Love & Luck(38)

“Nope,” he said, grinning.

Ian didn’t know I was out. He also didn’t know about the postpractice drive Cubby and I had gone on, or how during the drive Cubby’s hand had just casually made its way over to my knee, as if that was where it had always belonged. And I didn’t push his hand away either. I wanted it there.

There were a lot of reasons I wasn’t going to tell Ian, but the main one was this: Over the past few years my brother’s voice had taken on a specific quality whenever he talked about Cubby. Like he’d just taken a bite of bitter chocolate. And tonight was not about Ian’s approval or disapproval. It was about me.

Me and Cubby.



“You’re sure you want to stay here?” Ian asked skeptically. We sat parked in front of a peeling, burnt-orange building that looked more like a prison than a hostel. Chains tethered the wrought-iron furniture to the porch, and bars lined the windows. “Are they trying to keep people out or in?”

“I think it looks nice,” I said. “Very . . . homey. Authentic.” Rowan and I exchanged a look. It had taken some convincing to get Ian to agree to stay in Dingle overnight. He’d wanted to keep going, but our guidebook stop was at a place called Inch Beach, and this was not exactly beach weather. There was also the minor issue of hypothermia, which was starting to feel like more and more of a possibility.

There was still one problem, though: Dingle was in high tourist season. And that meant no vacancy—except for the Rainbow’s End Hostel, whose way-too-cheerful, Flash-heavy website claimed to ALWAYS HAVE AVAILABILITY!!!! Now, having seen the hostel and all of its charm, I understood why.

“Somewhere over the rainbow,” Rowan deadpanned. “How Irish is that?” He took the key out of the ignition.

“Come on,” I added. “Anything has to be better than driving in that storm.”

“And you get to work on your article,” Rowan joined in. “I’m sure you have plenty of material after visiting the Burren and Slea Head.”

“True,” Ian admitted. “It would be nice to keep up on my writing. That way it isn’t a huge job at the end. Plus, I need to post to my blog.”

“Perfect! Let’s go,” I said. Half a day in Clover, and already every bit of me ached. I couldn’t get out of the back seat fast enough.

For someplace named Rainbow’s End, the interior was surprisingly lacking in color. All except for brown. Brown floors, brown carpet, brown linoleum, and a brass light fixture missing two out of five bulbs. Even the smell was brown: a mixture of burnt toast and the lingering of a pot roast.

I made my way up to a rickety wooden desk. Papers cluttered its surface, and a cup of coffee sat on top of a grubby three-ring binder.

“Hello?” I called out. Brown swallowed up my voice.

“It doesn’t look like anyone is here. Maybe we should try somewhere else,” Ian offered.

“There is nowhere else. Believe me, we tried.” I bypassed the desk and headed down a dark hallway. Light trickled from underneath a door. “Hello?” I called, pushing it open slightly. “Anyone here?”

A guy with a mass of curly white-blond hair sat playing a video game, his dirty feet propped up on the table in front of him. A large pair of headphones encased his ears.

“Excuse me?” I reached out to tap his shoulder, but just before I made contact, he whirled around, crashing noisily to the floor.

“Are you okay?” I scrambled to help him up.

“Okay? Not terribly.” He yanked the headphones off. He was in his late teens or early twenties, furiously tan, and built small and muscular like a rock climber. His accent was decidedly not Irish. Was it Australian? British? He smiled wide, and his white teeth contrasted sharply against his tanned face. “How are you going?”

How are you going? What was the correct answer to that? Good? To Electric Picnic?

He didn’t wait for me to figure it out. “So sorry about the mattresses. I know they’re utter crap. But I guess that’s why we have such an affordable rate. And be honest, you didn’t come all the way to the Emerald Isle to sleep anyway, right? You’re here to explore.”

I raised my eyebrows, completely lost. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” Someone he’d spoken to before.

His eyes widened. “Oh, no. You aren’t with the German group, are you? Forget what I said about the mattresses. Sleeping at the Rainbow’s End is like sleeping on a cloud.” He sang the last part.

“Nice save,” I said. “Do you have space for three people?”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “Didn’t you see the sign? We always have availability. I already told you about the mattresses, but let me sell you on the good parts of our humble Rainbow’s End. We have a killer nightlife here. Party out front after dark every night, heaps of people, amber fluid, everything you could ask for.” He winked, erasing my ability to tell if he was joking or not. “I’m Bradley, by the way. Welcome to the Rainbow’s End, the most westernly youth hostel in Europe.”

“I’m Addie.” I shook his hand. “You didn’t by chance write the content on the website, did you?”

He bobbed his head enthusiastically. “That I did, Addie. That I did. Built the whole thing in forty-eight hours. That thing is pretty bodgy, but it does a lot of my work for me, which means I get to spend my afternoons surfing. ”