Love & Luck(49)

I’m not entirely sold on the gab bit, but I do know two things the Blarney Stone is excellent for: communal herpes of the mouth and discussions about rejection. Let’s delve into rejection, shall we?

Because you’re a human and because you’re alive, I’m going to assume that you’ve faced your own Blarney moment. A time when you’ve put yourself out there—vulnerable, dangling—but instead of the blessed reciprocity your heart yearned for, all you got was a slimy stone that did not in fact create any oratorical prowess.

Been there. And I know exactly how that feels. I also know it’s tempting to believe that you’re the only person who’s been left hanging. But you’re not. Oh, you’re not. In fact, the pain of rejection is so common, it’s served as the inspiration for roughly half of history’s art (and, I would argue, acts of lunacy). And yet when it happens to you, it feels like something brand-new. Like the world has cooked up the worst thing it could think of and then called you in for dinner.

That’s love for you. Universal and yet so damn personal. Solidarity, sister. Anyone who hasn’t gotten hurt is either a liar or a robot, and we all know that liars and robots make for terrible friends. Also, robot uprisings. Can we talk about the fact that we don’t talk about them enough?

HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: You know what you’re going to have to do, don’t you, pet? Climb the castle, plunge into a gaping hole, and kiss the damn stone. Embrace the communal germs. They’re there to remind you that you are not alone.

—Excerpt from Ireland for the Heartbroken: An Unconventional Guide to the Emerald Isle, third edition





AS USUAL, IRELAND HAD NO interest in keeping to our time frame. Roadwork cluttered the road into Blarney—mostly construction workers yelling jovially to one another as they set up unnecessary-looking traffic cones. The castle wasn’t much better. The site was stuffed full of tourists and the variety of ways they’d gotten themselves there.

After twenty long minutes behind a cranky row of tour buses, Ian threw his hands up. “How about I park, and you guys get out and do your thing?”

“Don’t you want to see the castle?” I asked, craning my neck to get a glimpse. The castle managed to give off the impression of being both imperious and decrepit, a spindly old lady in a crown.

Ian stuck his head out the window. “Seen it.”

Rowan laughed. “All right, Ian. Take the wheel.” Rowan and I both jumped out, and Ian slid into the driver’s seat.

“Watch out for roundabouts,” I said.

“Ha ha, very funny. I’ll probably have moved two feet by the time you get back.” He lowered his voice, addressing me. “Keep it quick?”

“Of course.”

Rowan and I took off together, following signs that explained the Blarney Stone’s location at the tip-top of the castle. We crammed our way inside, shoving through giant picture-taking masses to get to the swirling staircases.

I started up first, and I must have climbed fast because when I got to the top, I had to wait several minutes for Rowan to emerge. When he finally popped out of the staircase, he was breathing heavily, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“It wasn’t a race, Maeve,” he said, throwing his arm around me and collapsing dramatically.

I liked hearing my new nickname again. “I’ve been conditioning this summer.” I couldn’t quite extinguish the pride in my voice. I’d missed only two workout days the entire summer. The plan was to be as ready as possible for college scouts.

“Just to be clear, you know you just ran up a hundred flights of stairs to wait in line to kiss a manky stone, right?”

“No . . . we just ran up a hundred flights of stairs to kiss a manky stone,” I corrected, enjoying the chance to try out some Irish slang. At the front of the line, a Blarney employee carefully lowered a woman backward into a stone cutout, her upper body disappearing into the hole. “Look how much fun that is. You get to hang upside down.”

“A bit of a thrill seeker, eh?” Rowan said, his gray eyes shining.

“One hundred percent.” My brothers called me a thrill junkie, which was decidedly more negative. But it was the truth. Heights, roller coasters, the bigger the better.

Rowan grimaced. “I’d expect nothing less from you. But sorry, Maeve, what I’m trying to say is that there is no ‘we’ in this enterprise. My mouth is not going anywhere near the Blarney Stone.”

“Why? Is it a height thing?” I stood on my tiptoes to see over the wall. Besides the Cliffs of Moher, the top of Blarney offered the best panoramic view I’d had so far. Down below was an ocean of subtly shifting green, people scattered like colorful confetti. It even gave me the same sensation as the cliffs—I felt free, disconnected from all the heaviness waiting for me down below.

Rowan joined me on tiptoe, even though he could see over the ledge just fine. “Heights aren’t the problem, Maeve.” He shoved his glasses up. “Look, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but locals really mess with Blarney Stone. They pee on it, spit on it, all kinds of stuff. Trust me, you don’t want to kiss it.”

I wagged my finger at him, a breeze blasting over the top of the castle. “Do you need me to reread the guidebook entry to you? Those communal germs are the whole reason we’re here. And besides, I grew up sharing a bathroom with three brothers. Being afraid of pee is not an option.”