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I’ve only spent a week in Ireland, but I’ve been here long enough to know that when an Irish person saysI will, yeah, they most definitely won’t.
“Believe it or not, that man loves me like a brother,” Jack says.
“I can see it. That’s what my sister looked like the last time I talked to her.”
Clara and I couldn’t be more different, in looks or personality. Her brown hair is always neat, while I gave up trying to tame my ginger curls years ago. The only makeup I wear is tinted lip balm, but Clara won’t leave the house without concealer to blot away her freckles, one of the few physical features we have in common. Despite being two years younger than me, Clara has always had oldest-child energy. She writes thank-you cards and actually sends them. When our grandmother sends us cash for Christmas, Clara puts it in her savings rather than immediately filling an online shopping cart with vinyl stickers. Clara gets so many invites—to parties, weekend getaways, weddings—that she actually has to check her planner to make sure she doesn’t have any prior commitments before she RSVPs (which she also actually does).
She wasn’t always so perfect. When we were kids, we’d get in trouble together all the time. It wasn’t until we got older that things between us changed. Somehow Clara grew up, and I didn’t. She’s halfway through her first year of medical school and is doingamazingaccording to our parents, who are also doctors. Whereas I am the med-school-dropout-turned-street-performer. In a family of Dr. Harts, I am the odd one out. Amissin every way.
“You said you’re having a bad day,” Jack says. “Can I ask why?”
I look him over. He seems like he really wants to know. And why shouldn’t I tell him? I’ve never been one to hold back or keep secrets of my own. I don’t understand why people keep so much of themselves hidden. And besides, after the last year of traveling, I’ve gottenpretty good at spilling my guts to strangers.You can’t assume everyone is your friend, my inner voice warns. But I can’t help it. If I like someone, it doesn’t matter if I’ve known them for five minutes or five years. They’re a friend until proven otherwise.
And this Jack... I like him.
Two
When Jack turns to face me, I becomeveryaware that our knees are touching.
“It’s kind of a funny story,” I say.
In truth, I don’t think it’s funny. I also don’t really want to talk about it, but it’s been boiling away in my head for the last few hours, cycling over and over, and if I tell someone, I can turn this story into a joke. I can laugh at myself, and Jack can laugh too, and then we can focus on howfunnythe story is, instead of all the things I should have done but didn’t.
“I was busking on Grafton Street in Dublin yesterday when I met this girl, Krista,” I begin. “She’s a hula-hooper, probably the best I’ve ever seen. She has these light-up hoops, and when she’s got nine or ten of them going at a time it’s just.... incredible.” The way Krista’s face lit up as she talked about falling in love with hooping reminded me of how I feel whenever I hold my guitar. As I listened to her, I wondered ifIlook that happy when I talk about music, and if so, why no one back home understands that I simply can’t do anything else?
“Can you imagine that?” I say to Jack. “Loving something likehula-hooping so much that you make it your whole life? Something people think is silly or just for kids and turning it into a career. She gets to travel the world just hula-hooping. And people love it! She has ahugefollowing, and...” I realize I’ve followed my thoughts down a detour. “Sorry. The point is, she told me the cruise terminal here in Cobh was a great busking spot. So I headed down here from Dublin this morning and set up my pitch—”
“Pitch?”
“Oh, a pitch is a busking spot—like where I was performing.”
“Right. Go on.” Jack watches me with rapt attention. He doesn’t so much as look up when Ollie returns to finish pouring my pint and sets it in front of me.
“I waited all morning for a cruise ship to come in, but none did,” I say.
“That’s because it’s January, and the cruises don’t really start up until April.”
“Oh. Well, that explains it, then.” My cheeks warm in embarrassment. I stare down into my beer, hoping to hide my face behind my hair. I shouldn’t care. Anyone could make a mistake like that. Though I’m sure most people do more research than skimming a message board or two before heading off to a new place.
If I’d done my due diligence before impulsively buying a train ticket to Cobh, I probably would’ve gone somewhere else and avoided the whole mess I’m in now. But that’s the beauty of my nomadic existence. I can do whatever I want with no one to bear witness to my mishaps, other than the people I meet on the road and will never see again. But after twenty-eight years of living with ADHD, I’m so used to making these little mistakes, so used to frustrating the people in my life with them unintentionally, that even the tiny ones feel huge because they’re a reminder that I fall so short of what is expected.
“So, what happened next?” Jack asks.
Right.I take a sip of my beer, then pick up the napkin again. “Idecided to pack up at around one to see if I could find a better spot closer to the park. I have this travel case I use to carry all my gear—street amp, mic stand, stuff like that. Everything else I own, other than my guitar, I carry in this giant backpack I bring with me everywhere. It’s gotta weigh, like, forty pounds.”
Jack shakes his head. “You Americans and your imperial measurements.”
“The point is, it’s really heavy.”
“Got it.”
“I was in a rush to get over there so I could make the most of lunchtime and almost had everything put away when someone said I dropped something. I turned around and, sure enough, there’s this guy holding up one of my instrument cables. I was sure I’d already put it away but didn’t think too much of it. I thanked him and held out my hand for the cable, but instead of giving it to me, he grabbed my arm and shoved me to the ground, then took off with all of my stuff.”
“That happened here? In Cobh?”
I nod, then set the napkin in my hands on the bar and take another sip of my beer. If I continue before collecting myself, I might cry, and I hate crying in front of other people, though it happens all the time. I’ve been in some scary situations over the last year, but nothing like that. One minute I was standing there, holding out my hand to a stranger, and the next I was on the ground. But as pissed off as I am at the guy who stole my things, I’m even angrier with myself. I made one mistake after another. I should’ve done more research before coming to Cobh. I know not to turn my back on my things even for a second. I shouldn’t have put myself in a position where I was alone and vulnerable. It was stupid and careless, and I’m lucky all the guy wanted was my stuff.
“Once I got my head straight, I chased after him,” I say. “But he had too much of a head start, and I still had the tambourine stuck tomy foot.” I shove the tambourine onto one of my boots and shake it for comedic effect. “Not exactly conducive to speed. I lost sight of him, and nowthis,” I say, giving my foot another shake, “is pretty much my only possession.”
