Love & Luck

by Jenna Evans Welch

  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.