CHAPTER 7
Kieran’s clothes are in the trash can the next morning. Another one hundred euros sits next to my bed. My sleep was restless, and my body is tired today. When I hear someone stirring about, I get up, hoping it’s Kieran, hoping he isn’t going to disappear on me again. But disappointment is all I find.
His bedroom door is open, bed made, like he didn’t even sleep in it. The broken frame and picture sit covered in ash in the fireplace, shattered glass everywhere.
This time I’m fully dressed when I greet Siobhan.
A full scowl sits on her face when she finds me coming from my bedroom into the living room. For a time this morning, as I was waking from my light sleep, I allowed myself to think I just dreamed all of this, but like my purple hair . . . it’s permanent.
“Good morning,” I say warmly, trying to act calmly. “You look lovely today. Lovely. My friend Stephen likes that word. It’s a good word, isn’t it?” Siobhan is dressed in a tight gray shirt, black skinny jeans, and pale-blue T-strap high heels, her tattoos and pregnancy on display. She groans audibly.
My hair is a mess of tangles, my head still groggy. I wanted to see Kieran this morning, but right now there’s still an opportunity to right myself with Siobhan. I move closer to her, running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to tame it, though I’m pretty sure I only make the mess worse.
“Can I make you some tea? Everyone seems to drink tea here. It’s . . . lovely.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me with a response, but opens the closet. I’m repeating words like an idiot, my composure slipping away.
“Or maybe some breakfast,” I say. “Do you like French toast? I like broccoli more than green beans. And romance novels over thrillers. I’d take sex over guns any day.” When I realize that doesn’t help my cause, I curse my slow brain. “Not that I’m obsessed with sex or anything.” My pulse beats in my ears.
Siobhan closes the closet, putting on a raincoat.
“What kind of books do you like?” I say. “Oh . . . wait . . . you’re more a magazine kind of girl, aren’t you? I saw a few in your room.”
Siobhan holds on to the door handle tightly.
“You went in my room.” It’s a curt statement. “Was that when you stole my hair dye?”
“I’m sorry . . .” At any second she’s going to walk out, and I won’t have explained anything. But where to start? Why couldn’t it have been Kieran I found this morning?
I try another tactic. “I like your shoes. I’m impressed you can even walk in them.”
Siobhan responds, bitingly. “What are you implying?”
Why does everything come out wrong with her? Why can’t my head clear this morning? “I just mean they’re really high, and it’s impressive in your current state.” I gesture to her belly. Judging by her sour expression, Siobhan doesn’t appreciate my statement. “I’m not saying this right.”
“My current state is none of your business,” Siobhan says. “My room is none of your business. Our lives are none of your business. Stay away from me. Stay away from Kieran.” She pauses. “Also, you look like a drunk Muppet with that haircut.”
The door slams in my face before I’ve spoken a word about last night. All I’ve managed to do is insult Siobhan.
I’m alone once more.
French toast doesn’t cheer me up. Neither does a shower. Neither does cleaning the kitchen and baking another batch of sugar cookies. Though after three cups of caffeinated tea, my head is feeling more centered.
I sweep up the broken glass and the picture frame, tossing the remains in the garbage. But when it comes to throwing out the picture like Kieran said to do, I can’t. He doesn’t know how precious memories are. How hard he should hold on to them. He may not want it right now, but he will at some point. That’s how memories work. Even the bad ones. Without them, how do we know what feels good? I decide I’ll hold on to the picture in my notebook for safekeeping. It’s the least I can do.
The morning light doesn’t help my haircut. While I like the color, Siobhan is right—the cut is atrocious. I’m not sure what a drunk Muppet looks like, but judging by my appearance and her disdain, it’s not good. The image of her face as she glared at me on top of Kieran last night comes back in a wave of nausea. Why didn’t I explain myself then? My head was just so cloudy in the moment. Same with this morning. Siobhan makes me nervous, jumbled. I’ve been spoiled with Stephen and Kieran, both of them easy to like and easy to talk to, but Siobhan is my reminder that not everyone is here to help. Some people would rather push you down.
She could barely look at me this morning. I’m just a bloodsucking Yankee leech and a liar to her. And she might be right, but not about last night. Last night was just a string of bad incidents. If she would just let me explain, I could change her mind about me.
I can’t stew over it in the cottage all day. I’ll go mad. Two cars sit in the driveway, so wherever Siobhan went, she must have walked in her high heels. If I find her and force her to listen to me, I can fix what happened last night. I wasn’t trying to seduce Kieran. I was trying to help. It was just a big mistake.
One small problem stands in my way—I have no idea where she went. But as Kieran said, a person can’t get lost in Waterville. All I need to do is look. There must be a clue somewhere in the cottage—a calendar or a datebook. For such a fine house, the place isn’t laden with technology—no computers of any sort, no TV. People come here to escape the world. The lack of connections is a relief. I’m not tempted to turn on the television to watch news reports or search myself on the internet. After seeing myself on the covers of the tabloids yesterday and the disconnected feeling I had about my own face, the internet might put me over the edge.
Siobhan said to stay out of her business, and while it isn’t completely lost on me that snooping in her room probably isn’t a good idea, the risk will bear greater rewards when I find her and explain.
I’m not sure what I’m searching for as I go through her closet and the items on her dresser. I’m no good at finding my own memories, let alone someone who clearly doesn’t want to be found.
Nothing pops out at me, and my caffeine buzz is wearing off. I sit in the kitchen with my fourth cup of tea, thinking and trying hard not to relive last night. Even in Kieran’s drunken state, he was charming, a sharp contrast to Siobhan, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how hot my cheeks were when I touched him. But when he broke the picture, the expression on his face was so sad, such a contrast to how I’ve seen him, even in the little time I’ve known him. Recalling Siobhan’s words, though, squashes my intrigue—their lives are none of my business. She made that clear.
I banish the night from my mind and go back to my tea, when a magnet on the fridge catches my eye, its skull-and-crossbones design unique, dark—exactly like Siobhan.
THE SECRET BOOK AND RECORD STORE
248 SEAVIEW TERRACE
WATERVILLE, COUNTY KERRY, IRELAND
The sun seems to shine a bit brighter through the windows. My day may just improve. I write down the address listed on the magnet. While Siobhan could be anywhere in town, somewhere she’s been before sounds like a good place to start. Maybe while I’m in town, I’ll get a proper haircut.
Outside, the air is a bit warmer than it was yesterday. New buses full of tourists have unloaded in town, filling the quaint streets of Waterville with bustling energy. I stay along the beach, avoiding the crowds.
I stop only for a short time to search in the sand for sea glass—a peace offering of sorts for Siobhan, to show her that I’m not just here to take from her and Kieran. I may not have money, but I can offer friendship if she’ll let me.
I search for a while down at the shore, where the waves are lapping only lightly today. A red piece of glass grabs my attention. Among all the gray, it’s colorful. With it in my pocket and a place to start looking, I head into town.
The Secret Book and Record Store is harder to find, which isn’t surprising, given the name. I walk past it a few times before a small blue door catches my eye. The address is barely visible, and no name is displayed on the outside. A poster reads, “Freaks, Sinners, Faeries, and Zombies, please proceed downstairs. Tourists, be gone!”
The yellow door directly next to the blue one is for Sheppard’s Hairdressing. A sign in front on the sidewalk advertises the daily deal: “Haircuts, 20 Euros—Mind Reading, Free.”
I take it as an omen—the two things I need. Today might be a success after all.
I push back the blue door quietly. The hallway is a bit dark. Steep stairs lead down into the basement of the building, which smells like old books, cardboard, and incense. At the bottom, bookshelves line a large room along with filled record bins. A man, probably in his midtwenties, sits behind the checkout counter sporting a black Mohawk that’s at least four inches high. He glances up and eyes my purple hair, not a flash of recognition on his face. He goes back to intently reading a book. This store has none of the Irish charm of Waterville. No melodic Irish music with flutes and harps, no thick wool sweaters or Celtic crosses on the walls. But there’s something comforting seeing this. It’s out of place . . . just like me.
“Hi,” I say to the man behind the counter. “Is Siobhan here?”
The guy gestures toward the back of the store, where wild clothes and costumes are on display. He doesn’t linger on my face. Another good sign.
There’s an entire section of wigs, hats, fishnets, vintage dresses, polyester suits, and sunglasses in retro styles. I make my way to the back of the store, acting casual, but feeling anything but, unsure of how Siobhan will react when she sees me, and also pretty confident I’m in for a fight.
This place is like the world’s best dress-up bin. I try on an orange curly-haired wig and a pair of large round diamond-studded sunglasses that take up half my face. A stand with multicolored boas is next to the sunglasses. I wrap a blue one around my neck.
“Consider buying the wig. It’s an upgrade from your current do.” I turn promptly and see Siobhan.
“Found you,” I say, hoping to sound chipper.
“That implies that I wanted to be found. Which I made clear I didn’t. You can go away now.” Siobhan walks over to a rack of dresses and starts organizing them.
I follow close behind her. “What do you think of the sunglasses? I kind of like them, but I need a girl’s opinion.”
“Are you hard of hearing?” Siobhan moves around the rack, keeping her distance from me and her eyes on the dresses.
“No . . . I don’t think so.”
“Again. You’re missing my sarcasm, Yank. Now, get out of this store.”
“Are you being sarcastic again?” I smile.
“No,” Siobhan states clearly. She walks to the front of the store and behind the counter to organize a display of bubblegum and glow-in-the-dark condoms.
The guy with the Mohawk looks up at us. I lean on the counter and watch Siobhan, waiting, still wearing the wig, sunglasses, and boa. Being covered up so much escalates my confidence level. When Siobhan won’t focus on me, I turn toward the Mohawk guy.
“What do you think of the sunglasses?”
“Totally wicked. Very glam-punk.”
“Thanks,” I say kindly. His brown eyes crinkle around the edges, making his face soften under his spiky hair. He reminds me of a punked-out Stephen, which is a comfort. “So what’s the book about?”
He opens his mouth to answer me, but Siobhan cuts him off. “Are you going to tell Clive that you’re addicted to sex?”
“What?” he says.
“Purple People Eater, here, is addicted to sex.” Siobhan’s voice is curt. “Though based on what I saw last night, she’s not very good at it. Clumsy, really.”
“All I said was that I like romance novels,” I clarify.
“You’re American,” Clive says. He turns toward Siobhan. “Is this the wretched, slutty Yank you were talking about?”
“Is that how you described me?” I glare at Siobhan.
“You’re the one who’s addicted to sex, Abby Cadabby,” Siobhan says callously. “I saw it with my own eyes, Clive.”
I walk over to Siobhan and say, strongly, “I can explain that.”
“I don’t need the details. I saw plenty.” She turns to Clive. “Her knickers are dreadful. Huge, ugly things.”
Clive hollers over to us. “So where are you from in America?”
“Cleveland,” I say, distracted by how badly this is going.
“Is that by Disney World? I’ve always wanted to go there. Do you happen to know George Clooney?”
“It’s in Ohio. On Lake Erie.” I rattle off the only information I know about Cleveland, then follow Siobhan to the back of the store again.
She stops in the used CD section.
“Please, let me explain what you saw last night.”
“I don’t need a play-by-play. Now go away.”
I know I should just do as she asks. I’m being desperate, and this isn’t helping my cause. But my whole life is desperate right now. Siobhan needs to know the truth. To like me. It would make staying here less . . . lonely.
I take the sea glass out of my pocket and hold it out to her.
“I found this on my walk over here. I thought you might like it. You can add it to your collection.”
Siobhan eyes the red glass but doesn’t move.
“Maybe we can be friends?” I offer.
“Friends? Why?”
I shrug. “Honestly, because I don’t know anyone here, and I’m lonely.”
Siobhan thinks I’m a liar, so maybe offering her this bit of honesty might crack her hard exterior. I am lonely. The only person I know, Stephen, I ran away from. And Kieran is nowhere to be seen. If he remembers last night at all, he might even be hiding from me.
Siobhan digs in a bin and pulls out two CDs. “This is me.” She shoves a CD in my face. On the cover, a woman wears head-to-toe black, even her wild hair is black, and she’s clutching an electric guitar—Joan Jett. “And this is you.” This CD’s cover has a woman in a flowing white dress and soft curls—Celine Dion. “Get used to being lonely, Yank. We all end up that way in the end.”
Siobhan disappears into the back of the store, never taking the sea glass. Defeated, I walk to the register, putting the wig and boa back where I found them, but prepared to buy the sunglasses. It’s the least I can do. This was a bust with Siobhan. Not only didn’t I explain myself, but I’m pretty sure I made our relationship worse.
“I’ll take these,” I say to Clive, who’s giving me a pained expression, like I’m pathetic.
“I love your hair,” he says as he rings me up. “The unkempt style is totally in. And the glasses really do look gorgeous on you.”
“Thanks, Clive.”
“Your name’s Jane, right?” I nod, and Clive’s face brightens. “It’s a sign.”
“Take it from me—not all signs point you in the right direction.” I feel the sea glass in my pocket.
Clive leans over the counter and turns his book, Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978–1984. Hiding inside is another book, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. “I love romance novels, too,” he whispers. “Have you read Austen?”
I shake my head. If I have, I don’t remember anyway.
“Bloody fantastic.” Clive fans himself. “People love Mr. Darcy, but most people are idiots. Colonel Brandon puts him to shame. Totally swoonworthy.” Clive takes the money for the glasses. “By the way, I’ve seen Celine Dion in concert twice in Dublin. Bloody brilliant.”
“Really?”
Clive glances in the direction Siobhan disappeared. “Don’t give up on her. She’ll come round. She called me a punk poser once and told me David Bowie would be ashamed of hanging on the walls in this place. I almost fired her, but I kind of loved her more for it.”
“Have you known Siobhan for a while?”
“Years. I make it a point to know everyone in town. Makes life . . . friendlier.”
“I wish Siobhan shared your sentiment.”
He leans over the counter closer to me. “If you push people away, they can’t hurt you.”
“But I don’t want to hurt her,” I whisper back. “I just want to get to know her.”
“I think she’s already been hurt enough. Some risks are just too big.” Clive hands me the sunglasses. “Did she really find you half-naked, trying to shift Kieran?”
“Shift?” I ask. He demonstrates kissing. “No! I wasn’t trying to . . . shift anyone. It was just a mistake.”
“You’ll get no judgment from me. I wouldn’t mind a bit of a shift with Kieran.”
When he says that, an idea dawns on me.
“So you know everyone in town?” I ask. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Kieran is today, would you?”
He hands me my change. “He’s working at Paudie’s.”
I remember Kieran’s hat. “The pub?”
Clive nods and winks.
“Thanks, Clive. I’m really glad I met you today.”
“Same here.” He offers me a kind look. “Just don’t tell anyone about my Jane Austen obsession. I have a reputation to protect.”
“I guess we all have something to hide.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Jane Austen,” Clive says, “it’s that if we told the truth all the time, there would be no stories worth telling.”
As I walk up the basement stairs, I hear him sing at the top of his lungs. Siobhan yells from the back of the store. “Seriously? The song from Titanic? Shut the hell up, Clive! You’re a disgrace to everyone with a Mohawk!” But he only gets louder.
Outside, I take the door next to the blue one. Clive may think the messy look is in, but even though it pains me to admit Siobhan is right about one aspect of myself, my hair needs help. Inside the salon, two older women notice me and simultaneously say, “You’re here for a haircut.”
The sign wasn’t lying. I better control my thoughts, or I’ll be back in Limerick before the night is through.