Love & Luck(17)

Burren. Where had I heard that word before? You know where, buttercup, a little voice said. Guidebook Lady. Of course.

“Are you talking about the place of stone?” I asked.

He brightened, shoving his glasses up enthusiastically. “You’ve heard of it?”

“I read about it last night.” Ireland for the Heartbroken had a whole section on the Burren, right after the Cliffs of Moher entry. What were the odds that Ian’s first stop on his not-happening road trip was also in my heartbreak guide? My stance shifted. “You really think we’d make it on time?”

“Absolutely.” Rowan flashed me a friendly smile.

Ian made a strangled noise, then positioned himself between us. “Look, Rowan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but this is a bad idea.” And just in case Rowan didn’t get the point, he kept going. “A really bad idea. We need to stick to the original plan.”

“It is not a really bad idea,” I protested.

“But we would be following the original plan, just with a minor detour to the airport. It wouldn’t put us behind at all.” Rowan’s voice was slow with uncertainty, his eyebrows bent. He didn’t have to say it for us to hear it: Why are you being such a jerk about this?

Ian’s shoulders sagged, and his right hand disappeared nervously into his hair. “But . . . there’s a lot of stuff in your car. Where would she sit?”

“Easy. She’s a little yoke. We’ll make room.” A little yoke? Rowan lifted his chin up to me. “You don’t mind a tight squeeze for an hour or so, do you?”

I leaned over to look through the back window. Ian wasn’t exaggerating. Not only did the car have the tiniest back seat in existence, but it was packed full the way Archie’s and Walter’s cars were whenever they left to start a new semester at college. A jumble of clothes, books, and toiletries. For once, being tiny was going to pay off. “I can make it work.”

Ian shifted back and forth between his feet, absentmindedly strumming the zipper on his jacket. He was torn. No matter what he said, he didn’t feel okay about abandoning me at the hotel. The big brother was too strong in him. I was going to have to use it to my advantage.

“Look, it makes sense.” Rowan held out the cereal box to Ian, but he waved it off. “What you guys need is some time to get used to this idea. Going to the Burren will give us that time. ”

“This is a bad idea,” Ian repeated.

“You already said that.” Two scenarios played through my head. Best case, I used the extra time to talk some sense into Ian. Worst case, I saw another guidebook site, and maybe got one step closer to healing my broken heart—that is, if Guidebook Lady knew what she was talking about—before continuing on to Italy alone. My mental Magic 8 Ball tumbled out an answer: All signs point to yes.

I took an authoritative step toward Rowan. “I need you to give me the keys.”

“Do not give them to her,” Ian ordered.

One of Rowan’s eyebrows lifted, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I have to go get my suitcase. And I need insurance that you aren’t just going to leave while I’m gone.”

“Rowan . . . ,” Ian warned.

Rowan nodded thoughtfully and threw them to me in one smooth motion, his grin still playing on his face. His smiles felt like a payday. “Sorry, Ian. She’s right: I wouldn’t leave us alone in the parking lot either. And I’m a sucker for a well-thought-out argument.”

Victory.

Ian shook his hair into his face and crossed his arms tightly. “Addison Jane Bennett, if you are not back down here in five minutes, I will come looking for you.”

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.