Love & Luck(34)

I pitched my tone to sound more enthusiastic. “I mean, why not? Worst case, we see some interesting places. Best case, I leave Ireland with an unbroken heart.” Yeah, right. I didn’t believe it for a second.

His face split into a huge smile. “Thanks, Addie. You work on finding your shoe. I’ll work on finding Ian. I’m sure I can talk him into this.”

He took off across the parking lot at a happy sprint, and I turned to watch him. Was it possible that I’d managed to find the only person in the world who was more heartbroken than I was?





The Dingle Peninsula


If Ireland were a cake, and you the nervous recipient of something coming out of my oven, I would serve you a thick slice of Dingle. Tart, sugary, chewy Dingle.

It’s a combination of absolutely irresistible ingredients—crushed velvet hills, roads disappearing into milky mist, jelly bean–hued buildings crammed together on winding roads—all blended and whipped together into a ladyfinger-shaped peninsula that you’re going to want to dunk into a cold glass of milk.

Now, I know what you’re wondering, dove: What does this idyllic bit of perfection possibly have to do with the pathetic state of my heart? I’m so glad you asked. And, my, aren’t you catching on nicely?

It’s about the circle, love. The process. At some point (maybe it’s already happened?), you’re going to wrestle your heartache into a sturdy brown box and then lug it all the way to the post office, where you’ll drop it off with a huge sigh. Glad that’s over, you’ll think. Such a relief. You’ll skip back home, your heart as airy as cotton candy, only to realize—with horror—that that heavy brown box is sitting on your front door. It was delivered back to you. Return to sender. Shipping incomplete. But I just did this, you’ll think. I already dealt with it.

I know you did. But you’re going to have to do it again. Contrary to popular belief, getting over someone is not a one-time deal.

It might be helpful to look at the process of heartache like you would a peninsula. One with a long, looping road carrying you past a myriad of delights and wonders. Grief requires you to circle around the issue at hand, sometimes passing by it many, many times until it is no longer the destination but just part of the landscape. The trick is: do not give in to despair. You are making progress, even if some days it just feels like you’re going in circles.

HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: Find Inch Beach, then walk out into the water as far as you dare. You’ll get cold. Then colder. Then numb. And when you can’t stand the cold for one more second, I want you to stand the cold for one more second. Are you surviving this moment of discomfort? Have there been other moments of pain or discomfort that you thought you couldn’t survive and yet you did? Interesting, pet. Interesting.

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





THE STORM HIT JUST AS we entered the Peninsula. And by “hit,” I mean came at us as if we were trespassers that had to be forcibly shoved back to the mainland. There was no buildup, either: one second it wasn’t raining, and the next raindrops pummeled the roof so loudly, they may as well have been on the inside my skull. Rain slid down our windows in heavy sheets, and Rowan kept overcorrecting against the wind. “It’s really bucketing down,” he said nervously.

“Hey, Rowan. I think we need to pull over,” I said, gesturing to Ian. Ian balled up against the window, the green tint of his face highlighting his black eye. I’d seen Ian throw up more times than I could count, and he was exhibiting four out of five of the warning signs. Puke was imminent.

“I’m not sick. I just . . . ,” Ian started, but he couldn’t even make it through the sentence before gritting his teeth.

“Pull over the next chance you get,” I instructed Rowan, grabbing the empty cereal box and shoving it into Ian’s hands.

Ian was the poster child for motion sickness, but he was also the poster child for stubbornness. He never wanted to admit that things made him sick, which meant he was constantly doing things that made him sick. None of us had sat next to him on a roller coaster in years.

“Just a little Irish holiday weather. I’m sure we’ll be through it in no time.” Rowan attempted nonchalance, but the wind blew at us again and he gasped, jerking the wheel as Ian doubled over.

“Ian, you okay? You never told me you had motion sickness.”

“I don’t,” Ian answered. “I must have eaten something bad at the wedding.”

Sometimes I thought my brothers were incapable of admitting to weakness. “Rowan, he’s lying. This is an ongoing condition. A windy road during a storm is the worst possible scenario.”

I turned away from Ian’s scowl and pressed up to my blurry window, focusing on the view. Even without the storm’s theatrics, the Dingle Peninsula was Ireland 2.0—the drama factor turned on and cranked as high as it would go. We were still on a narrow two-lane road, but everything had been pumped up to Dr. Seuss level. On our left, neon green mountain peaks disappeared into pudding-thick clouds, and to our right, a thick nest of rain rested on top of the ocean.

Ian’s phone chimed. “Oh, no. Text from Mom.”

“What does it say?”

He attempted to swivel his queasy face toward me, but the motion made him shudder. “She wants us to check in when we land. I’ll text her back in a few hours.”