Love & Luck(21)

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.

—Ian

Was he serious? I heaved myself forward again, thrusting the paper under Ian’s nose. “This was your note? Your big explanation? This doesn’t even look like your handwriting! I would have thought you were kidnapped!”

Ian startled, like he’d forgotten I was back there. He probably had. He snatched the note from me. “I was going for brevity.”

“Nailed it,” I said.

“Let me see it.” Rowan took the note and read it aloud, his musical voice making it sound even more cryptic. “Wow, that is bad.”

Ian grabbed the paper, stuffing it into his backpack. “I wanted it to be like in war movies where people only have the information they need. That way, when they get captured by the enemy, they can’t have the information tortured out of them.”

“Tortured out of them?” I said incredulously.

He hunched his shoulders sheepishly. “You know what I mean. I just thought it would be better for you if you didn’t have all the facts.”

“I still don’t have all the facts.” I yanked at my right leg, managing to free it from the crevice. If Ian wouldn’t tell me what was going on, maybe Rowan would. I fixed my eyes on the back of his neck. His hair was slightly longer at the nape.

“So who are you exactly?” I asked, using my friendliest Catarina-approved voice. She was big on curiosity as a means of persuasion. Start by acting interested.

I don’t know if it was my question or sparkly tone, but his eyes flicked toward me warily. “Rowan. We met back at the hotel? You told me my bumper was sagging?”

“That sounds dirty,” Ian said.

“It was your tailpipe,” I wailed, dropping the act. “Never mind. That part doesn’t matter. What I want to know is why you”—I pointed at him—“clearly Irish, and my brother”—I pointed at Ian—“clearly American, are acting like best friends. And don’t just say ‘online’ again. People who only know each other online don’t complete each other’s sentences.”

“Isn’t this a violation of the terms and conditions?” Rowan asked, calling upon what Ian had said earlier. Ian gave him a smirk equivalent to a fist bump.

“True, it is a clear violation . . . ,” I started, but I paused to think. What I needed was a cohesive argument. It had worked before in persuading Rowan to give me the keys. “Rowan, the thing is that I’m much more likely to be supportive of Ian’s plans if I know what is going on.”

“Riiiiight,” Ian said, dragging out the word.

“I am,” I insisted. “I didn’t come with you on your first stop just so I could sit back here listening to you guys dissect the music industry.” Saying “first stop” felt like a dangerous concession. It suggested the possibility of the road trip.

Rowan took both hands off the wheel to adjust his glasses. “She’s right. This is why she’s came with us in the first place—to give her some time to get used to the idea.”

Or talk you out of the idea, I added silently.

“Fine. Fall for her evil tactics. But don’t come crying to me when she makes your life a living hell.” Ian fell into a heap against his window. I’d always thought he’d missed his calling by not signing up for drama club.

Rowan lifted his chin curiously in the rearview mirror.

I shrugged. “By all means, continue. I’ll let you know when my evil tactics kick in.”

His dimple winked at me. “Right. Well, Ian and I talk a lot. Like most days. And we’ve known each other since last summer. Well, I guess ‘known’ isn’t quite the right word, is it?” No comment from Ian. Rowan continued nervously. “At first I was just familiar with his work. I read his first series of articles, and we started e-mailing from there. And then—”

“You read his first series of what?” I interrupted.

Ian made a barely audible groan, and Rowan’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I was under the impression that you two had met? Addie, meet Ian Bennett, esteemed teen music journalist. Ian, meet Addie, parking lot tackler extraordinaire.”

Music journalist? I jammed my knees into the back of Ian’s seat. “This is a joke, right?”

Rowan cleared his throat. “Um, sorry, but is this a joke?”

“Addie, I write articles, okay?” Ian propped his feet up on the dashboard and yanked irritably at his shoelaces. “I used to have a blog, but now I get paid to write articles for online publications.”

“Ha ha,” I said. “And you also love My Little Pony, right?”

“What are those guys called?” Rowan asked. “Bronies?”

Ian shot me a dirty-as-mud look, and I flinched. He was serious—and hurt. I could see it in the way he jutted his chin out. “Wait. You really do have a blog? Like online?”

“Yes, it’s online. Where else would it be?” He scowled.

“But . . .” I hesitated, waiting for the pieces to fall into place, like they usually did. They didn’t. “You have a blog blog? Like the kind you add entries to?”