by Jill Cox
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
For Susan Cordre
who asked what happened next
ONE
I’m not one to court controversy, but FYI, fairy tales are lies.
I know, I know. Society perpetuates these time-honored constructs in order to make children behave, but as much as I respect manners, I’ve never been a princess kind of girl. Not unless the princess was Leia. And definitely not when it involved ball gowns.
Take Cinderella, for example. Why do we assume she was unhappy among her little birdie friends? Most charming princes are lazy dullards who would friend zone you in two seconds flat. You expect me to believe her future was brighter with some airheaded loser? Um, no.
And what about that evil villain trope? Flip the lens on any given tale, and the narrative changes entirely. For example, what if Pete’s ex-girlfriend Meg Green were telling this story?
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of the Upper West Side, a princess with hair the color of night huddled in her ivory tower. Day after day, she wept, wondering how Scaredith Dullivan, the red-haired Pirate Queen of the Pacific, had stolen the heart of Pyotr Petrovich Romanoff Russell.
See what I mean? In Princess Meg’s world, I am the Big Bad.
No, I never believed in fairy tales. Never, that is, until Pete Russell, the charming Grand Duke of Saint Petersburg, addled my sensible brain with a heavy dose of Happily Ever After.
Which is how I ended up outside the ladies’ room in McGann’s Pub wearing a black leotard, black tights, and an emerald-green tutu. A fountain of fake auburn curls spilled from the crown of my head like a Christmas present topper, and on my feet, fiberglass shoes glittered in the darkness. He didn’t know it yet, but my new boyfriend was in for the surprise of his life. Because despite his best efforts, Pete Russell hadn’t cornered the market on epic romantic gestures.
Two could play at that game.
As I waited in the shadows, my eyes kept drifting to a couple in a nearby booth. The guy – a hipster with spiky black hair and steel-toed boots – stared moonily at his brunette lass, his fingers lost in her natural curls like they had nowhere better to rest.
Bonus? The two of them wore matching vintage t-shirts of an Irish band called the Pogues. I could only see the guy’s shirt fully – Curly Sue was wearing a leather jacket over hers – but I recognized the album cover from Ian’s “Music of the Motherland” phase back in high school. The boxer on the cover had PEACE written on his right fist and LOVE written on his left, which meant the graphic designer had inserted an additional finger just to make it work.
Or did the boxer actually have six fingers? Twelve-year-old Meredith never dared to find out. Peace Love Pogues, indeed.
“Hey, look,” I nodded toward the couple as Ian rejoined me in the darkened hallway. “I’ve found some of your people. You know, Pogues maniacs.”
“You’re hilarious,” he scoffed as he followed my gaze to the smoochy couple. “The bartender just cued up your song. You sure you want to do this?”
“No.” I waved my hands under my armpits. “Remind me again why I’m here?”
“Because some frat boy keeps asking you to Riverdance for him,” Ian smirked. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Fee.”
It was true. The day after we’d arrived in Ireland, while Pete and I were putzing around the Doolin shops, he’d discovered a pair of black jig shoes with fiberglass tips – the same brand I’d used in my Irish dance competition days. The next afternoon, I’d found the shoes in our beach bag. The morning after that, they’d shown up in place of my cereal bowl. Next thing I knew, they had emerald green ribbons instead of laces and their very own Instagram account, like the Where’s Waldo of footwear.
And because I’m not actually a fairy-tale villain, I hatched a little plan for my new boyfriend’s twenty-third birthday. While Pete and my brother drove another truckload of Nana’s stuff to a charity shop, Kate and I had scoured every shop near Doolin to piece together my outfit. And on our way home, we’d stopped by McGann’s Pub to enlist the manager’s help.
“These are disgusting, you know.” Ian flicked the oversized mass of curls atop my head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But then his expression softened. “Listen, Fee,” he said quietly. “I wanted to thank you for hanging out with Kate this morning. It meant a lot to her.”
“No worries, mate.” I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms. “After thirteen rainy days cooped up in that house, a sunny drive in a fancy rented convertible was all the incentive I needed.”
Ian quirked an eyebrow at me. “And here I was thinking you did it for the greater good.”
“Greater good? Ha. I think I’ve got whiplash. She nearly drove us off the road three times.”
“That’s because she’s American and she’s never driven on this side of the road before. Cut her some slack, would you?”
Over the years, I’d learned never to form an attachment to my brother’s lady friends. Unlike me, when Ian jumped into love, he jumped headfirst at full speed. And even though this was the first time he’d ever brought a girlfriend on a family trip, at the end of the day, Ian Sullivan was a nomad. I mean, yes, they both worked for Greg’s Guidebooks and Ian was a giant puppy whenever Kate was around. But there was no way Boho Barbie would still be in his orbit by the end of the summer. My job was to ride the wave without committing Barbicide.
Ian patted my hairpiece again, tugging at one of the curls. “Good luck,” he grinned. “Don’t trip up like you did this spring when you performed this dance for Dad.”
“Hey! Take that back! I did not trip.”
“Oh, right. You face-planted into the sofa on purpose.” And with that, he vanished.
I watched from the shadows as Ian drew both Kate and Pete’s attention away from my side of the pub. I couldn’t see his face, but from the droop in Pete’s shoulders, I could tell he felt responsible for the “fight” Ian and I had manufactured twenty minutes earlier. When he’d asked what time we’d need to get up the next morning to catch the Aran Islands ferry for what he thought was his birthday outing, Ian and I had put on the best performance of our lives.
Stop dictating every second of every day, Fee.
I would, but I’m too busy trying to undo the train wreck you call a plan, Ian.
And so on and so on, until I’d marched myself out of the pub with Ian hot on my heels, clutching Pete’s “gift” bag to my chest.
&nb
sp; After all, it did hold his gift. Just not in the way he suspected.
I slipped on a pair of fake Ray Bans and stepped onto the makeshift stage near the front of the pub. It wasn’t so much a stage as an alcove kept clear at all times just in case a local band dropped in for a live session. Positioning myself in my opening pose, I glanced once again at the Pogues couple over in the corner booth: still snogging, still googly-eyed, and so oblivious to the insanity headed their way.
The techno-beat intro of Psy’s Gangnam Style spilled out from the speakers, and suddenly every patron, including the snoggers, turned to find me illuminated on the stage. For the first two eight-counts of the song, I stood like a statue while purple and green spotlights alternated over my head as the crowd bobbed up and down in their seats.
The instant Psy began his rap, my feet flew into action. The thump of my fiberglass tips carried above the music, and even though it had been three years since I’d regularly rehearsed this championship dance, I remembered every single step, as though no time at all had passed. By the second part of the first verse, the entire bar was clapping along. And when the chorus began, nearly every person in the bar jumped to their feet and began the pony-like lasso dance the whole world had learned back in the day.
And there, in the center of it all, as though a halo surrounded his birthday self, Pete Russell beamed so brightly in my direction that I almost forgot my award-winning steps.
Almost.
My dance only lasted the first hundred seconds of the song, a fact that Ian knew well. Half a beat after my final step, he grabbed Kate and pulled her out to the center of the floor. A few patrons joined them, and seconds later, the room filled with people bouncing up and down – half of them drunk on life, the other half on Guinness. Even the snogging couple.
And absolutely no one cared that we’d all gone a little bit mad.
A hand wrapped around my waist from behind. Then another hand spun me around, and Pete’s face appeared before me, his dark eyes dancing despite his expressionless face.
“Hey,” I laughed between heaving breaths. “Congratulations. You finally got your wish.”
“I did, didn’t I?” A smile crept onto his lips. “I never thought you’d give in so easily.”
“Easily?” I stepped closer to him, my head tilted back to meet his gaze. “You’ve only asked me to dance for you three hundred and seven times since we landed two weeks ago.”
“Three hundred and eight.” He pushed a rogue curl away from my forehead. “Do you have any idea how much I love you, Sully?”
I sucked in a breath, blinking like a fool. Sixty-four days ago, Pete had kissed me on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. And every day since, I’d waited for him to tell me he loved me. Leave it to Pete to low-key the crucial moment.
“What?” The lines near his eyes deepened. “Why are you frowning at me?”
“That’s the first time you’ve told me that you love me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Uh, yes. It is.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Did you rattle your brain hopping around out here? We threw a padlock into the Seine together. You’re wearing the key around your neck.”
“I know that.” I lifted my hand to the key. “But you’ve never said those three words in that particular order. I think I would remember something as important as that.”
He pulled me closer still, curving himself around me so that the two of us had our own cocoon at the center of the madness. Our eyes locked as we swayed together in our own little world, right there in the middle of the crowd.
“Okay, fine,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. “If you’re correct – if it’s true that I’ve never said those three words in that particular order – then this moment is historical. Because I’ve never said those words to anyone. At least, not anyone outside my own family.”
“No one?” I blinked up at him as my mind whirred through everything I thought I knew. Pete and Meg Green had been so cozy in Paris that I’d spent half my days trying to avoid them. And what about his Ducky Shincrackers teammates? I’d spent every minute we’d watched those DVDs together last spring deciphering even the tiniest glance between Pete and his swing-dancing partners.
And, ugh. Don’t even get me started on the nebulous back story with Brooks Darby. Neighbor girls who drove you to school once upon a time do not show up to your grandmother’s wake looking like she did without a secret agenda.
Pete smiled, as though he could read my crazy thoughts, then leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine. “No one, Sully. You’re the only girl for me.”
“Yeah?” I said, the word whooshing out of me in a breathless whisper. “Say it again.”
He kissed me and said, “I love you, Meredith.”
“Oh, man,” I sighed. “I totally love you back.”
The music on the loudspeaker transitioned to some Spice Girls song from the nineties, and I could hear people shuffling back to their seats, but there we swayed like it was prom night and we were the king and queen of the world.
But just as the chorus began, a low rumble vibrated through Pete’s chest, and he burst out laughing like a little kid, sputtering so hard I thought his ribs might split apart.
“What’s so funny?”
“You! Every time I set you up, you walk right into the rabbit hole, exactly as planned.”
I pulled away, scowling. “What do you mean?”
Mischief danced in Pete’s eyes as he grabbed my sunglasses from my hand and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “Your brother and I tricked you, mate. This whole let’s surprise Pete with a Riverdance for his birthday? I bet him fifty bucks he couldn’t make it happen.”
“You’re not normal,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “There was no need to rope my brother into your gambling addiction. All you had to do was ask me nicely, with a side of serious so I knew you meant it.”
“Aw, Sully,” he grinned, yanking me toward him by the tutu. “Where’s the fun in that?”
TWO
When my dad had his heart attack in March, my mom’s summer plans to prep Nana’s cottage for sale went up in smoke. So Ian came up with his own plan: the Sullivan siblings would make themselves useful and sort through the rubble ourselves. Only it wasn’t rubble – the cottage was pristine. The only real problem we had was winnowing down Nana’s treasures to one suitcase.
Somewhere along the way, Ian had invited Kate. And then Pete joined in on the fun.
“Morning, lazy bones,” Ian chirped from his usual place at the skillet the morning after my performance at McGann’s Pub. “Thanks for finally gracing us with your presence.”
“What do you mean, finally? It’s only six forty-five.”
“Already?” He turned from the stove to shove a plateful of bacon at me. “Eat fast, okay? We’re going to be late.”
Kate grinned moonily at my brother from the head of the table where she was ladling what looked like bluish-green sludge into a bowl. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ve got loads of time.”
Pete caught my eye as he handed me a mug of black coffee. The two of us hated the way Kate talked to Ian. To be fair, I didn’t love it when anyone called their significant other baby. But when Kate did it, I wanted to shave her eyebrows off her face.
I took a seat and offered my brother’s girlfriend the plate in my hand. “Bacon?”
Her nose crinkled. “No, thank you. I’ve got plenty of food right here.”
“Suit yourself.” I piled five slices of bacon onto my own plate. “Your breakfast looks… interesting. What is it?”
“Spirulina smoothie bowl,” Kate answered, her Texas drawl making an appearance on that last word. “Plus some blueberries, chia seeds, honey, and bee pollen for extra energy. Would you like to try it?”
“Uh… isn’t spirulina a fancy name for pond scum?”
Kate frowned at me and went back to decorating her breakfast bowl for her morning, and a few moments later, she uploaded a photo to her Inst
agram with the hashtags BrekkieByBae and WOMP.
For the first few days in Ireland, I’d assumed she was making fun of Ian’s chef skills with that second hashtag. Then I figured out that WOMP was an acronym for What’s On My Plate.
Sigh. I missed the Addison girls. Harper, Anne, and Kelly never took pictures of their food. Not once in the nine months I’d known them. And since when are Texans so… I don’t know. West Coast, I guess? I thought Texans ate red meat and potatoes at every meal.
The rain and wind had been so out of control on the west coast of Ireland that the Aran Islands ferry service had been shuttered since Pete and I had arrived two weeks ago. Even the day before, when the sun shone so brightly that I’d had to wear sunscreen, the winds were still too high for safe passage across Galway Bay. But the box office employee had assured my brother we could make the crossing to the far island of Inishmore this morning, and as we boarded the boat known as the Gráinne O’Malley, I felt like the four of us might be in for the best day ever.
A boat named after a redheaded lady pirate who led her country in the fight against the English crown? Yes, please. I needed all the girl boss solidarity I could get these days.
Ninety minutes later, when we disembarked the ferry, Ian insisted that we hire a horse-drawn carriage to the Dún Aonghasa historical site. Romantic, right? Um, no. Crammed together with waifish Kate in the middle of a buggy seat while Pete and Ian scrambled for purchase in the remaining square footage is the exact opposite of romantic. But for once Kate’s sludge consumption played in my favor.
As the guys helped us down from the carriage, I saw my brother shoot Pete a meaningful look. Next thing I knew, Ian handed my boyfriend his most prized camera. “Take it,” he said as he tugged off his fleece to reveal a vintage Kiss Me I’m Irish t-shirt. “I haven’t forgotten the candid shots on your wall from this spring. Let’s see what you capture up here.”
“Really?” Pete beamed. “Thanks, man. I won’t let you down.”
By the time Pete had hung the camera around his neck and readjusted the strap fourteen different ways, Ian and Kate were a hundred meters ahead of us on the hike up the hill. I lifted an eyebrow to Pete. “Are you finished yet?”