WE PULLED INTO COBH A hot, sweaty mess. To draw heat from the engine, we’d had to keep the car’s heater on full blast, and by the time we made it to the auto shop, we were all dripping in sweat. And I only got hotter when the mechanic—a vaguely tuna-fish-smelling man named Connor—took one look at me and predecided that I couldn’t have any idea what I was talking about. “I’ll just have a look myself,” he said.
“There’s a hole in the radiator,” I insisted. “I already found it.”
His mouth twisted into a patronizing smile. “We’ll see.”
Before I could blow up, Ian yanked me toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
We hustled down the waterfront streets, carrying our bags past candy-colored row houses with lines of laundry out back. Ships bobbed against the wooden docks like massive rubber ducks, and a spiky stone cathedral stood tall and commanding, its steeple piercing the clouds.
The church was surrounded by visitors, and as we approached, bells suddenly split the air, their song surprisingly cheerful for such a grim-looking structure. “Wow.” I skidded to a stop, my neck craning up toward the bell tower.
“Man down,” Ian called over the clanging, circling back to grab my elbow. “Those bells mean we’re supposed to be there by now. You can stare at churches later.”
“We have to come back for our homework anyway,” Rowan said, pointing to the harbor.
“Fine.” I sighed, slinging my backpack up higher on my shoulder and breaking into a run.
Au Bohair Pub was hard to miss. The two-story structure had been painted a startling robin’s-egg blue and was sandwiched between a lime-colored hat shop and a cranberry-colored bakery. Even this early in the day, it had a festive, game-day feel, music and people spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of it, a collective cloud of cigarette smoke hovering in the air. When we got to the edge of the crowd, Ian ran up to a man standing near the doorway wearing worn denim overalls. “Do you know where I can find Miriam?”
“Miriam Kelly?” He smiled wide, revealing corncob-yellow teeth. “Stage left. She’s always stage left. Just make sure you don’t bother her during a set. I made that mistake once.”
Ian nodded nervously, shoving the handle of his suitcase into my hand. “Addie, could you just . . . ?” He shot through the doorway, disappearing in a crush of people.
“Nope, don’t mind at all,” I called after him. It wasn’t like I already had my suitcase to deal with. The man gave me an amused smile.
“Here, let me help you,” Rowan said, absentmindedly shuffling the guidebook from under my arm and disappearing just as quickly as Ian had.
“Really?” I muttered, grabbing hold of the bags. I bumped clumsily through the entryway, running over toes and sloshing people’s drinks as I went. It was only when I’d squeezed into the middle of the room that I took a moment to look around. Wooden tables littered the floor, and the walls were almost completely eclipsed by music posters. A well-stocked bar stood in one corner of the room, customers filling every inch of remaining space.
“Ian!” I called. He and Rowan stood on tiptoe, staring hungrily at the stage. “Stage” was a bit too grand of a word for it. It was actually a small wooden platform, just a foot or two off the ground, that was somehow managing to accommodate a large tangle of musicians, their various instruments belting out a decidedly Irish tune.
I mashed my way over to them. “Could have used a little help.”
Neither of them acknowledged me. They were too busy fanboying. Hard.
“That’s Titletrack’s first stage,” Rowan was saying, his glasses practically fogging up with excitement. “This place is lethal. So, so lethal.”
“I can’t believe we’re here,” Ian said. “We are standing in the first place Titletrack ever performed.”
I wriggled between them to get their attention. “Remember when you left me with all the bags?”
“Is that my baby music journalist?” a raspy voice boomed from behind us.
We all spun around, coming face-to-face with a short, round woman wearing thick spectacles and a shapeless brown dress, her hair pulled back into a tight knot.
“Um . . . are you . . . ?” Ian managed.
“Miriam Kelly.” She yanked him in for a hug, patting him enthusiastically on the back. “You made it! I was worried you’d stood me up.”
Ian cleared his throat, trying and failing to get over the shock of the most important woman in Irish music looking like the kind of person who baked banana bread and crocheted afghans in her spare time. “Um . . . ,” he said again.
Suddenly, she dropped her smile, pointing a finger at him seriously. “So, tell me, Ian, is the garage band really dead?”
“You read his article!” I crowed, recognizing the title from when I’d read it back at the Rainbow’s End.
She turned her bright eyes on me. “Of course I have. This young man left me five voice mails and sent an ungodly number of e-mails. I either had to turn him over to the guards or arrange a meeting. You must be the little sister.”
“I’m Addie,” I said, accepting her firm handshake. “And this is our friend Rowan. He’s a huge fan of Titletrack too.”
“So, so nice to meet you.” Rowan pumped her arm, his face splitting into a smile. “Such an honor.”
“An Irishman amongst the Americans. I like it.” She turned back to me. “Addie, your brother here is quite the writer. I was very impressed.”
“You—you were?” Ian’s face lit up like a birthday cake, and he stumbled back a few steps. I’d never seen a compliment hit him so hard, and on the field they rained down on him constantly. “Thank you,” he choked out.
Miriam slapped him heartily on the back. “And I love that you’re so young. When you get to be my age, you realize that age has nothing to do with what you can accomplish—if you’ve got it, you’ve got it. Why wait until you grow up? And then once you’re all grown-up, why stop? Or at least that’s my motto.”
Forget Titletrack. We should start a fan club about her.
She kept going. “I want all of you to find a table. I’ve been on the road all summer, but they let me back in the kitchen today and I made my famous Guinness beef stew. Bruce Springsteen claims it changed his life.”
“Bruce Springsteen?” Ian looked like he was about to collapse.
She tapped her chin with one finger. “Or was it Sting? Funny, I sometimes get those two confused. I’ll tell the kitchen staff you’re here—see you in two jiffs.” She bustled away, leaving ripples of shock in her wake.
“Ian, that was savage!” Rowan enthused.
Ian turned to me, his eyes round. “I just talked to Miriam Kelly.”
“No, you were just complimented by Miriam Kelly,” I pointed out, pride bubbling up in my chest. Whenever Ian was this happy, it always spread to me.
Miriam had ushered Ian to a table near the small stage, so Rowan and I chose another one closer to the door, in an attempt to give Ian some space for the interview.
“So why is Miriam such a big deal?” I asked, keeping one eyeball on Ian. His face had settled on a subtle shade of cranberry, and so far he’d dribbled stew onto his T-shirt and dropped his pen twice. If he was going to be a music journalist, he was going to have to work on the starstruck thing.
Rowan nodded. “She’s like an informal talent director. At first she was just booking people to play here at her pub, but after she pushed some of the biggest acts in Ireland, all the record companies started hiring her to scout talent. Fifteen years ago, she heard Titletrack playing at a university contest and invited them here for a summer. It’s how they started building up their fan base.”
I dug my spoon into my bowl. “She’s also an incredible chef.” Miriam’s Springsteen stew was a mixture of carrots, potatoes, and gravy topped off with two big ice-cream scoops of mashed potatoes. It was so rich and warm that I wanted to crawl straight into the bowl.
“Hey, did you read the guidebook homework yet?” Rowan asked, nudging the book across the table to me. “We have to build a paper boat and put it in the water.”
“Are you going to do it or are you going to bail again?” I teased, flipping open to the Cobh section.
“Look, as long as it doesn’t involve body fluids, I’m in.”
“Fair.” I leaned back in my chair happily. I was stuffed, and relaxed for the first time in days. The live music had been replaced with a Queen album that I recognized from when my dad cleaned out the garage, but mostly all I could hear was Ian. He kept dropping his head back and laughing.
When was the last time I’d seen him laugh so hard? Over the past few years, he’d gotten more solemn, which was probably football-related. You’d think that being the star player meant you got special treatment, but if anything it seemed to make the coaches harder on him. And he took his games so seriously. I didn’t even have to check the schedule to know when a game was coming up because he always became quiet and moody for a few days beforehand.
Thinking about football reminded me of Olive’s message, and I glanced down at my phone, a pit forming in my stomach. DID IAN REALLY GET KICKED OFF THE TEAM???? The text was obviously something I had to deal with. If rumors of Ian were flying around back home, then he deserved to know about them. But what if it isn’t a rumor? my brain asked quietly. I quickly shushed it. Of course it was a rumor. Ian would have to set the school on fire before they’d do something as crazy as kick him off the team.
Regardless, I needed to tell him about it the next chance I got. The last thing our relationship needed was another secret.
I glanced over at Ian, and he met my gaze, waving us over. At their table, Ian’s bowl sat half-full, the lines of his notebook packed full of his cramped writing. His face glowed with excitement. “Guess what? Miriam said we can stay here tonight.”
“Are you serious? Where?” Rowan turned like he expected a bed to appear on the bar.
Miriam smiled, pushing her chair back. “Upstairs. We keep a few rooms to rent out, usually for the talent. Jared must have stayed in that main bedroom for an entire month. Which reminds me, he still owes me for that month, the gobshite. I think he can afford it now, don’t you? I’m going to give him a call.”
“Jared?” Rowan’s mouth dropped open. “Lead singer Jared? He stayed here? And you have his number?”
“Of course I do.” She shrugged lightly, looking at Ian. “Let me know when your article is finished. If you’d like, I could forward it on to Jared.”
“You—” Ian choked on his own words, his face reverting to a deep vermilion. “I—”
He gasped, and I whacked him on the back. “Ian, breathe.”
Miriam raised her eyebrows at him. “Ian, you’ll be okay. Once you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you figure out that musicians are just people. Interesting people, but people just the same.” She turned to me. “Speaking of interesting people, let’s talk about you, Addie.”
My face attempted a copycat of Ian’s. Miriam’s attention felt sparkly, and a little too heavy. “What about me?”
She poked her finger at me. “I hear you are quite the mechanic. That’s a talent. Maybe not one I can book, but a talent just the same. Ian said this trip wouldn’t have worked without you.”
Happiness bloomed in my chest. “Ian, you said that?”
He shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
Rowan piped up. “If it weren’t for Addie, we’d still be dragging our tailpipe across Ireland. She even saved us today. Right after Blarney, my car started overheating and she managed to get us to the mechanic shop down the street.”
Miriam sighed. “Let me guess, Connor Moloney’s place? I hate to say it, but that man is as useless as a chocolate teapot.” She crossed her arms. “So, mechanic. What do you have to say for yourself?”
What did I have to say for myself? “Uh, cars are just something I enjoy.”
“And that you’re good at,” she insisted.
“I call her Maeve,” Rowan said. “Because the first time I saw her, she was tackling Ian in a parking lot. She’s like a warrior queen.”
Now I was really blushing. “Sorry, why are we talking about this?”
“Because we need to!” Miriam pumped her arm. “We need more warrior queens around here. Especially ones that own up to their power.” She leaned in, studying my embarrassed expression. “Addie, you know what I do, right? For work?”
I nodded uncomfortably. “Yeah . . . you book talent.”
“Wrong.” She jabbed a finger at me, her voice rising into an enthusiastic crescendo. “I empower. I find people who are out there singing their songs, and I put a microphone in front of them and make sure the world is listening. And you know what? I want to do that for you, Addie.”
What was she talking about?
Before I could figure it out, she leapt to her feet and wrapped her arm around mine, dragging me up to the stage.
“Hey, Miriam, I don’t sing. Or play anything.” Or do stages. Unless it was on a field, I hated being in the spotlight. I desperately tried to wrench away, but she just yanked me up onto the platform, positioning me in front of a standing microphone. Ian and Rowan watched with wide eyes, but neither of them attempted to rescue me. Traitors.
“Pat! The microphone!” Miriam yelled.
One of the bartenders ducked under the bar, and suddenly the mic stand crackled to life. Miriam shoved it into my face. “Go on, Addie. Tell the nice people what you did.”
I looked at her in horror. True, the pub wasn’t nearly as crowded as it had been earlier during the live performance, but there were still plenty of people, and every one of them looked up from their tables, amused smiles etched on their faces. They were clearly used to Miriam’s antics.
“Go on,” she insisted, giving me a nudge. “Tell the nice people your name and how badass you are. Making a declaration can be very powerful.”
Do I really have to do this? Right as the thought entered my mind, her arm constricted around me like a boa. There was no way she was letting me off this stage. I cleared my throat. “Um, hello, everyone. My name is Addie Bennett.”
“Queen Maeve!” Ian shouted from the audience, his hands cupped around his mouth.
I blushed straight down to my toes. Once this was over, I was going to murder him. “So . . . Miriam wants me to tell you that for the last couple of days I’ve been on a road trip. Our car keeps breaking down, so I’ve been fixing it. And . . . that’s it.” I hastily shoved the microphone back toward Miriam’s hands and attempted to dive off the stage, but she grabbed hold of the back of my shirt.
“Wait just a minute, Addie. You know what I like to see? A woman who knows her strength. A woman who owns the fact that she is smart and creative, a woman who can get things done. Addie, you are a powerful woman.” She grabbed my hand and raised it over our heads, victor-style. “Go on, Addie. Say it.”
I cringed. “Say what exactly?”
Rowan and Ian grinned at each other. They were loving every minute of this.
“Say, ‘I am the hero of my own story.’ ”
“I’m the hero of my own story,” I said quickly.
“No, no, no. Louder. Open up the diaphragm. Really belt it out.”
Was she not seeing the irony in forcing someone to declare how powerful they were? Just get this over with, I told myself.
I took a deep breath and yelled right into the microphone, “I am the hero of my own story!”
“Yes! Again!” Miriam shouted.
This time I really let loose. “I AM THE HERO OF MY OWN STORY.”
“Good girl.” Miriam dropped my arm, her face glowing with perspiration.
It actually did feel good to yell. It would probably feel even better if I believed it.
“So that was weird,” I managed, dragging my and Ian’s suitcases over to the staircase. As soon as Miriam had dismissed me from the stage, Ian had jetted off, intent on seeing our rooms.
Rowan grinned. “You stood on a stage and yelled to a bunch of strangers about what a hero you are. What’s weird about that?”
I attempted to slug him, but the suitcases made it impossible.
Rowan grabbed one from me, shuffling it over to the stairs. “I’m going to run over to the mechanic shop, make sure Connor can have our car ready by morning. Can you believe Electric Picnic is tomorrow?”
“No.” I couldn’t believe it. Had the past few days dragged or flown? “I’ll stay here. It’s probably better if Connor and I don’t see each other again.”
He flashed me a smile. “Too bad. I was hoping to see Hero Maeve in action.”
“Ha ha.” I followed Ian up the stairs, the weight of the suitcases sending me bumping back and forth between the walls. Finally, I made it to the top, dropping everything into a heap.
“I can’t believe this.” I followed Ian’s voice through the doorway. The room’s ceiling was slanted, and two twin beds crowded the far wall, the fading light streaming in from a single octagon-shaped window.
Ian was writhing around on the nearest bed. “Which bed do you think Jared slept in? This one?”
“I have no idea,” I said, averting my eyes. Ian’s dedication to Titletrack bordered on embarrassing. I fled for the next room, taking way longer than was necessary to set up my suitcase next to the bed. Olive’s text was burning a hole in my pocket. I had to talk Ian. Now.
When I walked back in, Ian had switched to the other bed, his arms tucked under his head, a peaceful smile on his face. Was I really going to do this? I am the hero, I thought ruefully.
“Thanks for getting us here,” Ian said before I could open my mouth. “It really means a lot.
“Oh. Sure,” I said, lowering myself onto the other bed. “So, Ian, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Me too!” He rolled onto his stomach, reaching for his notebook. “I wanted to tell you that you should tell Mom about Cubby as soon as you possibly can. Maybe even before we get home. If you want, I could distract Archie and Walter at the airport while you tell her.”
“What?” I felt the bridge between us collapse in one fell swoop. Now he wasn’t just insisting that I tell her, but he was dictating the time and place, too?
He sat up. “I think you should tell Mom about Cubby before—”
“Ian, I heard you,” I said, falling against the closet door behind me. “But I’m not ready to tell Mom yet. Not that soon.”
He slammed his notebook shut. “But you said I was right about telling Mom. When we were at Torc Manor.”
“I said maybe you were right. I never said I was going to do it for sure.”
Ian jumped to his feet and began pacing furiously. “You have got to be kidding me. Addie! Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready. If I want to tell Mom, I’ll tell Mom.” And even though I knew it would cause an explosion, I couldn’t help but add the last part. “And besides, what happened with Cubby is none of your business.”
“None of my business?” He stopped in place, his eyes shining angrily. “Addie, I would be thrilled if that were actually the case, but we both know it isn’t true. It became my business the second I walked into the locker room.”
My throat tightened. The locker room. Any time I tried to conjure up the scene of Ian walking in, of my brother being the one to stop Cubby, my brain grabbed a thick set of curtains and slid them shut.
“How was I supposed to know Cubby would do that?” My mouth was dry.
He pointed at me. “Because I warned you about him. I told you he was bad news.” It was the same fight we’d been having all summer. It made me feel tired, right down to my bones. “Addie, for once, just listen to me. You can’t keep this a secret anymore. You have to tell Mom the first chance you get.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” I exploded, my heart hammering in my chest. “And who are you to talk about secrets, Indie Ian?”
I spat the name off my tongue, and his eyes hardened. “Don’t turn this on me.”
“Why not?” I opened my arms out wide, encompassing the room. “Secret Irish friend. Secret writing career. Secret college plans.” I needed to pause, reel it in, but I was too angry. I reached into my pocket and then thrust my phone in his face. “And this. What is this about?”
He yanked the phone from my hands, his posture deflating as he read Olive’s text. “How does she know?” he said quietly.
His words stopped me in my tracks, sending my brain spiraling. “Wait, are you saying it’s true? You got kicked off the team? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He tossed the phone onto the bed. “It was because of you, okay? I’m off the team because of you.”
No.
I backed out of the room, my hands shaking as a mountain formed in my chest, heavy and brand-new.
Now his voice was pleading. “Addie, I got kicked off the football team. Mom and Dad don’t know yet, but I can’t keep it a secret forever. You have tell Mom. You have to tell her about the photo, and about Cubby passing it—”
“Ian, stop!” I yelled, clamping my hands over my ears. My body spun around, and suddenly I was running, the steps rising up to meet me, Ian at my back.
I made it all the way down to the harbor before I slowed. My chest was heaving, the tears making it hard to breathe, and I fell heavily onto an iron bench, the cold slats pressing into my spine.
Here’s the thing that shouldn’t have happened this summer, not to me, not to anyone. After weeks of Cubby asking, I’d sent him a topless photo of myself. I hadn’t felt completely okay about it because one, all his joking about it had started to feel uncomfortably like pressure, and two, no matter how many times I swatted at Ian’s warning, it refused to stop buzzing in my head. I hear how he talks about girls. You don’t want to hang out with him.
But Cubby and I had been together all summer. Didn’t that mean I knew him better than Ian did? Didn’t that mean I could trust him? And besides, maybe this was how you went from secret late-night meet-ups to walking down the halls of your high school together. You took a leap of faith.
So I’d hit send. Even though my hands were shaking. Even though the buzzing in my head got even louder.
And then two days later, Ian had come home from football camp and all but thrown himself through my bedroom door, angry tears pooling in his eyes. You know what he’s been doing, right? He’s been showing everyone your photo. Why didn’t you listen to me?
I’d been too stunned to even ask what happened next, but now I knew. After Ian walked in on Cubby passing my photo around to the entire varsity team, he’d fought him. Of course he had. And then he’d gotten kicked off the football team. And the fact that I hadn’t meant to involve my brother—hadn’t meant to let my life spill over into his—didn’t matter, because that came with being family. Whether you wanted them to or not, your actions always affected the entire unit. I took a deep, shuddery breath. I needed to tell Ian why I hadn’t listened to him. The real reason. He deserved to know.
A few seconds later I heard his footsteps behind me, just like I knew I would. “Addie . . . ,” he started, but I whipped around, forcing the words out before they could retreat.
“Ian, do you know how hard it is to be your little sister?”
He froze, a searching expression moving over his face. “What do you mean? This summer excluded, I’ve always felt like we had a great friendship.”
“We have.” I shook my head, groping for the words as he slid onto the bench next to me. “What I mean is, do you know how hard it is to be Ian Bennett’s sister?”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re the star of our high school. Star of the football team. The star athlete in a house filled with star athletes.” My voice wavered, and I picked a spot in the ocean to stare at, steadying my gaze. “You’re good at school, and sports, and writing . . . and of course you were right about Cubby. You were completely right. And deep down I knew it all along.”
Ian dug his hands into his hair, his face confused. “Then why—”
I cut him off again. I really needed him to listen. “Ian, I was with Cubby this summer because I wanted someone to see me. Really see me. And not just in comparison to you three.” I took a deep breath. “I just wanted to be someone other than Bennett number four—the one who’s just mediocre.”
“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?”
“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.”