness before games, how hard he worked to not talk about football when it was all anyone else wanted to talk about. It had been right in front of me all along. “Ian, I had no idea. That must have been . . .”
“Awful?” he said, his eyebrows dropping.
“Awful,” I repeated. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. Everyone gets so excited about me playing, and you were always at my games and . . .” He exhaled loudly. “I want to be like you and Archie and Walter. When you’re on the field, it’s like you turn into who you really are. You have so much fun. I’ve never felt that.”
“But you feel that way with writing. And Titletrack,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why this trip was so important to me. I thought that if I could maybe write something really incredible, maybe get it accepted into a large magazine, Mom and Dad would be less upset about my quitting football.”
I pressed my lips together, barely containing my smile. “So you’re saying that you have something you need to tell Mom and Dad?”
He groaned, but a smile pierced his face too. “I know. Don’t bug me about it, okay? I’m getting there.”
“Are you kidding me? I am definitely going to bug you about it. At least as often as you bugged me.”
“There you guys are!” Rowan suddenly appeared next to the bench, startling us. “I had no idea where you went. I ended up asking one of the bartenders, and he told me . . .” He stopped, his eyes drawn to my tearstained cheeks. “Wait, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“You could say that.” Rowan had the guidebook in his hand, and seeing it sparked an idea. “Hey, Ian, do you want to do the Cobh homework with us? I actually think it might help you.”
“Good idea,” Rowan said. “I bet you’ll like this one.”
Ian yanked his hair back, securing it with an elastic from his wrist. “I don’t know. Do I have to talk to a tree? Or kiss something?”
I shook my head. “We’re supposed to draw something that didn’t work out the way we hoped it would. Then we’re going to fold our papers into boats and send them out to sea.”
“Hmmm,” Ian said, but from the way his eyes landed on the book, I knew he was interested.
“I was looking for you because I wanted to do the homework before it gets dark. I even asked for paper back at the pub, but all they had were these.” Rowan handed me a stack of old fliers advertising a show by a local violinist.
“Good enough for me.” I handed them each a paper, and then we spread out, sitting on the ground with our drawings in front of us. Mine came easily. It was Cubby and me, walking down the hallway, his arm slung around me, admiring whispers coming from all directions.
The drawing itself was terrible, barely a level above stick figure, but getting it all out shifted something inside. Again, the pain was still there, but some of the weight traveled down through my pencil, solidified into something I could look at. Something I could let go of.
We gathered at the edge of the water, following Guidebook Lady’s instructions for the Anti-Love Boat, and as I set my boat into the water, I let myself imagine for one more second what it would be like if things had gone differently. If Cubby had cared about me the way I’d cared about him. And then I let it go, watching as the waves carried it out to be dissolved by salt.
And when it was gone? Ian and Rowan were still beside me. Solid. It meant more to me than I’d thought it would.
There was a storm in the night, a gentle pattering that infiltrated my dreams and infused the late-morning sky with a bright peachy hue. Before getting out of bed, I rolled onto my back and stared up at the spiderweb cracks in the ceiling, testing out my new feeling of lightness.
The knot was still in my chest, but Ian and I being on the same team made everything seem easier.
I got dressed and then wandered into the boys’ room to see them sprawled out on their beds, Rowan wearing a pink T-shirt depicting a cat riding an orca and Ian poring over his map.
I pointed to Rowan’s shirt. “How many of those do you have?”
“Not nearly enough. And good morning to you, too,” he said, his dimple making me smile.
I pointed to Ian’s map. “One more stop before Electric Picnic?”
He grinned, bouncing off the bed. “Rock of Cashel. I can’t believe the concert is tonight.”
“I can’t believe Lina will be here tonight.” I was still nervous, but now that the tension had eased between Ian and me, telling Lina suddenly felt much more doable.
Rowan lifted his phone. “Connor says we can pick up the car after ten. Anyone want to stop for breakfast first?”<
br />
“Me,” Ian and I said in unison.
Miriam had left bright and early to drive to Dublin for a meeting, so after saying good-bye to the staff, we rolled our suitcases down to Main Street, stopping at a cobalt-blue coffee shop with BERTIE’S: FREE TEA WITH EVERY ORDER spelled out across the window in gold stick-on letters. Inside, a small bell jingled overhead, and we ordered eggs and toast from a woman standing behind the counter.
I wanted to watch the ocean for as long as possible, so while we waited for our toast and eggs, I chose a table near the window, wrapping my hands around my hot mug of mint tea.
Outside, tourists streamed past us on the sidewalk, and I watched them absentmindedly, spooning sugar into my cup and tuning out Rowan and Ian’s conversation to think about Lina. I hadn’t seen her in more than three months. What was tonight going to be like? Would we just pick up where we left off? Would we have to get used to each other again?
Our server had just set our plates in front of us when suddenly one of the passersby snapped me out of my peppermint-infused daze. He was tall with wide shoulders, a massive pair of headphones, and an undeniable swagger that reminded me of . . .
“Walter!” I squeaked. He glanced in the window and stopped dead, his gaze on Ian.
“NO.” Ian dropped his spoon into his mug, sending hot water splattering. My instinct was to dive under the booth, but Walter’s glare traveled from Ian straight down to me, and suddenly we were making eye contact. Furious eye contact.
“Is this seriously happening again?” Rowan groaned. “This island is way too small.”
“Who is he?” our server asked, holding a pitcher of water in her hand. Walter pressed his face to the window, his breath steaming up the glass. “Is he dangerous?”
“Moderately,” I muttered, jumping to my feet.
Walter pushed his headphones off and marched for the door, his lips already moving in an angry diatribe that we were privileged to be a part of the second he opened the door. “—two are the worst!” he yelled. “Here I am doing my best to forget that Addie appeared out of nowhere at Blarney Castle, and now you’re here EATING BREAKFAST.” He roared “eating breakfast” like it was at the top of a list of offenses people could commit against him. Secrets did not look good on Walt.
“Sir. Calm down,” the server ordered, wielding her serving tray like a shield. “Can I interest you in a nice cup of tea? Maybe one of our soothing flavors? Chamomile? Lemon lavender? It’s on the house.”
“He’s not a big tea drinker, but thanks,” I said politely.
“Walt, stay calm,” Ian commanded, edging away from the window. “Where’s Mom?”
Walt yanked his headphones away from around his neck. “What are you even doing here?”
I gestured to Ian. “Rowan and I told you back at Blarney Castle. We’re working on Ian’s paper.”
He shook his head disgustedly. “BS. I talked to Archie about it, and he thought it sounded made-up too. You don’t need to go to a foreign country to do research for an admissions essay. Which makes you a liar,” he said, thrusting his finger at Rowan. “Do you even wear John Varvatos cologne?” Rowan grimaced slightly but said nothing.
“You told Archie?” Ian demanded, bouncing to his feet. His map was on the table, and he quickly shuffled it aside.
Walter scowled. “Of course I did. I had to tell someone.”
I shot a nervous look out the window. He hadn’t answered Ian’s question. “Where’s Mom?” I repeated.
“At the cathedral. I talked her into letting me skip it.”
The cathedral was only two blocks away. How close had we come to running into them?
Walt lasered in on Ian. “Now, for the last time, what are you doing in Ireland?” The server cowered at his tone, and I gazed longingly at my plate of fluffy eggs. Breakfast was not going to happen. And Walt wasn’t going to believe any more of our lies. Time to come clean.
“Ian, just tell him.” I sighed.
Ian grabbed a wad of napkins and mopped up the splattered tea. “We’re going to a music festival called Electric Picnic to see my favorite band, Titletrack, do their final show. I had it planned all along. Addie intercepted me on the way out, so that’s why she’s here too.”
Walt’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “I knew it! I knew you were lying. So that makes international mentor here—”
“Ian’s friend,” Rowan piped up. “And fellow Titletrack fan. And I actually do wear John Varvatos. The Artisan Acqua scent is my favorite.” Walt eyed him critically. He had to quit taking his scents so seriously.
Ian started again. “Walt, this is the plan. After the festival, we’re going to meet you in Dublin to fly—”
“Just stop!” Walter threw his arms up and backed quickly toward the door. “Don’t tell me any more. Just be safe and stop running into us.”
“Deal,” I said eagerly.
“You guys obviously aren’t sticking to the itinerary,” Ian pressed. “Where are you going next?”
“I don’t know. Some rock place?”
“Rock of Cashel?” Ian slammed his fist onto the table. “But that’s where we’re going.”
Rowan shook his head. “It’s a really common tourist spot. I’m not surprised.”
“Well, you’re not going there anymore,” Walt said, his Adam’s apple protruding. “Because if you guys show up there, it’s over. I’m barely keeping it together as is.”
“Walt, please.” I pressed my hands into a prayer. “You have to keep it together. I can’t get kicked off the soccer team. Just don’t tell anyone else.” Out of all the siblings, Walt and I were the ones who loved sports the most. He had to understand.
“What do you think I’ve been doing since Blarney Castle? I’m trying to help you guys out.” He stumbled over to the door, looking out at the street before pushing it open. “They’ll be at the cathedral for maybe twenty more minutes. You’d better get out of here. Fast.” He shot out onto the sidewalk, the door slamming behind him.
“Now what do we do?” I asked, edging away from the window.
“Well, we’re not going to Rock of Cashel.” Ian’s face fell in disappointment. “That was going to be a huge part of my article.”
Rowan pushed his glasses up his nose. “Actually . . . I might have a place better than Rock of Cashel. It’s a little bit of a detour, but it’s close to Stradbally. And if the rumors are true, this place may have something to do with Titletrack.”
“Really? What is it?” I asked.
He smiled at me. “It’s a secret.”
Secret Fairy Ring
I’m not exaggerating when I say “secret,” pet. This next stop is pure off-the-beaten-path gold. An experience that you can stash in your carry-on and pull out when the jerk in 23A starts bragging about all the under-the-radar local places he visited on his trip. (Not that you asked.)
In general I’m all for the wander-till-you-find-it method of travel, but in this case, winging it just isn’t going to cut it. Not when there’s magic involved. Follow the map I’ve included on the next page to a T, then meet back here.
You make it? I knew you would. Such a capable duck.
Now, before you start slogging your way through that unassuming clump of trees on the east side of the road, I’m going to lay out a few ground rules. Fairy Etiquette 101. And I don’t want to sound too dramatic, but your compliance or failure to follow these rules may alter your entire destiny.
So, you know. Comply.
Rule #1. Tread carefully.
Fairies need a place to dance their fairy dances and hold their fairy tea parties. And if they’re Irish fairies, well, then they also need a place to plot the certain demise of anyone who has ever so much as looked at them cross-eyed. Which leads me to my next rule.
Rule #2. Don’t make the fairies mad.
Irish fairies have the reputation of being just the teensiest bit vindictive. Like steal-your-baby, burn-your-barn-down vindictive. Irish fairies don’t mess around, and you should
n’t either. Speak gently, don’t tread on the flowers, and do your best to entertain only the kindest of thoughts.
Rule #3. Leave the fairies a gift.
I would suggest something tiny as well as either beautiful or delicious. Coins, honey, thimbles, fish tacos, your neighbor’s firstborn . . . all excellent choices.
Rule #4. Make a wish.
Showing up to a fairy’s home and not making a wish is like showing up to a junior high dance and refusing to do the Electric Slide. Not only is it unprecedented, but it’s also rude. Also, be aware that real-life fairies act less as dream granters and more as dream guiders—helping you to figure out what it is your heart truly wants and then nudging you all along the way toward it. So listen closely, pet. You may hear something that surprises you.
HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: Fill in your wish here. I promise not to look.
* * *
—Excerpt from Ireland for the Heartbroken: An Unconventional Guide to the Emerald Isle, third edition
CLOVER’S ENGINE WAS COOL AS a mint julep, her tailpipe reattached with something a bit more trustworthy than a hanger. We’d sprinted for the mechanic shop, pooled our money to pay for the repairs, then torn out of Cobh like mobsters on a bootleg run. We’d been in such a rush that I’d even skipped the I told you it was the radiator gloat speech I’d mentally prepared for Connor.
After Walt run-in number two, it was becoming increasingly clear that Mom finding out was much less a question of if, but when. I held tight to my final sliver of hope. Maybe he wouldn’t tell. But Walt had been on the verge of spontaneous combustion—anyone could see that. Every time a vehicle pulled onto the road behind us, I spun around, expecting to see Aunt Mel’s tour bus bearing down on us, my infuriated mom in the driver’s seat.
“Do you think Mom knows by now?” I asked, watching the trees whoosh by. “What about now?”
“Addie,” Ian groaned, but a smile hovered just under the tension in his voice. Sometimes, joking was the only way to make it through. Particularly when you were about to get caught for sneaking away on a European road trip and in the process lose the thing you cared about the most. I glanced up at Ian’s tangled hair. Well, maybe soccer didn’t matter the most. But the fact remained, we’d begun the trip with the express hope that our parents would never find out, and now we were hoping to make it just a few more hours so we could go to the concert.
Love & Luck Page 18
