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.”
The Burren
Ah, the Burren. An Bhoireann. The place of stone. Arguably the most desolate, bleak, miserable excuse of a landscape that has ever graced God’s (mostly) green earth. An early admirer said, “There isn’t a tree to hang a man, water to drown a man, nor soil to bury a man.”
You’re going to love it.
But before this love affair begins, let’s start with a little Irish geography. Three hundred forty million years ago, the Emerald Isle looked a tad bit different than it does today. Not only were there no pubs or Irish preteens scouring Penneys department stores, but it was covered by water—a great big tropical ocean, in fact, that was absolutely teeming with life. Animals, fish, plants, you name it, all paddling around snapping at one another in certain barbaric bliss. But as every Disney movie has taught us, at some point those creatures had to die (usually horrifically and in front of their children), and as their bones gathered at the bottom of the ocean, an ancient primordial recipe was put into action, one that can be roughly summed up in the following equation:
bones + compression + millions of years = limestone
And that’s exactly what was formed. Limestone. Ten square miles of it, in fact. And once it was done with its stint as the ocean’s floor, that limestone came rising to the surface, forming the bleak, unique landscape your plucky little feet are standing on today. Which brings me to another equation, not entirely related but helpful all the same:
courage + time = healed heart
Spelled out that way, it all seems rather doable, doesn’t it, chickadee? I mean, the fact that you’ve somehow managed to get yourself to the Emerald Isle lets me know we’re all good on the courage bit. And as for the time bit? Well, that will come. Minute by minute, hour by hour, time will stretch and build and compress until one day you’ll find yourself standing on the surface of something newly risen and think, Huh. I did it.
You’ll do it, buttercup. You really will.
HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: See those wildflowers popping up from amongst the stone, pet? Don’t worry. I’m not going to make an overworked point about beauty in pain. But I do want you to pick a few of those, one for each of your people. And by “your people,” I mean the ones you can count on to stand by you as you wade through this. Put yourself in a circle of them and draw on their power. Be sure to pick one for me.
—Excerpt from Ireland for the Heartbroken: An Unconventional Guide to the Emerald Isle, third edition
“WHAT AM I LOOKING AT exactly?” I asked as Rowan eased into a sticky parking lot. The Burren was less landscape and more hostile takeover. At first it was subtle, a few flat rocks cropping up in the fields like gray lily pads, but slowly the proportions of stone to grass increased until gray choked out all the cheery green. By the time Rowan slowed to pull over, we were engulfed in cold, depressing rock. A sign read POULNABRONE.
Guidebook Lady had said the Burren was depressing, but this was over-the-top.
Ian pointed to a small, drab structure in the distance. He was already poised for takeoff, seat belt undone, notebook in hand. “The Poulnabrone is a tomb. It’s over two thousand years old.”
I squinted my eyes, turning the tomb into a gray blur. “A tomb? No one said anything about a tomb.”
Rowan slid the car into park, and Ian launched himself out the window feetfirst,
his notebook tucked securely under his arm. “See you there!” he called over his shoulder. His sneakers made wet squelching sounds as he sprinted toward the tomb.
Rowan whistled admiringly, keeping his eyes on my brother. He’d been quiet ever since I’d conceded defeat to the Titletrack plan. Ian had talked more, but he looked slightly uncomfortable, like he was wearing a shirt with a scratchy tag. Detecting Ian guilt was a subtle art; his natural energy made it difficult.
“He looks like one of those Jesus lizards. You know, the ones that move so fast, they can run on water?” Rowan said.
I heaved myself into the passenger seat. “Promise me you won’t tell him that. The last thing we need is for Ian to get a Jesus lizard complex.”
His dimple reappeared. “Promise.”
The parking lot was one large, sludgy puddle that seeped into my sneakers the second I hit the ground. A thin shroud of clouds covered the sun, erasing even the illusion of warmth, and I wrapped my bare arms around myself. Why had no one bothered to tell me that Ireland was the climatic equivalent of a walk-in freezer? Once I arrived in Italy, I planned to spend my first few hours there baking in the sun like a loaf of ciabatta bread. And talking to Lina.
Lina will know soon. A violent shiver worked its way down my spine.
“You cold?” Rowan asked, looking at me over the top of the car.
“What makes you think that?” I asked jokingly. My teeth were seconds from chattering.
“Maybe the fact that you’re shivering like a puppy in one of those animal cruelty commercials? You have those commercials in the States, right? For just sixty-three cents a day, you, too, can stop a blond girl from shivering. . . . They used to be on the television all the time.”
“Yep, we have those too.” Archie had a soft spot for animals, and when we were young, we used to wait for the commercials to come on so we could call him into the room and watch him tear up. Siblings can be a special kind of cruel. When my dad found out, he’d lectured us on the fact that we were being cruel about an animal cruelty commercial, and we’d all donated a month’s worth of our allowance to an animal rescue organization.
I plucked at my shorts. “When I packed, I was thinking about Italy, so all I brought were summer clothes. I didn’t realize that Ireland spends all its time in Arctic winter.”
“And you’re here on a good day. Give me a minute.” He ducked back into Clover, and I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. 9:03. I wanted to be at the airport by ten o’clock.
“Hey, Rowan, how long will it take us to get to the airport?” I asked.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Then we’d better keep this trip short. I don’t want to cut our time close.”
He reemerged, his hair slightly mussed. “Addie, what is this?”
For a second I thought he was talking about the navy-blue sweater he had wrapped around one arm, but then I realized he was holding something in his other hand too. The guidebook.
“Rowan, that’s mine!” I staggered toward him, a tidal wave of embarrassment washing over me.
He studied the cover. “Yeah, I know it’s yours. Is this the guidebook you were talking about? Why does it say it’s about heartbreak?”
“I need you to give that back.” I jumped up, and he let me snatch it from him. I pressed it to my side. “Why were you looking through my stuff anyway?”
“I was just trying to find you a sweater, and your book was under the seat. I thought it was one of mine.” He took a step closer. “But now you’ve got me curious.”
His eyes were puppy-dog soft, and I felt myself cave. And besides, explaining the guidebook didn’t mean I had to spill everything about my heartbreak. “I found this in the library of the hotel. It takes you to important sites in Ireland and then assigns you tasks to do while you’re there. It’s supposed to help you get over having your heart broken.”
“Do you think it would actually work?” The urgency in Rowan’s voice made my eyes snap up. He stared hungrily at the guidebook.
“Uh . . . I’m not really sure,” I said. “The writer is a little eccentric, but it seems like she knows her stuff. Who knows? Maybe it does work.”
“So you’re using the guidebook to help you get over Cubby?” he persisted.
Now he wanted to talk about Cubby too? I straightened up to shut him down, but he must have seen it coming because he quickly backpedaled. “Sorry. That was too personal. It’s just that I’ve, uh”—he shoved his glasses up, fidgeting with the rims—“I’ve actually been through a bit of heartbreak myself.” He met my eyes, and this time his gaze pleaded with me. “So if you’ve discovered some kind of magic guide for getting through it, please don’t hold out on me.”
The vulnerability in his eyes made my heart well up, and before I could talk myself out of it, I thrust the guidebook into his hands, the words spilling out of me: “Maybe you should try it out. There’s a homework assignment for the Burren, and I could help you if you want.” I always did this. Any time someone was in pain, I wanted to fix it immediately. “If you want, I’ll leave the book in the car for you. Maybe you could stop by the sites on the way to your music festival.”
He turned it over in his hands, slowly raising his eyes to mine. “Wow. That’s really nice of you.” He bit his lower lip. “Also, I’m really sorry about my part in keeping Ian from Italy. If I had known . . .”
I waved him off. “I’ll survive. And I really do need some quality time with Lina, so maybe it will be better if Ian isn’t there anyway.”
He nodded, then lifted the book eagerly, hope crossing his face. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to give the homework thing a shot.”
“Of course not. I don’t mind at all,” I said eagerly, my insides glowing the way they always did when I helped someone.
“Then I’ll see you out there. And here, for you.” He tossed me the navy sweater, and I quickly pulled it on. It smelled lightly of cigarette smoke and fell all the way to my knees, but it felt fantastic—like getting a hug the second before you realized you needed one. Now for the Heartache Homework. I turned and looked at the gray, bleak landscape.
Wildflowers. Right.
Lucky for me and my homework assignment, up-close Burren was very different from in-the-car Burren. For one thing, it had a lot more dimension. Yes, flat gray stones covered 90 percent of the ground, but grass and moss exploded up in the cracks between them, bright wildflowers popping up every chance they got.
I walked as far from the tomb as I dared, then collected a handful of flowers. Once I was positive that Ian’s back was turned, I placed them one by one in a circle, naming them as I went. “Mom, Dad, Walter, Archie, Ian, Lina, and Guidebook Lady,” I said aloud. Too bad only one of them even knew about my heartache.
Okay, Guidebook Lady. Now what? I pulled my arms into Rowan’s sweater and turned in a slow circle. How was surrounding myself with floral representations of “my people” supposed to make me feel better?
“How’s it going?” I looked up to see Rowan making his way over to me, his grasshopper-long legs carrying him from rock to rock.
“That was fast,” I said. “Did you read the Burren entry?”
“Yes. I’m a fast reader.” He stopped, remaining respectfully outside the circle. “Is it working?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I mostly just feel stupid.”
“Can I come in?” I nodded, and he stepped in, holding out a sunshine-yellow flower. “Here. I wanted to be one of your flowers.” He grimaced lightly. “Sorry. That sounded really sappy.”
“I thought it was nice,” I said, running my thumb over the silky-smooth petals. No guy had ever given me flowers before. Not even Cubby.
I placed Rowan’s flower next to Ian’s, then—because it felt like I should be doing something—I turned in a slow, self-conscious circle, focusing my attention on each flower, one by one.
When I was back to Rowan’s yellow flower, he looked at me expectantly. “So? Anything?”<
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“Hmm.” I touched my heart lightly. It didn’t hurt any less, but it actually did feel lighter, like someone had slipped their hands underneath mine to help me with the weight. “I actually do feel kind of different. You should try it.”
“Do I have to turn in a circle?” An embarrassed flush bloomed on his cheeks. “Or say their names or something?”
“I think you can do whatever you want. You want some time alone?”
“Yes,” he said resolutely. “I think I’d be better without an audience on this one.”
I stepped out of the circle and headed over to join Ian at the site. The tomb was about ten feet tall with several flat slabs of rock standing parallel to one another to form the walls, another resting on top to create a roof. Ian’s pencil scratched furiously across his notebook. What was there to even write about?
“So . . . this is cool,” I said, breaking the silence. “You said this is where Titletrack filmed their first music video?”
He didn’t look up from his notes. “Right where we’re standing. The quality was so bad. In some parts you can barely hear Jared singing, and the cameraman had a sneezing attack at minute two, but they still got a million views. The song’s that good.”
He dropped his notebook to his side and we stood quietly, the wind at our backs. The Burren felt solemn as a church, and just as heavy. Guidebook Lady’s words broadcasted through my mind. Courage + time = healed heart. Spelled out that way, it all seems rather doable, doesn’t it, chickadee?
That’s where Guidebook Lady was wrong, because it didn’t seem doable. Not at all. Especially not when Ian and I could barely talk to each other without spiraling into an argument. I glanced back at Rowan. He was still in the circle, his back to us.
“So you’re really not going to tell Mom about Cubby,” Ian said, reading my mind like normal. I hated the frustration in his voice—his disappointment always felt heavier than anyone else’s.
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