Love & Luck by Jenna Evans Welch (3)

“NICE DRESS, SIS. YOU DOING a houses showing later?”

I looked up from my book, fully intending to scowl murderously at Archie, but I made it only halfway before my energy fizzled, landing me somewhere between disgust and disdain. After the day I’d had, I just didn’t have any murderous left in me.

Archie, being Archie, took my passivity for an invitation and did a sideways trust fall onto the sofa, launching me and the guidebook off in the process.

“Archie, what the hell?” I growled, scrambling back into place and suddenly panicking over the fact that I was holding a book with the word “heartbroken” in the title.

The book had all but jumped into my arms from the shelf of the tiny library off the hotel ballroom. The library was convenient for a lot of reasons. Along with providing a solid view of my still-raging mother, it smelled like a soothing combination of lavender and dust and was packed full of what appeared to be cast-off books from previous hotel guests. In other words, the perfect place to hide out.

Ireland for the Heartbroken had caught my eye immediately. It wasn’t much to look at. The cover was decorated with heart-shaped clovers, and a coffee ring obstructed the too-long title. But the cover didn’t matter: I was in Ireland, and I was heartbroken. This book was my soul mate.

“What are you reading?” Archie asked as I attempted to stuff the book behind the sofa’s cushions.

“Little House on the Prairie,” I said, spouting off the first thing that came to mind. As a child I’d been slow to reading, but once I picked it up, I’d read those books until they fell apart. “Also, you shouldn’t jump on the furniture. I think this sofa’s an antique.”

“This whole hotel’s an antique.” He gestured toward the ballroom stuffed with more antique furniture, glittery chandeliers, and precious crystal than I’d ever seen in my entire life.

But even as a pretentious wedding host, Ross Manor definitely had a magical woodland cottage feel to it, thanks to the lush lawn lined with gnarled rosebushes and the freshly plumped pillows that sprouted golden-wrapped chocolates every night before bed. Even the caretakers were adorable—a white-haired wrinkly couple that were constantly in the process of ambushing guests with offers of tea and biscuits. Walter had dubbed them the garden gnomes. It fit.

“How much would Dad hate this, by the way?” Archie said.

“I’m so glad he’s not here.” Earlier this summer, when news of our aunt’s engagement had descended on our house like a particularly expensive swarm of bees, my dad had put his foot down fast and firm. Your sister collects men like other people collect shot glasses. I am not going to another wedding where we spend a week trying to re-create a fairy tale.

I leaned forward, doing my quarter hourly Mom check. Right now she was walking around the ballroom spiffing up the floral centerpieces that an hour ago Aunt Mel had begun shrieking were starting in on a “slow dance of death.” There was obviously no room for slow dances of death. Not when ratings were involved.

Five years ago my aunt Mel started a home design show that had been picked up by HGTV. That meant that on any given afternoon I could plop down on the couch with a couple of strawberry Pop-Tarts and watch her do one of her Thirty Minutes with Mel renovations, where she showed viewers how to turn an old pallet into a bookcase using just a screwdriver and a dried-up jar of nail polish. Or at least I think that’s what she did. I never seemed to make it all the way through an episode.

Archie tilted his head toward Aunt Mel. “How do you think she tricked this one into marrying her?”

“Clark?” I asked. Our new uncle was standing near the bar, swaying tipsily. Ever since they’d announced their engagement, he’d had the dazed look of a piece of driftwood caught in a persistent current. Par for the course. Uncles number one and two had had that look as well. I’d once heard my dad describe Aunt Mel as a riptide, which made my mom angry and my dad truthful. Mom only got mad when people were telling the truth.

“Probably with her money. And easygoing ‘modern eclectic’ style,” I said, doing an Aunt Mel voice.

“Yeah, but is that really enough? Mom told me she made him lose twenty pounds.”

“And shave off his mustache,” I added.

“Society should have made him shave off his mustache. It looked like he had a wet rat stuck to his face.”

I laughed, my first real laugh in ten days, and it came out creaky, like a door that hadn’t been opened in a long time.

Archie flashed me a smile. “Nice to hear that. It’s been a while. You’ve been kind of . . . depressed.”

My mood tumbled back down again. He was right. Every time I somehow forgot what junior year was going to be like, Cubby suddenly appeared, landing on my shoulders and sinking my mood a solid three feet. Like now. How could I have been so stupid?

“You and Ian do an adequate job of groveling?” Archie asked.

I nodded, grateful for the subject change. “I did. Ian mostly just stood there scowling defiantly.”

He groaned. “So in other words, being Ian.”

“Exactly.” It was just like on the cliffs with the tourists. Me scrambling for an explanation while Ian played dead. At least this time he was upright.

“Speaking of, where is Ian?” Archie asked.

I lifted my chin. “Eight o’clock. Sitting in that throne-looking chair.” Ian had come up with the same survival strategy I had: find an out-of-the-way piece of antique furniture to camp out on and pretend you’re anywhere other than where you were. Except he’d been texting all night, his face stretched in an expression I could only describe as gleeful.

“Is he smiling?” Archie said incredulously. “After everything that happened today? That kid is such a weirdo.”

I bit my lip, fighting off my automatic instinct to defend Ian. That’s the way our family had always lined up: Ian/Addie versus Walter/Archie. We occasionally formed alliances, but our core allegiances stayed the same. Had I ruined that forever? “He’s been grinning at his phone ever since we left the cliffs. Whoever he’s texting, it must be good.”

“Probably a girl,” Archie said.

“Doubt it.” Every girl in the world was in love with Ian, but he rarely surfaced long enough to notice them, which left me to fend off all the wannabes who thought that getting close to his little sister was the certain way to his heart. Ha.

Archie plucked at my sleeve. “Seriously, though, sis. This dress. You look like Miss Seattle Real Estate.”

This time the glare came without effort. “Come on, Archie. You saw what happened to my dress at the cliffs. I didn’t exactly have a lot of options. I had to wear one of Mom’s.”

“Didn’t she have anything less . . . realtory?”

“Um, you’ve met our mom, haven’t you?” I said.

“Briefly. She’s the one who’s always yelling at us, right? Short hair? Occasionally seen on billboards?”

I shuddered. “We’ve got to talk her out of those this year.”

“Good luck with that. Those billboards are paying my tuition.”

“Football is paying your tuition. And Walt’s,” I pointed out. “And Ian is probably going to be the first college student in history to get paid to play. I’m the only one who’s going to need those billboards to help pay for college.”

That wasn’t self-pity talking; it was truth. My brothers had used up all the natural athlete genes, leaving me to do my best with enthusiastic athlete. I was good, but not the star. Bad news when your brothers had shrines dedicated to them in the athletics hall.

Archie’s face softened. “Hey, don’t give up on playing in college so soon. I saw huge improvements in your game last year. You definitely have a shot.”

I shrugged. I was in way too wallowy of a mood for a pep talk. “Unless I blow it with Ian.”

“You won’t. You’ll just be with Lina, and Ian will be . . . I don’t know. Being Ian.”

Being Ian. It was like its own extreme Olympic sport. Music, football, school—all at a higher intensity than everyone else. “Do you have any idea why Ian wants to come to Italy with me? Because I don’t think he even likes Lina. She lived with us for six months, and he barely even talked to her. Is he just trying to torture me?”

He shrugged. “Little Lina? I’m sure he likes her. She’s funny and kind of quirky. Plus, she has all that crazy hair. How long has she been gone again?”

I wanted to say the actual number of days, but I knew that would sound neurotic. “Since the beginning of June.”

“And she’s staying in Italy permanently?”

My shoulders rounded in on themselves. “Permanent” sounded like a life sentence. “She’s staying for the school year. Her dad, Howard, is a serious traveler, so they go all over the place. In October he’s taking her and her boyfriend to Paris.”

Lina’s boyfriend. Yet another thing that had changed. Over the past year, Lina had gone through a lot of changes, starting when her mom, Hadley, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. A familiar ache ignited in my throat—the one that always flamed up when I thought about Hadley. She had been special, no doubt about it—creative, adventurous, chaotic, and just the right amount of hovering to make you feel cared about but not smothered.

Sometimes I felt like I’d experienced Hadley’s loss twice—once for myself and once for Lina. I’d been desperate to drag Lina out of the grief she was floundering in—to the point that I’d made myself sick with worry.

I bit my cheek, fighting back old feelings of helplessness to refocus on Archie and the trip. “It makes way more sense that Ian would choose to visit all the castles and other sites you guys are seeing this week. Aren’t you going to the castle where Braveheart was filmed?”

Archie perked up, just like I knew he would. Every single one of my brothers could recite that movie by heart. “We are definitely going to the Braveheart castle. Walt brought face paint so we can do some reenactments.”

Oh, geez. Aunt Mel was going to love that. “See? Ian loves that movie. He used to fall asleep watching it. I think he’s coming to Italy just to bug me.”

“Maybe he just wanted a little quality time with his sister.”

“Right, because he’s been spending so much time with me this summer.” Archie rolled his eyes, but there was no arguing with my sarcasm. Ian had spent most of the summer locked in his room writing college application essays and driving around on mystery errands, his music blaring. And then I’d gotten involved with Cubby and brought our relationship to a standstill.

Not to mention what happened at football camp.

Suddenly, Archie shifted, his eyes boring into mine. “So, Addie, talk.”

There was a serious edge to his voice, and my heart rate climbed to a rickety pace. “About what?”

“What’s the deal?”

“With . . . Ian?” I asked uncertainly. Please tell me he didn’t hear.

Archie shook his head no. My heart clawed its way up to my throat, pushing my voice out in an angry burst. “Well, then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Easy, sis. I’m not the brother you’re mad at.” He steadied me with his gaze. “I heard what Ian said. Before you pushed him.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I scrambled, trying to remember exactly what Ian had said. How much could Archie have pieced together from one whispered conversation? “What did you hear?”

“Are you in some kind of trouble? What does Ian want you to tell Mom and Dad about?”

Archie doesn’t know what happened. I flopped back in relief. “I’m not in trouble,” I said quickly. So far that was the truth. As long as this thing didn’t spread any further than it already had, I was not in trouble. Embarrassed and heartbroken? Yes. In trouble? No. Which was why I was not telling my mom.

Archie studied me, his head resting on his hand. “So, what? Does this have something to do with a guy? I’m guessing someone on Ian’s team from how pissed off he sounded?”

Was that incredulity? My body tensed. “Why, you think it’s impossible that a popular football player would like someone like me?” I snapped.

“What? No.” He held his hands up defensively, his blue eyes wide. “Addie, I didn’t say that at all. Why are you acting so strange?”

Because my heart hurts. Because it actually is impossible for someone like Cubby to like someone like me. I kept my eyeballs glued to the green velvet upholstery, scratching my thumbnail against a tear in the seat. Tears burned hot in my eyes. “Did Mom and Walt hear?”

He shook his head. “Mom was secretly negotiating a deal on her phone, and Walt had headphones hidden under his hair. He didn’t even know you guys had gone over the side until everyone started freaking out.”

At least it was Archie who had heard, and not Walter. Of all my brothers, Archie was the most normal secret keeper, as in he kept most secrets most of the time. It was the other two who were extreme. On the one end was Ian. The second you told him anything, he turned into a human vault—it was the reason I didn’t have to worry about him being the one to tell my parents about Cubby. And then there was Walt, the exact opposite. Any time he had a secret to keep, it was like a game of Hot Potato—he just had to throw it somewhere, usually dead center of wherever you didn’t want it to go.

“If this guy messed with you, I’d be happy to pay him a visit on my way back to campus. Maybe just wait until he’s out in the road and do some distracted driving? Back out without looking behind me first? All I need is his name.” His tone had gone from his usual laid-back Archie to hyperintense Archie, which was rare.

“No. Archie, I do not want you to run over anyone,” I said emphatically, just in case his half joke was half-serious.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I wailed. “It’s not like it would fix anything.”

“It would fix the fact that he’s messing with people he shouldn’t be messing with.”

I put my hands on his shoulders. “Archibald Henry Bennett. Promise me you won’t do anything.”

“You sure?”

“Promise me!” I yelled.

“Fine. I promise.”

Oh my hell. Brothers. It was like having a bunch of guard dogs that occasionally turned on you. I was completely exhausted by this conversation. By this whole day. “Well, thanks for the talk, but I could use some time alone,” I said, tilting my head ungracefully toward the door. I’d learned long ago that hints get you nowhere with boys—or at least not with the ones I was related to. The more direct the better.

Archie jumped gracefully to his feet and patted me clumsily on the shoulder. “I’m here for you, Addie,” he said.

“And I really appreciate it.” I tilted my head more aggressively toward the doorway.

“Okay, okay. I’m gone.” He jumped up and swaggered out of the room, his to-do list lit up in neon over his head. Be there for little sister. Check.

Once Archie was out of my visual, I grabbed the guidebook and flicked on the library’s dusty side lamp. I tried to focus on the words, but Ian kept snagging my gaze. He hadn’t moved from his chair once, and he was still laser-focused on his phone, his hair flopping forward to shield his face.

Right after Christmas Ian decided to stop cutting his hair, and no matter how much my mom begged and threatened, he hadn’t let up. Now it was almost to his shoulders and a constant reminder of how unfair the gene pool was. My brothers all had my mom’s thick eyelashes and wavy dark hair. My grandmother’s fine blond hair had leapfrogged a generation, bypassing my dark-haired dad to land on me.

We all had the blue eyes, though, and even from here Ian’s were looking bluer than usual, accented by the heavy dark circle around his left eye, courtesy of me. The bruise looked really painful. And final. A punctuation mark on the end of a long, miserable sentence.

Suddenly, a smile split Ian’s face, and a mixture of emotions bunched up in my chest. Because here’s the thing about Ian’s smile: it was always 100 percent genuine. Ian didn’t fake anything for anyone—he never had. Get him laughing, you knew you were actually funny. Make him angry, you knew you were actually being an idiot.

I am such an idiot.

Panic bubbled in my chest, and I jumped to my feet, tucking the guidebook under my arm. I needed fresh air. Now.

As soon as my mom got swept into a conversation with the groom’s mother, I took off, hugging the side of the dance floor to burst through the doors and into the courtyard.

Outside, I paused to take a few glorious breaths. If I were writing a travel brochure for Ireland, I’d start with what it smells like. It’s a combination of just-fallen rain mixed with earth and something else, something secret. Like the extra sprinkle of nutmeg in the top secret French toast recipe my dad and I had spent Fourth of July weekend perfecting.

What if my dad finds out?

Before my mind could dig its fingernails into the thought, I started moving, walking down the stairs past a trickling fountain overflowing with rainwater. Strings of warm, twinkly lights crisscrossed over the courtyard’s path, the yellow bulbs making a cheery clinking noise in the spots where they overlapped. Puddles shimmered in the divots in the stone pavement, and the air ruffled in cool, sparkly perfection. How was it possible to feel so horrible in a place that was so beautiful?

I squeezed my fingernails into my palms, a dull ache blooming in my chest. Sometimes I didn’t know if I missed Cubby or if I missed the picture I’d put together in my head of the two of us. It was always the same. It would be mid-September, a week or two after everyone’s start-of-school jitters wore off. We’d be walking down the hall, him with his arm slung casually around me, lost in one of those conversations where the only thing that matters is the person you’re with. Whispers would follow us down the hall. That’s Addie Bennett. Aren’t they cute together? I know. I don’t know why I never noticed her before either.

Well, I’d gotten my wish. They’d be whispering all right. But not about what I wanted them to be.

Finally, I made it to an ivy-enclosed alcove on the far side of the garden—an outdoor version of my hiding place in the library—and I attempted to sit cross-legged, cold seeping up through my mom’s constrictive skirt. I pulled out my phone, and my heart bounced when I saw a new text message.

WHERE ARE YOU??????????????????

Lina.

Lina and eighteen question marks. I counted them twice to be sure. Aggressive punctuation was never a good sign with Lina. Normally, she texted like a nineteenth-century schoolteacher who’d gotten ahold of a smartphone: proper use of capital letters, restrained emoji use, and always a complete sentence. Multiple question marks was the equivalent of Lina standing up in the middle of a church service and yelling cusswords through a bullhorn. She wasn’t just angry; she was raging.

I hit respond, quickly typing out an exceptionally vague text. Sorry, can’t talk now. Wedding stuff

I was getting good at vague texting. And avoiding phone calls. The frowny face emoji looked up at me judgmentally.

“What?” I snapped. “For your information I have a great reason for not answering her calls.”

I wasn’t talking to Lina because I couldn’t talk to Lina. She knew me too well. The second she heard my voice, she’d know something was wrong, and I refused—refused—to tell her about Cubby over the phone. If Lina was going to judge me, I wanted to see it in person. There was also the issue of the sheer number of things I had to tell her. She didn’t know anything about Cubby, which meant I had to walk her through my entire summer.

I just had to make it to Italy. Once I got there I’d unpack the story and lay it all out, start to finish, nothing excluded. I knew exactly how it would go. First she’d be shocked, then confused. And then she’d be struck with a brilliant plan for getting me through my junior year while reassuring me that everything was going to be okay.

Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

The first time Cubby ever spoke to me was four days after we moved to Seattle. I was making waffles. Bribe waffles, to be more specific, and I wasn’t having an easy time of it. Archie and Walter had been assigned to unpack the kitchen, and they’d somehow managed to turn it into one large booby trap. I’d taken a baking sheet to the head and dropped an entire carton of eggs when I tripped over a bread maker. But once my first waffle was on the iron, sending delicious spirals of steam into the air, I knew it would be worth it.

I took a deep, satisfied inhale. The waffles needed to be delicious. They were my ticket into the early-morning hangout Ian had expressly banned me from. No one yells Addiegetoutofhere to someone holding a plate of hot waffles. Not even when they’re trying to impress their new friends.

“You have batter in your hair.”

And there they were. The first words Cubby Jones ever said to me. Admittedly, not the most romantic introduction, but I was only twelve. I didn’t have a name for the way my attention funneled to Cubby every time he walked into a room. Not yet.

While I swiped at my bangs with a dish towel, Cubby stepped closer, sniffing the waffle air. The second he was within five feet of me, I pinpointed what was different about him. “Your eyes!” I crowed, abandoning my dish towel. Cubby’s eyes were two different colors.

His smile slipped off his face. “It’s called heterochromia. It’s just a genetic thing; it’s not weird.”

“I didn’t say it’s weird,” I said. “Let me look.” I grabbed his arm and yanked him in close. “Blue and gray?” I whispered.

“Purple,” Cubby corrected.

I nodded my head. “Yep. I like that one the best. If you were in a sci-fi movie, that eye would be the source of all your powers.”

Both of his eyes widened, and then he smiled, a slow, surprised drizzle that started at his mouth and went right up to his mismatched eyes. That was the moment I realized there were two different ways to look at boys. There was the regular way—the way I’d done my whole life—and then there was this way. A way that made kitchens tilt ever so slightly and waffles go forgotten in Mickey Mouse irons.

The sparkler send-off for the newlywed couple was a joke. Not only did my legally tipsy oldest brother attempt—and succeed at—catching one of the rosebushes on fire, but cameraman number two kept missing his shot of the bride and groom. This meant repeating the whole process over and over again until we ran out of sparklers and even the most camera-hungry wedding guests began to bray mutinously.

“Buses arrive tomorrow morning at six thirty sharp,” Aunt Mel yelled over her shoulder as Uncle Number Three carried her back into the hotel. The train of her dress dragged behind her, sweeping up bits of confetti and dried sparklers. The send-off had been just for show. They were staying at Ross Manor tonight with everyone else.

“Finally free to go,” my mom said quietly, running a tired hand through her hair. Her mascara was smudged, and it made her eyes look blurry.

The rest of us followed behind her, slogging silently up the billiard-green staircase to our floor, then filed one by one into our closet of a room. Despite the fact that there were five of us, including two college football players who were roughly toddler-size versions of King Kong, Aunt Mel had assigned us what had to be the smallest room in the hotel.

Fuzzy floral wallpaper decorated the walls, and my brothers’ cots occupied most of the space, so all that was left over was a tiny corridor running along the base of the beds. And of course my brothers had filled that up with their never-ending supply of junk—candy wrappers, tangled-up phone cables, and more sneakers than should really exist in the world. I had a term for it: brother spaghetti.

I managed to claim the bathroom first and locked the door behind me, turning the tub on at full blast. I had no intention of actually taking a bath. I just needed to drown out the sound of everyone crashing around the room. Traveling with my family made my head hurt.

I yanked off the real estate dress, replacing it with an oversize T-shirt and a pair of black pajama shorts, then brushed my teeth as slowly as possible.

“Gotta pee, sis!” Walt shouted, banging on the door. “Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee pee peeeeee.”

I yanked the door open to make it stop. “Cute song. You should trademark that.”

He shoved past me. “Thought you’d like it.”

I picked my way through the room, avoiding half a dozen sneaker land mines before climbing onto the bed and cocooning deep into my blankets. I couldn’t wait to sleep. Forget. It had been my main coping skill over the past ten days—ever since Ian had burst into my room to tell me how badly I’d screwed up his life. His life. Like he was the one who would have to spend the whole upcoming year avoiding Cubby and everyone who knew Cubby. My stomach twisted as tightly as the sheets.

“So what’s the strategy exactly? Wear my T-shirt until I forget it’s mine?” Ian’s voice pierced through my blankets, and I slowly uncovered my head. Was he talking to me?

My mom was stuffing her suitcase like it was a Thanks-giving turkey, and Archie lay with his face planted on his cot, still wearing his suit. Ian propped himself up on a mountain of pillows, one earbud in, his face pointed in my general direction.

“You gave it to me,” I said, aiming my voice for what a sitcom writer would mark as RETORT, SASSY. It was an exceptionally comfortable T-shirt with a black collar and sleeves and SMELLS LIKE THE ONLY NIRVANA SONG YOU KNOW written across the chest in block letters.

“By ‘gave it to you,’ do you mean you raided my T-shirt drawer and stole the softest one?”

Nailed it. “You can have it back,” I said. Ian is talking to me. Talking. To me. A flicker of hope sprang into my chest.

“Do you even get the reference?” he asked, punching his top pillow into shape. His hair was in a horrible attempt at a man bun, with bumpy sides and a large chunk hanging out the back. He clearly hadn’t watched the How to Man-Bun Like a Boss tutorial I’d forwarded him.

“Ian, I sat with you on Fleet Street and listened to the entire Nevermind album. How would I not know what it means?” That had been during Ian’s Nirvana period. We’d gone on three different Nirvana-themed field trips, including a trip to Kurt Cobain’s red-vinyl childhood home. I’d even agreed to dress up as Courtney Love for Halloween even though it required wearing a tiara and no one knew who I was.

“At least you know what it means.” Ian flopped grudgingly onto his side. He hesitated, then nudged at his phone, his voice slightly above a whisper. “When are you going to tell Mom?”

I groaned into my sheets. He was bringing it up again. Now? When Mom, Archie, and Walt were all within earshot. Not to mention that’s what the black eye had been about. One of Ian’s teammates had texted him asking about Cubby. And instead of waiting until after the wedding ceremony, when we would be alone, he’d shoved the phone in my face and whisper-demanded that I tell Mom. Our parents finding out was the worst thing that could happen. Why didn’t he get that?

“Ian!” I hissed.

He cut his eyes at Mom, then shot me a warning look. I growled in my throat and then slid down under the covers, forcing my breathing to calm. The odds of me not exploding on Ian were only as good as the odds of him not bringing up Cubby every chance he got. That is to say, not good.

Time to put a hard stop to this conversation. “Good night, Ian.” I slid even farther under the covers, but I could still feel Ian’s glare on my back, sharp as needles. A few minutes later I heard him rustle under the covers, the music from his earbuds filling the air between us.

How were we going to survive a full week together?

The next morning, I awoke to what sounded like the brass section from our school’s famously exceptional marching band rumbling with our famously unexceptional drama team. I opened my eyes a slit. My mom was untangling her leg from the alarm clock and lamp cords. “Damn hell spit,” she muttered. Or at least that’s what it sounded like she muttered. Walter was right. She needed a swearing intervention.

I opened my eyes a half millimeter more. Weak sunlight puddled under the curtains, and Archie and Walter and their extreme bedhead stood next to the door looking all kinds of ambiguous about the state of their consciousness.

“You both have your passports, right?” my mom asked them, finally freeing herself. They stared at her with blank, sleep-coated expressions, and she sighed before swooping in on me in a cloud of moisturizer. “Your cab will be here at nine. The gnomes will knock on the door to wake you up.” She pressed her cheek onto my forehead like she used to do when I was little and had a fever. “Promise me you’ll work things out with Ian. You two are the best friends you’ll ever have.”

Way to twist the dagger. “Love you, Mom,” I said, scrunching my eyes shut.

She crouched down next to Ian and mumbled something to him, and then the three of them cleared out of the room, banging loudly into the hallway.

It felt like only minutes later when a slamming noise sprang me out of sleep. I sat up quickly, disoriented, but not too disoriented to notice that the entire vibe of the hotel room had changed. Not only did it feel twice as big without Archie, Walter, and my mom, but the curtains were straining against full, brilliant sunlight. The room was silent, highlighting a distinct ruffling sensation hovering in the air. Had someone just been here?

“Ian,” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

He didn’t budge, which was typical. Ian could sleep through almost anything.

I rolled onto my back and lay still, straining my ears. The hotel’s silence was as thick as black pudding. Suddenly, the door to our room pulled quietly shut, followed by an explosion of footsteps down the hall. Someone had been in our room. A thief? A European kidnapper? One of the gnomes?

“Ian,” I said, tumbling out of my bed. “Someone was just here. Someone was in our room.” I reached out to shake his shoulder, but in a highly disorienting moment, my hand sank straight through him.

I yanked off the covers to find a pile of pillows. Had he pillow ghosted me? I spun around, checking the rest of the cots. Empty, empty, and empty. “Ian!” I yelled into the silence.

My eyes darted to the door, and what I saw elicited my first real bit of uneasiness. Instead of the two navy-blue suitcases that were supposed to be standing by the door, there was only one. Mine.

I hustled over to the alarm clock, but it stared up at me blankly. Of course. My mom had ripped it out of the wall. I needed to find my phone.

Not under the sheets, not under the complimentary stationery, not in the scattered brochures. Finally, I ran to the windows and flung open the curtains, only to get kicked in the retinas. The countryside was on fire—green and sunlight combining to create an intense glare. Apparently, Ireland did have sunshine, and it was blinding.

I stumbled my way to the door and burst out of the room, my bare feet making staccato echoes down the hall.

Downstairs I did a fly-by inspection of the breakfast room and lounge, but the only form of life was an obese orange cat who’d taken up residence on a velvet armchair. I sprinted out the front door and into the parking lot, and a wave of cold air hit me head-on. Irish sunshine must be for looks only.

The only vehicle in the parking lot was a lonely utility van parked next to a line of rosebushes waving frantic messages at me in the wind. Where’s Ian? Did you miss your cab?

I needed to pull it together. Even if I had overslept, it’s not like Ian would have left for Italy without me. Maybe he was just out for an early-morning walk. With his suitcase?

The distant sound of an engine starting pulled me out of my trance. I took off after it, the shuddering noise getting louder as I headed toward the side parking lot. When I rounded the corner, I skidded to a stop, giving myself a few seconds to process what I was seeing.

The tortured-sounding vehicle was technically a car, but it just barely qualified. It was tiny and boxy—like when a Volkswagen and a hamster love each other very much—with a splotchy paint job and a muffler dangling an inch or two off the ground. And striding purposefully toward it, navy-blue economy suitcase in hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, was Ian.

Adrenaline hit me full force. My legs got the message before I did, and suddenly I was charging across the parking lot, my brother in my line of target.

He saw me just before he reached the passenger door, but by then it was too late. I collided with him like I was the Hulk going in for a high five, which was to say, hard. His backpack went flying, and we both hit the ground, tumbling for the second time in twenty-four hours. It hurt in a white-hot, head-pounding kind of way.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, scrambling to his feet.

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I yelled back, jumping up to shake off the fall.

He lunged for his backpack, but I beat him to it, wrapping the handle around my fingers. “Are you trying to leave without me?” I demanded.

“Just go back up to the room. I left a note on the bathroom mirror.” He wasn’t meeting my eye.

“A note? Is this the cab Mom ordered for us? Why is it in such bad shape?”

Suddenly, the passenger window began cranking down in jerky, uneven motions. The sound of an appreciative slow clap filled the air followed by an Irish voice. “Ah, Ian, you’ve been beaten by a girl! I wish I’d been recording. Would love to see a replay.”

“Rowan!” Ian hustled over to the window, his voice much happier than someone who’d just been tackled in a parking lot should sound. He wore the same massive grin he’d had plastered all over him last night during his text sessions.

I dropped Ian’s backpack on the ground and ran over, butting him out of the way so I could get a look inside.

“Well, hello there,” the driver said. He was Ian’s age, maybe a little older, with tousled hair, large grayish eyes, and horn-rimmed glasses that should have been perched on an old man’s face but managed to be at home on his. His T-shirt said HYPNOTIZING CAT and featured a large feline with whirlpool eyes. Definitely not a cabdriver. He smiled, and a dimple appeared charmingly on one side. Until now I’d thought that dimples only came in pairs.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

He stuck his hand out. “I’m Rowan. And you must be Addie.” His accent was 100 percent Irish, singsongy with the vowels getting soft and running together like chocolate syrup in ice cream.

I ignored it. His hand and the chocolate syrup voice. But I couldn’t ignore the way he was looking at me—like I was something rare and exciting that he’d just discovered in the wild. “How do you know who I am?” I asked.

“I knew Ian has a sister named Addie, and let’s be honest, only a guard or a sibling would tackle someone in the middle of a stony car park.”

When I didn’t match his smile, he dropped his, self-consciously reaching up to push the corners of his glasses up with both hands. “Or at least I’m guessing that’s how siblings operate. Also, you look like the mini female version of him.”

“Do not call me a female version of Ian,” I snapped. My first week of high school, at least five of Ian’s friends had made it a point to tell me that I looked like my brother with a blond wig, which was not the confidence booster I’d been looking for.

He held up his hand quickly. “Chillax. I didn’t mean to annoy ya. I probably wouldn’t like it if someone called me a male version of a woman either.” The dimple reappeared. “Also, I come in peace. So please don’t attack me, too.”

Ian quickly nudged me aside. “Sorry about this, Rowan. Minor glitch in the system. Addie, go back up to the room. Your taxi will be here later. And the note will explain everything.”

Had he just called me a minor glitch in the system? “What do you mean my taxi? It’s our taxi. Why are you out here talking to . . . ?” I stopped. I’d been about to say “Hypnotized Cat Guy,” but that just sounded rude.

Ian grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the car and lowering his voice so Hypnotized Cat Guy wouldn’t hear. “Great news: your wish is granted. I’m not coming with you to Italy. Go upstairs and read the note—it has all the details.”

The parking lot revolved once, then twice. He was serious. “You’re not coming to Italy? Since when?” I asked dizzily.

He swiped his hair out of his eyes and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Since always. I’ll meet you in Dublin for the flight home.” My mom had only arranged for our flights to and from Italy. The plan was that we would return to Dublin to fly home with the rest of the group. But now it seemed that plan was about to be compromised.

“But . . . why?” I asked desperately.

Rowan’s voice pierced the air between us. “I thought Addie was in on this. Why doesn’t she know we’re going to Stradbally?” I was momentarily distracted. The way he said my name made it sound like it was being played on an Irish fiddle.

“I left her a note,” Ian said, his cheeks flushing pink. He shoved his hair out of his face and slid his eyes guiltily at me. “It’s easier this way.”

“For who?” I shot back.

Rowan leaned toward the passenger window, his eyes concerned behind his glasses. “A note? No wonder she just knocked you over. This must look unbelievably sketchy. You meet some random guy and leave for a place she’s never heard of?”

I lifted my hands in the air. “Finally, someone’s making sense here.”

Rowan looked pointedly at me. “Stradbally is a small town near Dublin. But we’re headed to a few other sites first. We have to do research for—”

“Stop—stop—stop!” Ian stuttered. “Please don’t tell her anything.” He shoved past me again and yanked on the car door handle, but it didn’t budge.

“Don’t tell me what? Ian, don’t tell me what?” I grabbed at his backpack.

Rowan smiled apologetically at my brother. “Sorry, Ian. According to the previous owner, that door hasn’t worked since the late nineties. The lads always just have to climb in through the window.”

“Who are the lads?” I asked. As if that were the most important question that needed answering.

Ian hoisted his backpack in and slithered through the window before reaching for his suitcase. I lunged for it, but he managed to pull it in. “Addie, just go read my note. I’ll see you in a few days.”

I clamped my hands onto his window frame. They were shaking. “Ian, were you not in the car yesterday? Didn’t you hear what Mom said about us not messing up? This is the definition of  ‘messing up.’ ”

His shoulders slumped. “Come on, Addie, you said it yourself. You don’t want me to come to Italy, and I get it. I even respect it. So you go have your trip, and I’ll have mine. The only way we’re going to get in trouble with Mom and Dad is if we tell them, and let’s be honest, neither of us is going to do that.”

“Ian—”

“Just stopping by Electric Picnic,” Rowan added in the kind of soothing voice you’d use on a rabid dog. “We’ll be done by Monday morning. Nothing to stress about, ninja sister.”

“Electric what?” The Hypnotized Cat looked at me pityingly. My voice sounded hysterical. Strangled.

“Electric Picnic. It’s the biggest music festival in Ireland. It happens every year. Lots of indie and alternative stuff. But this year is special. Guess who is headlining?” Rowan paused, his smile suggesting that I’d just dangled something warm and cinnamony in front of his nose.

“Not Ian,” I answered weakly.

“Yes, Ian,” Ian said. “Definitely Ian. And you won’t even care because you’ll be off in Italy having an incredible time.”

“Titletrack will be at Electric Picnic,” Rowan said, his tone a clear indicator that we’d both just let him down.

Titletrack. It took me a second, but my mind leapfrogged to a massive poster hanging over Ian’s desk. Four guys, four brooding expressions, and an admittedly unique sound that I’d actually started to look forward to on the mornings when Ian drove me to school. “That band you love. From the U.K.”

“Now you’ve got it,” Rowan added encouragingly. “Only they’re Irish, not British. And Ian’s planning to—”

“Okay, Rowan, that’s enough. Addie, have a great time in Italy.” Ian cranked at his window, but I threw myself on top of it, using all my weight to keep it down.

“Ian, stop.” Rowan looked disapprovingly at my brother. “You were just going to roll the window up on her?”

Ian shrank under Rowan’s stare, and he dropped his gaze to his fidgeting hands like he was trying to decide something. “Addie, I’ll explain it all later. Just make sure Mom and Dad don’t find out, and everything will be fine. You’ll figure out a way.” He took a deep breath, delivering the next part in a rush. “You’ve been lying to everyone all summer anyway, so this will be easy.”

The line was rehearsed. He’d been carrying it around in his back pocket in case of emergency. In case I got in his way.

“Ian . . .” Tears prickled my eyes, which of course made me furious. I couldn’t lose it now—not in front of this oddly dressed stranger and definitely not when Ian was already settled in the oddly dressed stranger’s car. “Ian, there’s no way we’ll pull this off. You know they’re going to find out that you didn’t make it to Italy, and then we’ll have to quit our teams.”

His gaze collapsed to the dashboard. “Come on, Addie. Sports aren’t everything.”

“Sports aren’t everything?” Now my breath was catching in little bursts in my chest. What was he going to say next? Fainting goats aren’t hilarious? “Who are you?”

“This is my only chance to see Titletrack in concert. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I’m going.” The edges of his voice set hard and crinkly, his eyes a steely blue. The look set off a chain reaction of panic in me. We had officially entered the Defiant Ian stage, better known as the Never Back Down Ever stage. Unless I did something drastic to stop him, he was going to that concert.

Now or never.

I dove through the window and grabbed the keys out of the ignition, then shimmied out before either of them could process what was happening.

“Addie!” Ian yanked his seat belt off and scrambled out the window. I was already on the other side of the car, the keys imprinting in my palm. “Are you seriously doing this?”

“Wow. You people are really entertaining. Like sitcom-level entertaining.” Rowan reclined his seat noisily.

I squared toward my brother. “Ian, you can’t do this. You know I have to play soccer if I’m going to get into a good school. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Your college plans are not my problem.” His voice fell halfway through. He was trying to play the tough guy, but the real Ian was under there, the one who knew how hard I tried—and continued to fail—at school. Sometimes I got the impression that he felt guilty about how easily things came to him, when nothing ever seemed to come easily to me.

We stared each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Ian stepped toward me, and I bolted in the opposite direction, using the car as a buffer.

Ian groaned. “Sorry, Ro. Let me just get this out of the way and we can head out. Minor bump in the road.”

“Don’t you mean glitch in the system?” I asked, purposely making my voice snide. “And ‘Ro’? You already have a nickname for this guy?”

Ian shoved his hair back, edging toward me. “I’ve known him for more than a year.”

“How?”

“We met online.” Ian lunged at me, but his foot slipped on the gravel, giving me plenty of time to make it around to the other side of the car. He rose slowly, holding his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. You win.”

“Ian, give me some credit. I’ve fought with you for sixteen years. You think I don’t know that the fake out is your go-to move?”

He just raised his hands higher. “Look, even if Mom and Dad do find out, that just means we’re even. I have to deal with the fallout of you messing around with Cubby, and you have to deal with the fallout of me staying in Ireland. Now give me the keys.”

“I told you to stop talking about Cubby,” I said. “And you being embarrassed in front of your friends is not a fallout.”

Rowan’s voice floated out the window. “Is Cubby your oldest brother?”

“No,” Ian said shortly, his eyes on me. “That’s Walt.”

“Oh, right. Walt.” Rowan cracked his door and got out, clutching a jumbo-size box of cold cereal that read SUGAR PUFFS. “Look, guys. As entertaining as this is, we all know you can’t keep this up forever. So why don’t we head inside and grab a real breakfast?” He shook his Sugar Puffs winningly at Ian. “Or something stronger if you need it. A pint? We could talk it through.”

I shook my head. “We aren’t old enough for a pint. And there’s nothing to talk about—”

In a flash of dark hair, Ian slid across the front of the car and clutched my wrist. We settled into a death grip, Ian fighting to wrench the keys from my hands while I curled up like a pill bug, channeling all my energy into keeping my fists closed. Another classic Addie/Ian fight move. In junior high we’d once maintained this position for eleven and a half minutes, and that was over an Oreo. Walter had timed us. “Ian . . . let . . . go.”

Rowan leaned back against the car, popping a handful of cereal into his mouth. “You two are the best argument I’ve ever seen for single-child families.” He crunched for a moment, then swallowed. “Okay, here’s a wild idea. Addie, what if you relinquish the keys to my custody and then join us on our first stop?”

“Not a good idea,” Ian said, leveraging his shoulder against mine.

“What do you mean join you?” My elbow plunged directly under Ian’s rib cage.

“Addie,” Ian groaned. “That hurt.”

“That one’s my signature move,” I said proudly.

“Hear me out.” Rowan raised his Sugar Puffs into the air. “The first site is not too far from here. Less than an hour. Addie, you can come with us and learn a little more about what Ian’s doing. Then you two can come up with a solid plan to avoid detection by your parents, and then Addie can be on her way. No death matches involved. ”

First site. Did that mean there was more than one? Curiosity bit into me, but I wasn’t about to start asking questions. Not about a trip Ian was not taking. And especially not when every bit of my energy was currently being channeled into maintaining possession of Rowan’s keys. “We can’t risk missing our flight,” I said, putting a heavy emphasis on the “we.” “Not seeing Lina is not an option.”

“Who’s Lina?”

“My best friend.”

“Oh, duh. The one who moved to Italy.”

“What else did Ian tell you about me?” I asked, doubling down on the keys.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ian said. “Believe it or not, we don’t spend all our time talking about you.”

I spun away and tried to run for the hotel, but Ian executed a half tackle, and the keys flew out of my hands, jangling across the gravel. I scrambled for them, but Ian got there first.

He ran for the car. “Let’s go!” he shouted, tossing the keys to Rowan, but Rowan didn’t follow. Instead, he carefully placed the keys in his pocket, surveying me seriously. “Just come with us on our first stop. The airport’s a straight shot from the Burren. We’ll make it in plenty of time.”

Burren. Where had I heard that word before? You know where, buttercup, a little voice said. Guidebook Lady. Of course.

“Are you talking about the place of stone?” I asked.

He brightened, shoving his glasses up enthusiastically. “You’ve heard of it?”

“I read about it last night.” Ireland for the Heartbroken had a whole section on the Burren, right after the Cliffs of Moher entry. What were the odds that Ian’s first stop on his not-happening road trip was also in my heartbreak guide? My stance shifted. “You really think we’d make it on time?”

“Absolutely.” Rowan flashed me a friendly smile.

Ian made a strangled noise, then positioned himself between us. “Look, Rowan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but this is a bad idea.” And just in case Rowan didn’t get the point, he kept going. “A really bad idea. We need to stick to the original plan.”

“It is not a really bad idea,” I protested.

“But we would be following the original plan, just with a minor detour to the airport. It wouldn’t put us behind at all.” Rowan’s voice was slow with uncertainty, his eyebrows bent. He didn’t have to say it for us to hear it: Why are you being such a jerk about this?

Ian’s shoulders sagged, and his right hand disappeared nervously into his hair. “But . . . there’s a lot of stuff in your car. Where would she sit?”

“Easy. She’s a little yoke. We’ll make room.” A little yoke? Rowan lifted his chin up to me. “You don’t mind a tight squeeze for an hour or so, do you?”

I leaned over to look through the back window. Ian wasn’t exaggerating. Not only did the car have the tiniest back seat in existence, but it was packed full the way Archie’s and Walter’s cars were whenever they left to start a new semester at college. A jumble of clothes, books, and toiletries. For once, being tiny was going to pay off. “I can make it work.”

Ian shifted back and forth between his feet, absentmindedly strumming the zipper on his jacket. He was torn. No matter what he said, he didn’t feel okay about abandoning me at the hotel. The big brother was too strong in him. I was going to have to use it to my advantage.

“Look, it makes sense.” Rowan held out the cereal box to Ian, but he waved it off. “What you guys need is some time to get used to this idea. Going to the Burren will give us that time. ”

“This is a bad idea,” Ian repeated.

“You already said that.” Two scenarios played through my head. Best case, I used the extra time to talk some sense into Ian. Worst case, I saw another guidebook site, and maybe got one step closer to healing my broken heart—that is, if Guidebook Lady knew what she was talking about—before continuing on to Italy alone. My mental Magic 8 Ball tumbled out an answer: All signs point to yes.

I took an authoritative step toward Rowan. “I need you to give me the keys.”

“Do not give them to her,” Ian ordered.

One of Rowan’s eyebrows lifted, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I have to go get my suitcase. And I need insurance that you aren’t just going to leave while I’m gone.”

“Rowan . . . ,” Ian warned.

Rowan nodded thoughtfully and threw them to me in one smooth motion, his grin still playing on his face. His smiles felt like a payday. “Sorry, Ian. She’s right: I wouldn’t leave us alone in the parking lot either. And I’m a sucker for a well-thought-out argument.”

Victory.

Ian shook his hair into his face and crossed his arms tightly. “Addison Jane Bennett, if you are not back down here in five minutes, I will come looking for you.”

Rowan’s dimple dented his cheek. “Better hurry, Addison Jane.”

“Addison Jane Bennett. B-minus in geometry? I thought you were straight As all the way.”

I stumbled back into the doorway, hand to my chest. It was early one morning in July, and either I was hallucinating or Cubby Jones was standing in my kitchen looking at my report card.

I blinked hard, but when I looked again, he was still there. Only now he’d deployed the signature grin, one hand still on the fridge. A lot had changed since the morning I’d made him waffles. Cubby’s smile didn’t go all the way up to his eyes anymore, and something about it looked calculated, like he’d figured out its power and was using it to his advantage. Like now.

“What are you doing here?” I managed to choke out.

He grinned again, then pulled himself up onto the counter in an easy, athletic motion. “Don’t try to change the subject. B-minus? What does your honor student brother think of that?”

“I bombed the final,” I said, attempting and failing at nonchalant. “And you know report cards are confidential, right? Meant only for the person they’re addressed to.” I attempted to snatch the paper from his grip, but he held on to it tighter, pulling me toward him before he let go. And suddenly I was twelve years old again, in this very kitchen, looking into his eyes for the first time and noticing that Cubby was different. The memory must have hit him, too, because this time the old Cubby was back, his smile climbing to his eyes.

“So”—he cleared his throat, looking me up and down—“are you going out for a run?”

I quickly crossed my arms over my chest, remembering what I was wearing. A ratty T-shirt and an ancient pair of volleyball shorts that were so short, I only wore them to bed or for quick trips to the kitchen for early-morning Pop-Tarts. Or in this case, quick trips to the kitchen that resulted in running into my longtime crush.

Sometimes I hated my life.

“No run. I’m just, um . . .” I bit my lip nervously, desperate to get out of there but also desperate to stay. “What are you doing here, Cubby?”

“No one calls me Cubby anymore, Addison,” he said, tilting his head slightly.

“Well, no one calls me Addison. And the question stands.” I edged toward the hallway, the tile cold under my bare feet. Cubby’s stare ignited too many feelings in my stomach—and they tangled into a knot. Why did I have to look so gross? Upstairs, the bathroom door slammed shut.

“I’m picking up your brother. Coach called for an extra practice this morning, and Ian said you had the car today.”

“We have joint custody,” I said. “This weekend it’s mine.”

Cubby nodded knowingly. “But you made sure to explain to the car that it isn’t his fault, right? And that you both love him very much?”

A laugh burst out of me just as Ian appeared in the doorway. His hair was wet from the shower, and the strings from the two sweatshirts he wore tangled together. He was the only person I knew who ever wore two hoodies at once. How he managed to put them on was an unsolved mystery that I had been attempting to put to rest for several years now.

Cubby lifted his chin. “Hey, Bennett.”

Ian nodded at him sleepily, then squinted his eyes at me. “Addie, why are you up so early?”

“I was on the phone with Lina.” The time difference meant I sometimes had to get up really early if I wanted to talk to her.

He looked at my pajamas and wrinkled his face. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking.

“Bye, Addison.” Cubby smiled disarmingly, then jumped off the counter, giving me a long look as he followed Ian out.

“Bye, Cubby,” I called back, my heart hummingbird-fast. The second he was out of sight I fell against the counter. Why did I always have to act like a lovestruck third grader? I might as well walk around with a T-shirt that reads I CUBBY  JONES.

Suddenly, Cubby’s face appeared around the corner. “Hey, Addie, you want to hang out sometime?”

I shot back up to standing. “Um . . . yes?” You’d think that living with so many brothers would mean I’d know how to talk to guys, but I didn’t. It just meant I knew how to defend myself. And the way Cubby was looking at me—really looking at me—I had no defense for. It set my capillaries on fire.

Back in the hotel room I set a world record by getting dressed, packing my suitcase, and locating my phone, all in less than six minutes. Once my sneakers were laced, I stuck my head into the bathroom to check for Ian’s alleged note. Sure enough, there was a folded-up square of paper wedged into the corner of the mirror, my name spelled out in Ian’s miniscule handwriting.

“Ian, come on,” I groaned. Chances were I wouldn’t even have seen it there.

I jammed the note in my pocket, then wheeled my suitcase to the doorway, pausing when I caught sight of the guidebook peeking out from under my cot. I hurried over and scooped it up. I didn’t like the idea of stealing from the gnomes’ library, but something about the guidebook’s crinkled pages made me feel better. Less alone. And besides, what if Guidebook Lady was telling the truth? What if she was an expert on heartbreak? I needed all the help I could get. Maybe I’d figure out how to mail the guidebook back to the gnomes from Italy.

Outside, the car was right where I’d left it and Rowan stood rummaging through the trunk. Now that I wasn’t engaged in actively fighting off my brother, I could actually take Rowan in. He was taller than I’d expected and really skinny—like half the size of Archie or Walter. But even so, he definitely had what my mom called “presence.” Like he could walk into any lunchroom anywhere and ten girls would look up from their ham sandwiches and whisper, Who’s that? in identical breathy voices.

Good thing my breathy voice had been scared into permanent hibernation.

“Welcome back.” Rowan took my suitcase, tossing it into the trunk.

I pointed to the bumper stickers plastering the back of the car. “Did you pick all of those, or were they a preexisting condition?”

“Definitely preexisting. I’ve only owned the car for three weeks.”

IMAGINE WHIRLED PEAS

THIS CAR IS POWERED BY PURE IRISH LUCK

TEAM OXFORD COMMA

CUPCAKES ARE MUFFINS

THAT DIDN’T GIVE UP ON THEIR DREAMS

“The muffin one is pretty funny,” I said, hugging the guidebook to my side.

“I think so too. It may be the whole reason I bought this car. There wasn’t a whole lot to love otherwise.”

I shook my head. “Not true. This car is equipped with a rare sagging tailpipe. I’m sure people go crazy over those at car shows.”

“Wait. Is that a joke, or is the tailpipe actually sagging?” He looked anxiously at the roof of his car, his gaze a solid six feet above where the tailpipe actually resided. Yikes. I think it was safe to say Rowan was not a car person.

“Uh . . . that pipe thing?” I said, pointing under the back bumper. “It lets exhaust out of your car. If it starts dragging on the ground, it’ll make a loud, horrible noise.”

“Oh . . .” He exhaled, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Actually, I think it was making that noise. On the way here. Especially when the road got bumpy. But Clover makes a lot of horrible noises, so I thought it was just business as usual.” He patted the car affectionately.

“Clover?”

Rowan pointed to the most prominent bumper sticker, a large, faded shamrock. “Her namesake.”

“How Irish.”

“Nothing like a good stereotype,” he countered, his mouth twisting into another smile. I wished he’d stop with the smiling. It kept conjuring up memories of another notable smile.

“Time to go.” Ian stuck his head out the window, drumming his hands against the side. I don’t think he meant for it to, but his excited expression landed squarely on me. “Addie, I cleared you a spot. It will probably work best if you climb in from this side.”

I rushed over, eager to keep up the goodwill, but when I looked inside, the glow that Ian’s smile had created instantly faded away. He had somehow managed to stack Rowan’s items into a teetering pile that almost touched the ceiling. The only actual space was behind Ian’s seat, and it was just the right size for three malnourished squirrels and a hedgehog. If they all sucked in.

“Grand, Ian,” Rowan said from behind me. “You worked a wonder back here.”

He was either a liar or a serious optimist. “Um, yeah . . . a really great job, Ian,” I echoed, bracing my hands on either side of the window. I needed to keep things positive. “So how am I getting in there exactly?”

“Tunnel in,” Ian said. “You can just climb over me.”

“Great.” I threw my leg in through the window, managing to keep the guidebook pressed to my side as I climbed onto the middle console.

“What are you holding?” Ian asked, reaching up for the book.

I quickly tossed it into the back seat. “It’s a guidebook about Ireland.”

“Oh, right. The one you read about the Burren in,” Rowan said.

“Right.” I hovered, unsure of my next step. Circumventing the pile was not going to be a straightforward process.

“Maybe put your foot on the . . . ,” Rowan started, but I was already midfling, Rowan’s possessions snagging at every bit of exposed skin on my body. I landed in a heap.

“There was probably a less violent way to do that,” Ian said.

Rowan raised his eyebrows. “There was definitely a less violent way to do that. But none quite so entertaining.”

Crunchy, sun-faded velvet lined the back seat, which smelled vaguely of cheese. And Ian’s seat was so close to mine that my knees barely fit in the space. I jammed my legs in as best as I could, wincing at the tight squeeze, then poked at the pile. “Rowan, what is all this stuff?”

“Long story.” He started up the car, pointing to Ian’s black eye. “So, are you going to tell me what happened, or will it just be the big mystery of the trip?”

“Ask her.” Ian hiked his thumb back at me. “She’s the one responsible.”

Rowan turned and looked at me appraisingly. “Wow. You always so aggressive?”

“Always,” Ian answered for me. Was it just my imagination or was that a thin layer of pride spread atop all that exasperation? Either way, I didn’t protest. Rowan thinking I was dangerous might work to my advantage.

“Ready?” Rowan asked. Before we could reply, he hit the gas, accelerating so hard that the pile shimmied, spitting out a handful of records and one dress shoe. A group of birds scattered as we peeled brazenly out of the parking lot and onto the sunlit road, sprays of rose petals shooting out behind us.

Or at least that’s what I imagined our exit looked like. There was too much stuff blocking my view for me to know for sure.

I assumed that once we were on the open road, a few things would be cleared up. For example, what a tourist site in western Ireland had to do with my brother’s favorite band. But instead of explaining, Ian produced a massive, scribbled-on map of Ireland that he’d apparently been carrying around in his backpack, and Rowan passed around his box of cold cereal, and the two of them commenced to yell at each other.

Not angry yelling, happy yelling, part necessity due to the loud music—because as Rowan explained, the volume knob was missing—and part excitement. It was as if the two of them had been holding back an arsenal of things to say, and now that they were face-to-face, they had to get it all out or risk annihilation. And Rowan was as big of a music nerd as Ian was, maybe even more so. Ten minutes in, they’d covered:

• An eighties musician named Bruce something who was famous for composing guitar symphonies that involved bringing thirty-plus guitarists onstage at once

• Whether or not minimalism is a sign of a truly great musician

• Something called “punk violence,” which Rowan claimed (and Ian enthusiastically agreed) was the natural balance to the synth-pop genre that emerged through early MTV

• Why the term “indie” meant nothing anymore now that massive indie labels were churning out artists assembly-line style

I was torn between listening to Ian in his element and trying not to have a panic attack every time I looked at the road. Rowan was the kind of driver every parent dreads. His speed hovered just below breakneck, and he had some kind of psychic method for determining which curves in the road didn’t require remaining in his own lane.

But I was the only one worrying. Ian’s excited voice climbed higher and higher until it was resting on the roof of the car, and he alternated between his favorite fidget modes: knee bouncing, finger drumming, and hair twisting. Wasn’t he supposed to be explaining things to me?

My phone chimed, and I fumbled quickly for it, tuning out their conversation as I pulled up a behemoth text:

(1) Thank you for subscribing to LINA’S CAT FACTS—the fun way to quit ignoring your best friend and learn something feline in the process! Did you know that when a family cat died in ancient Egypt, family members mourned by shaving off their eyebrows? And bonus fact: Did you know you are in danger of having YOUR eyebrows shaved off? BY ME? (Mostly due to the fact that you are arriving in Italy today and I haven’t heard from you in A WEEK AND A HALF?) In order to receive double the number of Daily Cat Facts—please continue to ignore me. Thanks again for your subscription, and have a PURRRfect day!

“Oh, no,” I whispered to myself. Immediately, Lina’s texts began dropping in like fuzzy hair balls. Egyptian family members were just the beginning.

(2) Cats who fall five stories have a 90 percent survival rate. Friends who ignore their friends for longer than 7 days have a 3 percent chance of remaining friends (and then only if they have a really good reason). Thanks again for your subscription, and have a PURRRfect day!

(3) A group of kittens is called a kindle. A group of adult cats is called a clowder. People who stop talking to their best friends for absolutely no good reason are jerks. This is not a CAT FACT. It is just a fact. Thanks again for your subscription, and have a PURRRfect day!

(4) Back in the 1960s, the CIA turned a cat into a tiny spy by implanting a microphone and camera into her ear and spine. Unfortunately, Spy Cat’s mission was cut short when she immediately ran out into traffic and was flattened by an oncoming taxi. This reminded me of the time you decided to visit me in Italy and then the week before completely stopped talking to me. ARE YOU EVEN COMING ANYMORE?? Thanks again for your subscription, and have a PURRRfect day!

Guilt twisted painfully in my gut. I had to respond to that one.

So so so so so sorry. And of course I’m still coming to Italy.

Explain everything once I’m there.

“Is that Mom?” Ian’s voice bypassed Rowan’s pile of stuff to hit me in the face. He held a lock of wet and stringy hair near his mouth.

“That is disgusting,” I said, pointing to his hair. “And no. It’s Lina.”

He chomped down on the lock. “What’s she saying?”

“How excited she is to see both of us. You know, because both of us will be there?” I wiggled my eyebrows at him. Sometimes humor worked really well on Ian.

“Keep dreaming,” he said. Guess it wasn’t going to work today.

“Addie, you want any cereal?” Rowan shoved his box of Sugar Puffs through the space between the seats.

“No. Thank you.” I leaned back, rubbing my thigh. Being crammed into such a tiny space had set my left leg on fire with pins and needles. “So when are you guys going to fill me in?”

“Fill you in on what?” Ian dropped his hair out of his mouth, and it bounced perkily off his shoulder.

“On your master plan.” I gestured to the map. “You can start with what the Burren has to do with Titletrack.”

Ian’s knee shook. “Nice try, sis. We have one hour until we drop you off at the airport, and the deal is you stay quiet until then. So you just sit tight back there, okay?”

I hated when Ian used that condescending tone with me. It only came out when he was trying to leverage his role as big brother. Fifteen months was not a lot of extra experience, but according to him all of creation had happened during that time period. “What deal? No deal was made.”

He flipped around, giving me a bouncy smile that caught me off guard. Even with me here, he was happier than I’d seen him all summer. “Your getting in this car was proof that you agreed to our terms and conditions. It was a contractual agreement.”

“And let me guess. You’re in charge of the terms?” I asked.

“Exactly.” He patted my arm patronizingly. “Now you’re getting it.”

I shoved his hand away. “You know what? Never mind. This is actually really great. Instead of thinking about an Irish road trip that you’re not taking, I can spend my time looking at the view and thinking about what a great time we’re going to have in Florence.”

“Keep dreaming, sis.”

Rowan met my eyes in the rearview mirror, the corners of his mouth turning up in an amused smile. I hoped he’d lobby for me—after all, he was the one who’d suggested we use this little side trip as a way to get things out in the open—but instead, he and Ian dove right back into their conversation. The pull of the music was too strong.

I crouched forward to scout for clues on Ian’s map. A string of Xs looped in a crescent along the bottom of Ireland, each site surrounded by a mini flurry of tiny Ian handwriting. Most of the writing was concentrated around six numbered spots:

1. Poulnabrone

2. Slea Head

3. Torc Manor

4. Au Bohair Pub

5. Rock of Cashel

And the grand finale, written in large letters:

ELECTRIC PICNIC

Great. I knew an Ian project when I saw one. Any time he found something he was really interested in, he dug in, and no amount of coaxing could peel him away from it. Once he committed, he went all in. That’s what made him such a great athlete.

I shimmied his note out of my back pocket.

Addie,

Change of plans. Not going with you to Italy. Tell Lina and her dad that I had to go home early for practice. Tell Mom and Dad that I’m with you. Will meet up with you for the flight home. Will explain later.

—Ian

Was he serious? I heaved myself forward again, thrusting the paper under Ian’s nose. “This was your note? Your big explanation? This doesn’t even look like your handwriting! I would have thought you were kidnapped!”

Ian startled, like he’d forgotten I was back there. He probably had. He snatched the note from me. “I was going for brevity.”

“Nailed it,” I said.

“Let me see it.” Rowan took the note and read it aloud, his musical voice making it sound even more cryptic. “Wow, that is bad.”

Ian grabbed the paper, stuffing it into his backpack. “I wanted it to be like in war movies where people only have the information they need. That way, when they get captured by the enemy, they can’t have the information tortured out of them.”

“Tortured out of them?” I said incredulously.

He hunched his shoulders sheepishly. “You know what I mean. I just thought it would be better for you if you didn’t have all the facts.”

“I still don’t have all the facts.” I yanked at my right leg, managing to free it from the crevice. If Ian wouldn’t tell me what was going on, maybe Rowan would. I fixed my eyes on the back of his neck. His hair was slightly longer at the nape.

“So who are you exactly?” I asked, using my friendliest Catarina-approved voice. She was big on curiosity as a means of persuasion. Start by acting interested.

I don’t know if it was my question or sparkly tone, but his eyes flicked toward me warily. “Rowan. We met back at the hotel? You told me my bumper was sagging?”

“That sounds dirty,” Ian said.

“It was your tailpipe,” I wailed, dropping the act. “Never mind. That part doesn’t matter. What I want to know is why you”—I pointed at him—“clearly Irish, and my brother”—I pointed at Ian—“clearly American, are acting like best friends. And don’t just say ‘online’ again. People who only know each other online don’t complete each other’s sentences.”

“Isn’t this a violation of the terms and conditions?” Rowan asked, calling upon what Ian had said earlier. Ian gave him a smirk equivalent to a fist bump.

“True, it is a clear violation . . . ,” I started, but I paused to think. What I needed was a cohesive argument. It had worked before in persuading Rowan to give me the keys. “Rowan, the thing is that I’m much more likely to be supportive of Ian’s plans if I know what is going on.”

“Riiiiight,” Ian said, dragging out the word.

“I am,” I insisted. “I didn’t come with you on your first stop just so I could sit back here listening to you guys dissect the music industry.” Saying “first stop” felt like a dangerous concession. It suggested the possibility of the road trip.

Rowan took both hands off the wheel to adjust his glasses. “She’s right. This is why she’s came with us in the first place—to give her some time to get used to the idea.”

Or talk you out of the idea, I added silently.

“Fine. Fall for her evil tactics. But don’t come crying to me when she makes your life a living hell.” Ian fell into a heap against his window. I’d always thought he’d missed his calling by not signing up for drama club.

Rowan lifted his chin curiously in the rearview mirror.

I shrugged. “By all means, continue. I’ll let you know when my evil tactics kick in.”

His dimple winked at me. “Right. Well, Ian and I talk a lot. Like most days. And we’ve known each other since last summer. Well, I guess ‘known’ isn’t quite the right word, is it?” No comment from Ian. Rowan continued nervously. “At first I was just familiar with his work. I read his first series of articles, and we started e-mailing from there. And then—”

“You read his first series of what?” I interrupted.

Ian made a barely audible groan, and Rowan’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I was under the impression that you two had met? Addie, meet Ian Bennett, esteemed teen music journalist. Ian, meet Addie, parking lot tackler extraordinaire.”

Music journalist? I jammed my knees into the back of Ian’s seat. “This is a joke, right?”

Rowan cleared his throat. “Um, sorry, but is this a joke?”

“Addie, I write articles, okay?” Ian propped his feet up on the dashboard and yanked irritably at his shoelaces. “I used to have a blog, but now I get paid to write articles for online publications.”

“Ha ha,” I said. “And you also love My Little Pony, right?”

“What are those guys called?” Rowan asked. “Bronies?”

Ian shot me a dirty-as-mud look, and I flinched. He was serious—and hurt. I could see it in the way he jutted his chin out. “Wait. You really do have a blog? Like online?”

“Yes, it’s online. Where else would it be?” He scowled.

“But . . .” I hesitated, waiting for the pieces to fall into place, like they usually did. They didn’t. “You have a blog blog? Like the kind you add entries to?”

“Yeah . . . like a website run by an individual? They’re usually pretty informal,” Rowan said helpfully, his voice kind. “It’s pretty easy to sign up for one.”

I blinked a couple of times. Anyone else would have made fun of me. He was too nice for his own good. “Thanks, Rowan, but it’s not the idea of a blog that’s tripping me up. I’m just having a hard time believing that Ian has one.” The thought of Ian coming home from practice to pour his feelings out in an online diary was so far in the realm of not possible that it technically didn’t exist.

“Why can’t you believe it?” Ian demanded, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He sounded exactly the way I had when talking to Archie last night. Why, you think it’s impossible that a popular football player would like someone like me? “Because jocks aren’t allowed to do anything but play sports? Thanks for stereotyping me.”

“Ugh. Ian, no one’s stereotyping you.” Lately, Ian had had a huge chip on his shoulder about being seen as The Jock—impossible when he worked so hard to look alternative. And why did he mind the role anyway? It raised him to the level of high school god. “I just don’t get how you’d even have time to write. During the school year you’re either doing homework or playing sports.”

“I make time,” Ian said. “And what do you think I’ve been doing all summer?”

Finally, something clicked into place. Except for when he was at practice, Ian had spent most of the summer stationed at his computer. “Mom said you were working on college admissions essays.”

He let out one of those harsh noises that sometimes passes as a laugh. “I have definitely not been working on college admissions essays. Unless you count creating a portfolio for journalism schools as a college application. If so, then yes.”

“Journalism school? Does Washington State even have a journalism program?”

Ian slammed his hands on the dashboard, making Rowan and me jump. “I’m not going to Washington State.”

“Whoa. Ian, you okay there?” Rowan asked. Ian lifted his chin slightly, as if he was rearing for a fight.

“What do you mean you’re not going to Washington State? They scouted you earlier this summer. They’re going to offer you a full-ride scholarship,” I reminded him. And if this scholarship didn’t work out, then another one would. Great grades plus incredible player equals money.

“I don’t care about the football scholarship,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a simmer.

“Why, because you won the lottery?”

“So fill me in here,” Rowan broke in, his voice confused. “You two are obviously brother and sister, but were you separated at birth? Mom took one, Dad took the other? Or did one of you only recently learn English so that’s why you’ve never communicated before?”

The tips of Ian’s ears suddenly turned red. “It’s pretty hard to communicate with someone who spent their whole summer lying to you.”

I grabbed the back of his seat, my ears as red as his. They were our ultimate anger indicators. “Don’t try to make this about Cubby. And besides, you’re one to talk. You apparently have a whole secret life.”

“It’s not a ‘whole secret life,’ ” he snapped, imitating my tone. “It was just this summer. And I would have told you if you weren’t so busy sneaking around with Cubby.”

“You have to stop bringing him up,” I yelled.

Rowan tapped Clover’s brakes firmly, lurching both of us forward. If we hadn’t been the only ones on the road, we would have been rear-ended for sure. “Look, guys,” Rowan began, “I get that you’re dealing with some issues here, but I’ve been around enough arguing to last a lifetime. So, Ian, how about you bring Addie up to speed on what is apparently your dual life? I’m pretty curious myself how you’ve managed to keep this a secret from your family.”

“It isn’t that hard to keep it a secret. Unless it’s about football, no one cares what I do.” Ian dropped his shoulders, tension framing his eyes. “Fine. Addie, what do you want to know?”

Where to begin? “What’s your blog’s name?”

“My Lexicon,” Ian said.

“How do you spell that?” I pulled out my phone and typed it in as Rowan spelled. Not only did the blog exist, but it looked way more professional than a seventeen-year-old’s blog should, with a sleek monochromatic theme and MY LEXICON spelled out in all caps across the top.

“It’s a reference to a Bob Dylan quote,” Rowan explained before I could ask. “ ‘The songs are my lexicon. I believe the songs.’ ”

Ian crossed his arms angrily. “My blog is how I got my gig with IndieBlurb. I do a weekly column with them.”

“It’s called Indie Ian’s Week in Five,” Rowan said.

“Indie Ian? That’s, like, your handle?” I kept waiting for one of them to crack a smile, but neither of them did. “Fine. What are the five?”

“They’re music categories.” Ian listed them off on his fingers. “Worth the hype, overhyped, covered, classic, and obscure. Every week I choose a song to fit into each.” He exhaled loudly. “Why are you having such a hard time believing this? I’ve always liked writing. And music. I tried to be on the school newspaper last year, but Coach wouldn’t let me do it. He said he didn’t want me to lose my focus.”

Coach had said that? A flurry of sibling protectiveness roared in my head.

Rowan jumped in. “Ian has a huge following on Twitter. Every time he publishes something, a hashtag goes around—#IndieIanSpeaks. That’s how I found him.”

“It isn’t a huge following,” Ian said modestly, but pride ringed the edges of his voice.

“You have ten thousand followers; how is that not huge?” Rowan said.

Ten thousand? Not bad.

Ian shook his hair into his eyes. “No, it’s never been ten thousand. Every time I get close, I post something in the ‘overhyped’ category that offends people, and there’s a mass exodus. My tombstone’s going to say, ‘Always fifty followers short of ten thousand.’ ” Rowan snorted.

I pulled out my phone to verify the Twitter account. The profile photo on @IndieIan11 was an up-close shot of Ian’s eyes, his long hair framing the right side of the square. 9.9K followers. A massive party I hadn’t been invited to. Hadn’t even been told about.

I gripped the phone hard, a herd of feelings galloping across my chest. At least now I knew why Ian had been so distant all summer. He’d been living a secret online life. “Ian, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Why would I? It’s not like you listen to anything I say anyway.”

Cop-out answer. “Ian, for the last time, this isn’t about Cubby. If Rowan found you a year ago, that means you were music”—I hesitated—“music journaling way before Cubby and I started hanging out.”

“ ‘Music journaling.’ I like it.” Rowan might as well have been wearing a referee jersey. He was desperate to stop our fight.

Ian turned back impatiently. “So tell me again, are you planning to tell Mom about Cubby during or after your trip to Florence?”

“Ian, we’ve been through this a dozen times. I am not telling her.” My words vibrated loudly through the car. How had he even jumped to that? “And it’s not my trip to Florence. It’s our trip.”

Even I didn’t sound convinced.

The first time I ever lied to Ian, it was about Cubby. It was surprisingly easy.

It was during our last field trip together, and right away I realized something was different about this excursion from the others. Usually, our trips were to my brother’s newest and most recent discoveries, but not this time.

“I’ve been coming here since I got my license,” he said, as I aimed the flashlight at the troll’s one visible eye, glistening as hard and shiny as a bead. Cars roared above us on the overpass.

Ian climbed up the statue’s gnarled hand, settling into the curve between its head and neck. I let my light wander over the statue. The concrete troll was over twenty feet tall, and one of its plump hands clutched a life-size car in its monstrous grip. “Why have I never been here before?”

Ian stretched out over the arm. “I like to come here after practice. To think.”

“To think about what? How you’re going to dominate at the next game?” I teased.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, quickly changing the subject. “Did you notice how blobby the troll is? It’s because people spray-paint him, and the only way to remove the paint is to cover him up with more cement.”

“Nice segue,” I said. Lately, Ian had been dodging every conversation that had anything to do with football. But tonight I wasn’t going to pry. It was nice just to be with him. I felt like I hadn’t seen much of him lately.

I tucked the flashlight into my sweatshirt pocket and scrambled up to join him. For a while, we listened to the rhythmic rumbling of cars rushing overhead. Their predictable noises were comforting. I could see why Ian liked it here.

“Where were you last night?” he suddenly asked, and my heart raced faster than the cars on the highway.

I avoided looking him in the eye. “I went to bed early.”

He shook his head. “I came into your room to see if you wanted to watch SNL. You were gone on Tuesday night too. How are you getting out? The window? Kind of ballsy to climb out past Mom and Dad’s room.”

Very ballsy. Particularly for a person who was five foot one on a good day trying to descend a tree whose branches were spaced out at least five feet apart.

“I was probably in the kitchen,” I said, surprised by how easily the lie slipped through my mouth. I’d never lied to Ian before, never even really considered it. But then, I guess I’d never had a reason before. A small smile invaded my face. I couldn’t help it.

He raised his eyebrows. “So now that I know how you’re sneaking out, the question is who are you sneaking out with?”

I pressed my lips together, sealing in my secret. Sometimes it felt like everything I owned had once belonged to one of my brothers, and as much as I loved them, I loved the idea of having something all to myself even more.

After a few seconds Ian let out a long and exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Be that way.” He slid off the troll, his sneakers thudding heavily onto the ground. “But you know I’ll find out eventually.”

Taking me to the troll was Ian’s attempt at drawing out my secret: I’ll tell you one of mine, you tell me one of yours.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

Rowan’s car raced down the twisted road as I watched Ireland suddenly morph into something remote and ferocious. Roofless stone structures lined the narrow roads, moss blanketing them softly in green. Everything looked abandoned, which for some reason made my internal clock tick even louder. I had less than an hour to convince Ian to abandon his plan.

Luckily, I had a secret weapon. Two weeks ago, my mom and I had driven over an hour north to visit her aunt, and I’d gotten stuck listening to a new Catarina Hayford recording called “Modes of Persuasion.” Back then I hadn’t thought I would ever need it. But now I needed to draw on the experts. Step one: act curious. “So what exactly does the Burren have to do with Titletrack?”

The bruise under Ian’s eye looked at me accusingly. “Listen, Catarina. We’re working on a strictly need-to-know basis here. Also, no one invited you, so quit asking questions.”

“I was not being Catarina,” I snapped. I guess he’d listened to that one too.

“Yes, you were. Rule number one,” he said in a surprisingly good impression of Catarina’s throaty voice, “act curious.”

“I’d ask who Catarina is, but you’d probably both rip my head off,” Rowan said.

“You’re safe on this one,” Ian assured him. “She’s a real estate guru who spends all of her free time getting spray tans. She turned our mom into a Seattle real estate mogul.”

“I didn’t know your mom was in real estate.” Rowan slid his eyes curiously at Ian. For someone who was so close to my brother, he knew surprisingly little about him. He hadn’t even known Walt’s name.

“Rule number two: Never meet the client halfway. Meet them all the way.” Ian flicked his hair behind his shoulder and pursed his lips convincingly. “Rule number three: Be realistic and optimistic. The future belongs to the hopeful.”

I flicked him on the shoulder. “Ian, stop.”

He snorted and dropped the pose, ducking down to look out the windshield. “Rowan, is this Corofin?”

“No. That was the first town. This is Killinaboy. Also, I’m overruling your terms and conditions.” Rowan’s gaze fell on me, light as a butterfly. “Your sister needs to know what we’re doing.”

“What? Why?” he asked.

“Because if she knows why you’re taking off without her, maybe she’ll retaliate less.”

“Rowan, believe me. She won’t retaliate less,” Ian said.

“She can hear you,” I reminded them, my gaze snagged on yet another attempt by Rowan to adjust his glasses. The way he pushed them up was the perfect combination of endearing and nerdy. If he didn’t seem so clueless about it, I’d think he was doing it on purpose. “And, Ian, I’m starting to like your friend here. Unlike you, he actually considers other people’s feelings.”

I meant for it to be funny, but I heard my mistake the second it was out of my mouth. Ian took loyalty very seriously—just hinting that he was letting someone down was enough to make him snap.

He twisted around. “Right. Because I never care about your feelings. Because I never, ever stand up for you or help you with school or clean up your mistakes.”

My cheeks scalded. Had he just lumped helping me with school in with Cubby? “Did you really just say that?” I demanded.

Rowan verbally threw himself in between us. “Okay, guys. Let’s talk about Titletrack. When they first started out, they couldn’t get anyone to sign them, so they started posting songs online and performing in pubs around Ireland. Eventually, they talked a radio station into playing one of their songs, and it was requested so many times that it ended up on the top ten charts. After that, labels couldn’t ignore them.”

There was a long, awkward pause, but the oddly timed description worked. We weren’t fighting anymore. Ian sank down into his seat, his chin resting on his chest.

Rowan kept going, probably in hopes of squelching another eruption. “And Titletrack’s final concert is in three days. They made the announcement earlier this year and swore they aren’t going to do that stupid thing bands do where they retire and then do a bunch of reunion tours.”

“I hate that,” Ian said, rechanneling his anger.

It was Titletrack’s final concert? This was more hopeless than I thought. “So what does the Burren have to do with anything?” I asked again, carefully.

Rowan valiantly picked up the torch again. “So Ian’s idea—which was brilliant, I might add—is to visit some of those early places that were important to the band and write a piece that culminates at the picnic. Kind of like following their footprints all the way to Electric Picnic.” He paused. “Ian, that’s what you should title it!”

“Hmmm,” Ian said noncommittally.

“Anyway, the Burren is where they filmed their first music video for a song called ‘Classic,’ which is, in my humble opinion, the greatest song in the world.”

“It is,” Ian confirmed. He leaned forward, and his hair fell into a waterfall around his face. “I played it for you on the way to school a couple of times. It’s the one that talks about slippery simplicity.”

I did remember the song. I’d even requested it a few times, mostly because I liked the way the singer rolled “slippery simplicity” through his mouth like a piece of butterscotch candy.

“Right,” Rowan said. “We’re going to document the whole trip, Ian posting pictures to his blog and social media. Then, when it’s all done, he’s going to submit the final article somewhere big.”

“Maybe I’m going to submit it somewhere big,” Ian said quickly.

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” Rowan’s voice sounded incredulous. “If you don’t, I’ll do it for you. Your writing is definitely good enough, and I have a whole list of Irish music magazines that would go crazy over it.”

“So this is like serious fanboying meets research trip,” I said. Each new fact pushed me a little closer toward hopeless.

“Exactly.” Rowan punched the air enthusiastically. “And your aunt’s wedding? Best coincidence to ever befall planet Earth.”

Ian smiled at Rowan, his anger forgotten. Zero to sixty, sixty to zero. It could go both ways. After a lifetime of fights, I should be used to it, but it still caught me off guard sometimes. Especially now, when I’d thought we were headed for another grand mal fight, like the one at the cliffs. “I couldn’t believe it,” Ian said. “I mean, what are the odds of me being in Ireland during their final concert?”

For Ian? High. Life liked to make things work for him.

I crumpled into the back seat, resignation settling over me in a fine layer. Ireland was enchanting, Rowan was Ian’s best friend soul mate, and Ian’s favorite band was doing a once-in-a-lifetime show. I’d lost before I’d even begun.

I curled up tightly, hooking my arms around my knees. “I need you guys to be really fast at the Burren. And, Ian, did you cancel your ticket to Italy?”

Ian started to look back but caught himself halfway. “No, but I checked with the airline. They’ll just give my seat away when I don’t show up.” He had enough compassion to keep the victory out of his voice.

Italy and Lina reached out, warm and inviting. Sunshine, gelato, art, scooters, spaghetti, my best friend. I closed my eyes and clung hard to the image. Leaving Ian in Ireland wasn’t what I’d had in mind, but maybe it would be good for us. The next hour couldn’t go fast enough.

“Fine,” I said, falling back dejectedly against my seat. “You win. You always win.”