Page 81 of The Rebound
“I did not.” I scowl. “They changed the shortcut.”
Louise is unsure. “Tomasz has a shift later. He’s taking the car.”
“We’re using my one,” Jess says. “Come on. It will be fun!”
“Okay.” Louise glances my way as if waiting for me to protest and, when I don’t, backs out of the room. “Give me five minutes to change.”
“Take your time,” Jess calls after her, and, ignoring my look, grabs her water bottle and heads out the front door.
“What are you doing?” I whisper as I catch up with her.
“I’m bringing you and your sister closer together.”
“We don’t need—”
“Yes, you do. You’re like children throwing a tantrum in the back seat.”
“We are not!”
“It’s done now,” she says reasonably. “So there’s no use arguing about it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.” She grins and throws her backpack into the trunk.
It takes Louise far less time to get ready than Jess and I, and soon the three of us are in the car, with Louise in the passenger seat so she can give directions.
That leaves me in the back, while not exactly throwing a tantrum, definitely getting a little hint of childish jealously at my best friend and older sister chatting away. But even that’s pushed momentarily from my mind as we approach the mountains in the distance.
I tried to hide my Irishness when I first moved abroad, desperate to fit in. I used to think it was lucky that my name didn’t immediately give the game away and that all I needed to do was tone down my accent and learn the vernacular and no one would think to question where I was from and if I deserved to be there. It was only later in New York that I realized I could use it to my advantage. I became “the Irish girl” and was adept at feigning interest when superiors discussed their third cousins twice removed in parts of the country I’d never even set foot in.
My country became nothing but a tool for me to stand out from the crowd. I didn’t join any diaspora groups. I didn’t even wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. Ireland and Clonard were where I grew up but it wasn’t my home—it didn’t define me—and yet just as I felt on the beach those few weeks ago, the distinctive sight of Benbulbin mountain in the distance, with the sun moving steadily over its broad flat head, is undeniably moving. Dramatic and beautiful and mine.
And it is mine.
Whether I try to ignore it or not, this place belongs to me and I feel unusually proud as we pull into the parking lot for the local trails and Jess starts taking a million pictures.
It’s the perfect day for a hike. Blue sky, white clouds, and a light breeze to keep you cool. Unfortunately, a lot of other people think so too and the base of the trail is full with similar-minded people but they spread out along the different paths and after a few minutes of nodding at everyone who goes past and moving to the side to let the more serious climbers overtake us, the three of us are left alone.
Jess keeps up a polite conversation at the start, peppering Louise with questions about her charity and in turn answering Louise’s equally polite questions about the glamorous world of luxury real estate. But about thirty minutes into the climb the conversation peters out as the path grows steeper and soon the only noise is the sound of our heavy breathing. Jess quickly takes the lead, navigating the terrain as if she climbs it every day.
“You’re good at this,” Louise says at one point, sounding vaguely suspicious.
“That’s because she’s a fitness freak,” I explain as Jess grins over her shoulder at me. “She’s good at everything.”
“Not everything.”
“You should have been a personal trainer.”
“And have to deal with people like you? I tried to take her to a CrossFit class once,” Jess says to Louise. “But she doesn’t like people yelling at her. Except in the office.”
Louise glances my way. “They yelled at you?”
“Notatme,” I say, uncomfortable. “Around me maybe.”
“Don’t worry about your little sister,” Jess says, ruffling my hair. “Abby also did a little yelling. She’s a badass, don’t you know? Gives as good as she gets. At least to the men.”
“Jess—”
