Walking to school every day was beginning to bother me less and less, but I still collapsed on my bed when I got home each evening, resting my foot on three stacked pillows. Ten days after my embarrassing accident, my health battery hovered between eighty-five and ninety percent, and I was almost back to normal.
My increased mobility allowed me to snoop on Jaime’s side of the room. His navy duvet remained crumpled in a ball at the far corner of his bed. Potato chip crumbs decorated his wrinkled sheets and the empty Tayto bag lay on his pillow. His desk disappeared underneath piles of books, notebooks, and garbage, all of it spilling onto the floor like an island of junk. The garbage led to a pile of dirty clothes wedged between his desk and the bathroom door.
I focused on my side and reminded myself that I was in his country and on his turf. If I wanted to remain on good terms with my Irish expert, I needed to let it go. Focusing on the invisible line running through our room, I blocked out his mess by tidying mine.
My computer sat on my desk with books and notebooks standing behind it. My pink and purple tie-dyed mouse pad was the only color emanating from the sterile office items. It was exactly how I liked it. I meant business but occasionally had fun.
On top of my books, sat a brand new Irish guidebook that Jaime had sheepishly handed to me the night before. My original, swollen copy stood by itself against the wall. A small sticky sat on my computer. Rory, sorry I made a mess on the plane. I hope this book is just as good. Jaime. I picked up the book and flipped through, smelling the perfect, crisp pages. Grabbing my yellow highlighter, I marked up all the places I wanted to go.
Glancing at the calendar hanging beside my bed, I viewed the rainbow that organized my future. I had filled in all my weekends according to the itinerary I had created from my original guidebook. Reviewing my progress, I saw that last weekend I should have explored Galway, but of course that hadn’t happened. This weekend, I had written Connemara, and wondered if one of my roommates would come with me, just in case my ankle gave out.
Slinking out of my room, I hobbled down the hallway and knocked on Zoey and Marissa’s door.
“Come in,” I heard.
Marissa sat at her desk browsing a magazine. “I need new clothes,” she said. “Do you remember seeing that strip of stores on the way to school? I wonder what they have.”
“I’m not sure. We can ask Jaime.”
She closed her laptop and looked at me. “What’s up?”
“Are you doing anything this weekend? I wanted to go to Connemara and was wondering if you’d like to come.”
“Connemara? How are you getting there?”
“I think there’s a day trip on a bus tour outside of Eyre Square. We’d have to get tickets. It’s less than thirty bucks for the day.”
“Sure. That sounds fun.”
A smile spread across my face at the prospect of having a travel buddy. “Do you think Zoey would want to come?”
“Yeah, maybe. She has class until two today.”
I opened my new guidebook to Connemara and found Kylemore Abbey, the granite Victorian castle built in the 1860s. I imagined the majesty that walked through the rooms of the vast stone walls set against the regal, lush Connemara mountains.
“I’ll ask her.” I clapped my hands and jumped on my toes. “Marissa! It doesn’t hurt anymore!” I exaggerated my movements, dancing around her room. My sprained ankle wouldn’t hold me back after all.
I pranced into my bedroom and emailed my mom and dad, updating them on my foot, my first week of classes, and my first solidified plans to see Ireland. Even though my parents weren’t together anymore, I knew better than to communicate with one of them more than the other. My mother kept tabs and often threw my choices at me, making me feel responsible for her unhappiness, while my father remained emotionless. I knew if I didn’t try to maintain a relationship with my father, he’d never seek me out, so I wrote to them together to keep them both involved.
I had only heard from Scott once in the two weeks since I had arrived, and it was to ask me where I’d put his dining hall ID. I had written him an email every other day, pretending that it wasn’t strange I was having a one-way correspondence with my boyfriend. I told myself he was busy, just like I was, and I needed to be patient. At the end of every email, I reminded him I missed him and hoped to hear from him soon. “I love you, Rory,” I typed, before hitting send. Maybe he’ll write back this time.
I closed the laptop and looked at the picture of us taped to the side of my wardrobe. Scott and I had gone away to the beaches of Maine this past summer and stayed at a cottage on the beach, watching the sun rise and set every day. On our last night there, the sunset was brilliant pink, he turned the camera around and attempted to take three pictures of us. The 35mm clicked, and the flash burned my eyes.
When I got the photos back, I had flipped through them, admiring our beautiful weekend away. Two of the three pictures contained half of our heads, but this one hanging in my room was perfect. My sun-kissed skin was darker than it was now, and my black hair shined. His tall, dark frame held me close, and my body pressed against him. We looked happy and in love, and I needed to remember us that way.
Later that afternoon, Zoey came home from class, dripping water all over the tile floors. “It’s a little wet out there!” She tore off her raincoat and hung it over our back balcony.
“Zoey, it won’t dry outside,” I said. The almost black clouds threatened thunder.
She raced into her bedroom, taking long strides to limit the number and size of the puddles left in her wake. “I’m not leaving the house until tomorrow. It’s fine.” She returned in sweatpants and a dry t-shirt. “So much better.”
Her mascara ran, creating black rivers from the base of her eyes to the corners of her mouth. Her sopping hair hung against the collar of her shirt, and a wet, upside-down-rainbow formed between her shoulder blades. She took a dishtowel and placed it over her shoulders and under her hair before sitting on the couch.
“Zoey, are you doing anything on Saturday? Marissa and I are going to Connemara. Do you want to come?”
She squeezed out her hair into the corner of the towel. Her eyebrows scrunched up, and she wiped her forehead with her bare arm. “Yeah, count me in. I’m a terrible planner. Just so you know, I’ll do anything, especially if I don’t have to plan or research it. It’ll be a disaster if you ask me to organize something.”
I sat next to her, holding my book and handed her a wet napkin. “Your eyes.”
