“How do I be more sensitive?” Julian asked. “I’ll do whatever. I’ve already spent a year not dating her, and it ate me apart inside. She only agreed to date me again if I promised to keep it a secret, but at some point, someone is going to catch on. I’m terrified that that’ll be it for us.”
Oh, Julian. His nose was all slimy and somehow still adorable.
“Plus, I don’t want people to think I’m hiding her. I want her on my arm at my next red carpet. I want people to know she makes me damn happy, and I’m so proud of her.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. “You really are good at being romantic, Julian.”
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“You know what you said yesterday? About Nolan and courageous love? I think I can help you.” I leaned forward. “Someone told me that courage is two things: being honest and not backing down. You need to go to Elora. Tell her everything. Say you’re scared, but you can’t live in the dark. You’re right. At some point, people are going to find out, and the only control you have is how they find out. You won’t have that control forever.”
His smile faded into a slow understanding. “You don’t need to be afraid either, Iris. Imagine what might happen if people know who you are.”
I laughed. “Here’s where we’re different. I’m nobody. My grandmother was the star. I’m an immediate disappointment to anyone who’s excited to meet me.” I’d never thought about it that way before, but it was true. “The first time Eamon met me, he called me a mountain troll.”
“That guy.” Julian shook his head. “He could use a lesson in being a love interest.”
“I’ll say.”
We pulled up outside the Dublin airport. Julian looked out the window and then took my hand in both of his. “Iris, I want you to think of your fans—” I gave him a withering look, and he shook his head. “They are your family’s fans whether you like it or not. Your fans. And if you let them know who you are, some will be extra nice. Some will be extra mean. But the majority? They’ll want a smile and a picture for their Instagram feed, promise.”
He let go of me and straightened his leather jacket. Popped on his sunglasses. “Imagine what it would be like if you didn’t have to hide? It’s freeing.”
I wanted this to be the whole truth, but I already knew it wasn’t. “What if some of the fans are cruel? Unstable? What then?”
Julian looked at me over the top of his glasses. He knew what I meant. “Give me your number.” He pulled out his phone and began thumbing fast. I gave it to him, yet was still pretty shocked to hear my phone receive a text in my pocket. “Thanks for everything, Iris. We’re real friends now, right?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Considering I’d been hoping for this, I sounded very cool.
He got out and grabbed his bag from the driver. “See you in six days. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” I missed Julian the second he turned his gorgeous, leather jacket–clad back and walked into the airport. I glanced down at my unread text.
This number is Top Secret
A second message popped up. A URL. The preview was a photo of the back of Julian’s head with a tiny bald spot and the title “Young Gets Snipped By Fan at Florence + the Machine Concert.”
I clicked on the article and read about a girl who’d shorn a spot on Julian’s head while he was on a date. She’d nearly cut off his ear. I wrote him back in a hurry.
This is EXACTLY what I’m afraid of! This is terrible!
His reply was ninja fast.
Are you kidding? It was the best concert of the century!
And another one:
Imagine if I missed out on this:
The next text was a picture of Florence Welch glamour-glaring beside Julian, a python around their shoulders. I sent off my own series of rapid-fire texts.
This picture is amazing. Where’d she get the snake? Tell me she pulled it out of her dreams.
You like Florence?! WHY HAVEN’T WE TALKED ABOUT THIS YET?
Can you introduce me to her?!?!
Never mind. She’s a god. I’m not worthy.
I waited a few minutes for his response, the biggest, dopiest smile on my face the whole time. I pictured him at the counter, checking his bag. Finally, he shot back:
ROFl Gonna miss you
And:
You got this, Iris. Play your heart out.
• • •
Conor clicked the button and his voice reached through the speaker over my head. “Iris? Do you need a minute? If I’m making you nervous, I can set record and head out for a coffee. We’ll trim the excess when I get back.”
I nodded stiffly. He set the record, the red light glowing from the ceiling bulb, and left the sound booth. I repositioned on the stool, fiddled with my tuning, but it didn’t matter. The song wasn’t in me anymore. I’d tried to recapture the fingerpicking pattern I’d played on the cliff, but I couldn’t remember the notes that bolstered it—that made it sing-able. Also the poem Cate had given me was ridiculous:
THE FIRE PROPHECY OF QUEEN SEERIA
Ultimately Cerul will touch
The land’s blackened despondency.
The verdant Ertha, dry and rust,
The trees plagued by sterility.
Need of life and hope will not trust
The ties that bind Water to sea,
And Wind’s breath will choke with dust,
Hope chilled with solemnity.
Then a childe will be born in two,
Both blessed and cursed with Fire’s heat,
Will feel and bear the threat of doom
To weather loneliness’s defeat.
Till need regrows in Erthen hue
And life springs forth from foliage pleat,
Till Wind binds both star and moon
And Thornbred’s curse is truly beat.
That was some Grade A Fantasy Bullshit. Sorry, Grandma Mae. Not your best work.
My palms were damp as I fitted fingers to strings. I glanced at the glowing red light above my head and tried not to cry. A desperate, hard feeling lodged in my throat, nearly choking me. I had about
