I ducked through the narrow doorway of the prehistoric fort. Now I could see why this place was perfect for filming make-believe. The horizon dashed across the sky, green on blue meeting in swift, stark lines.
“Tell me something I don’t know about Ireland,” I said because I was staring at the scenery like I was in love, and I didn’t want Eamon to ask if the beauty had got me again. “As an American, what should I know that I don’t?”
“Quit saying ‘Gaelic.’ The language is called Irish. Gaelic is the Irish word for Irish.” Maybe he could tell that I was confused because he added, “That would be like calling German ‘Deutsche.’ Everyone says German. Right?”
“Okay. I’ll spread the word.” I paused, amused by his abrupt candor. “Can you say something in Irish?”
“What? No.”
“Why not?”
He leaned toward my face and squinted. It was too cute. “Because I’m not a performing leprechaun.” I turned, mostly to hide the way he made me smile, and walked toward the cliff’s edge. “Also because I remember an embarrassingly small amount from primary school,” he added.
“I was pretty impressed this morning,” I said.
“What’d you think about all that?” he asked, making me suddenly nervous. “About Cate’s interview and all that sexist shite she goes through with the film industry?”
“I think she was trying to get to me,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t want to tell him that Cate made me itch. All of her “fist-up, face-up, and fight” feminism wasn’t my style. Or maybe it wasn’t allowed to be. Her words trickled through my thoughts. Courage is simple. First, be honest. Second, don’t back down.
Flawed logic, my dad whispered. Honesty is complex.
We approached the cliff’s edge, and I gasped. The height of the fall was grand, and the surf below was so far away that the waves were a solid heartbeat ahead of the crashing. I couldn’t even get within five feet of the drop, scared that the wind might reach up and steal me.
Eamon held up his phone. “Can I take your picture like hers? We can put them side by side.”
“No way. You’ll say it won’t ever end up on the internet, but it will at some point, and then I’ll have to hate you and send my lawyer after you.”
“So severe, Iris Thorne,” he teased. “Here I was, wanting a picture to remember you by since you’re going to vanish from my life in a week like an elven princess.”
I held down a smile. “Very smooth. Nerdy, but smooth.” At least now Eamon was blushing too. “Okay, you can take the picture, but this is a big deal. Remember that.”
I thought about my grandmother’s image, her hair blowing back. I untied my ponytail. The drop was still a yard away and already terrifying. I took a step. Then another.
When I was a foot from the edge, Eamon said, “That’s close enough. I’m no small amount frightened for you.”
“She was standing on the edge. Toes on the edge.” I felt the wind sweep up the cliff, but I stepped forward again, sick of being afraid.
You’re going to fall, Jaded Iris.
“Just tell me I can do it for once,” I said to that dad voice, inching closer.
“You can,” Eamon replied. “I believe in you, but please don’t die in front of me today. Seventy years from now, sure. But not before my big-screen debut.”
“Don’t make me laugh!”
Another two inches…
When my toes reached the edge, I shrieked. “Take the picture! Take the picture!”
Eamon fumbled with his phone, and then I was smiling at him like Grandma Mae had smiled at whomever took her picture.
“Got it.”
I collapsed backward, grateful when Eamon’s hands were on both of my arms, pulling me to the ground. I flattened myself on the hard rock, shaking. And laughing. Eamon fell over beside me. “My heart is storming!” he yelled. “That was awful stupid!”
I laughed even harder and stared at the sky. Security and gravity came back with each slow, pounding heartbeat. When I felt like I had finally returned from my conversation with mortality, I looked at the picture Eamon took. “But I look scared,” I said. “She looked so bold.”
“She had a few years on you.” He sat up and looked down at where I lay. It felt a little like he was trying to read between my lines, searching for whatever I wasn’t saying.
He really needed to stop doing that; I was getting used to it.
“You were right, Eamon.” I sat up, taking in the way the ancient fort made the very sky and ground feel timeless. “This really is that great.”
QUALITY TIME WITH JULIAN YOUNG
That afternoon, Julian and I sat shoulder to shoulder on an epic white sand beach before crystal-blue waves. He wore his incredible black leather jacket and dark sunglasses, which helped to balance out the Frodo wig, fantasy urchin clothes, and makeup that made his cheekbones stand out like wings.
He pointed to where the crew was setting up the scene, putting down tracks on the beach for the camera. Henrik was directing the setup. “Things must not be going well. Cate should be back from the other location by now. And look.” He nodded toward the production vans where a woman stood with a notepad. “Reporter. I can smell them a mile away.”
I squirmed and pulled my hair over my face.
“If she comes around, say ‘off the record.’ That’s the magic phrase with these people, but you have to say it before you say something, not after. And she doesn’t have a camera. Cate would eat her if she did. Come to think of it, she must have permission to be here. Something is up.” He sighed and stared between his knees. “Down to business. Cate thinks I’m messing up my character, doesn’t she?”
I answered his question by not answering it. “She thinks I can
