‘Terrific!’
ABBY JIMENEZ ,
Bestselling author of Just for the Summer
Heart Strings
Heart Strings
“Heart Strings is poignant, punny, and preciously sweet. Fairbanks effortlessly tells a story of love and loss that makes you believe in the power of second chances.”
— Lana Ferguson, USA Today bestselling author of e Nanny
“Second chance always gets me right in the feels, but add to that a lush Irish setting, an independent woman who thinks she doesn’t need love, and a hot, sweet musician who still writes every song for her? I MEAN. Ivy Fairbanks has done it again— I’ll travel to Galway with her for as many books as she’ll let me!”
— Alicia ompson, USA Today bestselling author of Love in the Time of Serial Killers
“Ivy Fairbank’s Heart Strings is for all of us who adore second-chance romance books fi lled with yearning, tenderness, and sizzling chemistry. Cielo and Aidan’s love story is one that will stay with me for a long, long time.”
—Hannah Bonam-Young, USA Today bestselling author of Out on a Limb
“Heart Strings has a gorgeous setting, second- chance angst, complicated family dynamics, and at the center of it all, a beautiful love story. I loved watching Cielo let her walls down for Aidan— who is a TOP-TIER romance hero— and learn to lean on others. Cielo’s fear of opening her heart again and letting people into it, not just in the good times but in times of uncertainty as well, is deftly written and deeply relatable. I was rooting hard for Lo and Aidan with every page.”
— Sarah Hogle, author of You Deserve Each Other
Praise for Morbidly Yours
“Sweet and spicy and fabulous . . . Ivy Fairbanks is a terrific addition to the romance genre!”
— Abby Jimenez, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Just for the Summer
“Fans of Abby Jimenez will love this fresh, tender, and deliciously spicy romance.”
— Paige Toon, international bestselling author of Seven Summers
“[A] charming romance . . . Poignant and heartwarming, this is a quirky love story you won’t forget.”
Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A delightful, wonderfully disastrous romp through love. Fans of the marriage- of- convenience trope will swoon— as did I!”
— Ashley Herring Blake, USA Today bestselling author of Delilah Green Doesn’t Care
“Adorable! Morbidly Yours is equal parts playful and poignant, as satisfyingly spicy as it is sweet. I dare you not to fall in love with Lark and Callum, an endearing, quirky grumpy/sunshine pairing who couldn’t be cuter.”
— Chloe Liese, USA Today bestselling author of Only When It’s Us
“The setting is unique, and Fairbanks is admirably frank about death and grieving. . . . Callum himself is an admirable hero, with impressive depths. . . . Th is will appeal to readers who don’t mind some death in their ‘til death do us part.’ ”
—
Publishers Weekly
“With Morbidly Yours, debut author Ivy Fairbanks delivers an enchanting friends-to-lovers romantic dramedy. . . . Lark’s and Callum’s grief and reticence to fall in love anchor this lively fi rst novel. Gaelic charm and a sweet, simmering romance, coupled with tender plot dilemmas driven by a well- drawn, small-town cast, lend hopeful buoyancy to the novel’s more serious themes.”
— Shelf Awareness
“With a fantastic Irish setting; sensitive portrayals of demisexuality, grief, and workplace misogyny; and a sexy friends-to-lovers romance, Fairbanks makes an excellent debut.”
— Library Journal
“Off beat and atmospheric, Morbidly Yours is the perfect escape for anyone who likes their romances to feature multidimensional characters, a cozy plot, and quick wit. It’s utterly unique and I adored it.”
—Tarah DeWitt, author of Funny Feelings
“If lighter scares are your thing, then Morbidly Yours will tickle your skeleton bones. . . . Readers will feel the color returning to Callum’s pale life as he gets to know Lark searching for his dream woman. The fact that she’s an animator and he’s well, not, further illustrates their differences. Th is sweet, fun read should become a classic.”
— Pittsburgh Post- Gazette
“Kudos to Fairbanks for creating a world where heartache and romance can coexist. I laughed, I cried, I defi nitely swooned. Emotionally complex, wholly unique, and absolutely wonderful— if you haven’t discovered Ivy Fairbanks already, you’re in for a treat!”
— Marissa Stapley, New York Times bestselling author of Lucky
Heart Strings
ALSO BY IVY FAIRBANKS
Morbidly Yours
Heart Strings
IVY FAIRBANKS
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Originally published in the United States of America in 2025 by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Penguin Books an imprint of Transworld Publishers
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For Bobbie
Heart Strings
PROLOGUE
Lo
MARCH
“IF YOU’RE BRINGING me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me, can you please hurry it up? I have study group at six.” I shout to be heard over the wind and the rumble of the old scooter’s engine.
My arms cinch around my cousin’s waist as she leans the Lambretta into a sharp turn. The tiny woman has a death wish driving around on this thing.
“We’re almost there,” Lark says with a laugh.
The quaint, bunting-lined cobblestone streets of Galway’s city center gave way to gentle hills and bright clusters of hawthorns twenty minutes ago, as her vintage scooter sped deeper into the Irish countryside. Spring is beautiful in Ireland, but when Lark asked me to hop on the back of her scooter to check out her wedding venue, I didn’t expect it to be quite so far. I’d only allocated an hour and a half for the errand, marking it in my calendar app between the cadaver lab and study group.
“Besides,” she adds in a light Texan drawl that reminds me of home, “if I wanted to get rid of you, Callum could make your body disappear way easier than I could.”
I will never get over the fact that my bubbly, blonde cousin is engaged to an undertaker. A fantastic guy, if a bit on the quiet side. The last person you’d picture with someone who enthusiastically sings along to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack. Proof that sometimes opposites do attract.
A dense row of birch trees has lined the last few miles of the road, and then it breaks. Sunlight warms my bronze skin as we turn at the gap between the trees and pass under an arch emblazoned with castle teachan.
“You’ll lose your mind when you see this place.” Lark’s eyes bounce to mine from behind her helmet’s visor.
A massive, multistory castle comes into view. Granite parapets and a pair of towers frame a huge carved wooden door. Wrought-iron lanterns line either side of a winding driveway and dozens of windows glint in the afternoon light. How many rooms does this place have?
Lark kills the engine and smacks a pink cowboy boot into the kickstand. I shake out my thick brunette bob. We crane our necks, following the rise of the building against the cloudscattered sky. Okay, color me impressed.
“Really taking this whole Disney princess thing to the max, huh?” I ask with a wry smile.
“Maybe it’s a little over the top.” Lark’s cowboy boots skip along the cobblestone drive. She circles a topiary by the fortified front door, seconds away from spontaneously breaking into song. I half-expect the china and furniture inside to pour out the double doors and join her in a musical number about the wonder
of love. Chipper under normal circumstances, Lark’s basically been on good-mood steroids since getting engaged. “But look how pretty it is! Imagine an autumn wedding here.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful. Just surprised me. I thought you were bringing me to some cottage or farmhouse converted into a rustic banquet hall. Something more Pinterest and less Game of rones. But this suits you.”
“Castles are surprisingly affordable to rent for events here. Callum and I figured the wedding party and out-of-town guests could stay there together for the weekend of the ceremony.”
I freeze. The best man’s been living in London since he scored a record contract and unceremoniously left me behind two years ago.
“Aidan, too?” I ask, voice neutral as possible. It’s been a while since the last time I said his name. Usually, if he must be mentioned, I refer to him as a charming anatomical euphemism.
“He is Cal’s closest male friend,” Lark reminds me. “Well, he’s kind of his only male friend.”
Aidan and I haven’t set foot in the same room since the breakup, but I was prepared to deal with being in close proximity to him for a few hours. With all the dancing, toasting, and crisis-averting expected of me as the maid of honor, along with the presence of my mom and extended family, there would be plenty of distractions to get me through the night. I’d even hoped that I might be able to forget my ex was there at all, so long as he didn’t grab a microphone and make a spectacle of himself. But I hadn’t counted on having to endure a whole weekend together, staying in the same beautiful castle.
Lark halts her twirling to stare up at me with apologetic eyes. I can do this. For Lark. I have six months to build defenses
around my heart before her wedding. Enough time to dig out a moat and stock it with hungry crocodiles, metaphorically speaking.
“A whole weekend with my ex? No problem.” I stretch my mouth into a smile.
She grimaces. “Lo, I know this is asking a lot. You have veto power if it’ll be too awkward. Family comes fi rst, of course.”
It’s no secret that I feel some lingering bitterness toward my ex, the ostensibly romantic man who gave up the woman he supposedly loved without a fight.
Lark and Callum watched the romance blossom between me and Aidan. Thanks to all the time the four of us spent together, I know what Aidan means to Lark’s introverted fiancé. The two are different in countless ways, but a shared love of trad music cemented their unlikely bond. Aidan might’ve destroyed my belief in him at the very end of our relationship, but he has always been a solid friend to them. And I’m not about to dictate whom Callum can and cannot invite to be part of his own wedding.
Lark’s brows pinch together as she watches me mentally revisit the relationship we tiptoe around in conversation. She’s worried about me, but I’m fi ne. Better than fi ne. The attending physician actually remembered my name yesterday during rounds and I found the perfect bridesmaid dress on sale that hugs my body in all the right places and loves my curves as much as I do. She doesn’t have to worry about me. Fine is what I do.
“You can bring a plus-one, if you want.”
“Eh.” There have been hookups since Aidan. No relationships, or even situationships.
“What about that guy from your class? The one you said looks like Dev Patel.”
“I was ovulating when I said that. He’s nice, but I’d prefer not to make things weird by sleeping with anyone in my study group. And I don’t want to bring some random dude to your wedding.”
“Suit yourself,” Lark says.
“I’ll be too busy doing maid of honor duties, anyway. You’ll have activities to keep everyone busy over this weekend, right?” I ask. With enough distractions, I can get through this.
“Of course. The castle has all kinds of stuff. Local whisky tastings and yoga classes and even falconry! Ain’t that wild?” ink I could train a bird to peck Aidan’s eyes out? I don’t say.
I love Lark, but we’re at different places in our lives. Though we probably always have been, given our six-year age difference. When we were younger and my mom was reinforcing the protective bubble around me, Lark took me under her wing. She listened to my restless teenage rants, and when I was healthy enough, she indulged me in a few harmless adventures to keep me sane. When Lark suddenly lost her husband about four years ago, I repaid the favor as best I could. It wasn’t good for her to stay in that newly hollow house, so I invited her to crash at my off- campus apartment in Austin until she managed to sell her home and move to Galway for a fresh start. Not long afterward, I followed her abroad to attend medical school. I’d been the unofficial maid of honor at her fi rst marriage’s impulsive courthouse ceremony. Th is time around, she wants the fairy tale. God knows she deserves her happily ever after. Even if I have to walk down the aisle with the frog I used to believe was a prince, I want to be a part of it.
With a fortifying breath, I sling an arm around her shoulders. “All right, a weekend with Aidan, then. No big deal.”
CHAPTER 1
Aidan
SEPTEMBER
“YOU’RE LISTENING TO Today’s Top Forty live from London. Th is morning, we are joined in the studio by breakout Irish singer-songwriter Aidan O’Toole. You might know him from the summer smash ‘Come Here to Me,’ which hit number three on the Irish charts and number twenty on UK Billboard. Welcome to the show, Aidan.”
Adjusting my headphones, I lean close to the mic. “Th anks for having me. I’ve been a longtime fan.”
“Please tell our listeners a bit about yourself. You were raised in County Cork, adopted by Galway.”
“Yes! I’m sure they’re happy to claim you,” her co-host interjects with a hand on my arm. Her cheeks pinken when I flash a smile.
“I live here in London now. Galway is where my family is, though, and I’m heading back there for a month. Leaving London tomorrow, actually.”
“We hate to see you go . . .”
Don’t worry, I think, it won’t be permanent.
“Let’s talk about Heaven-Bound,” the main host says. “It’s been nominated for the RTÉ Choice Music Prize.”
“And well-deserved! It’s so heartfelt.”
“Th ank you. It still hasn’t sunk in, really, but it’s such an honor.”
I adjust the collar of the designer button- down the label’s stylist asked me to wear today. Being dressed by someone else makes me feel like a paper doll.
“On the album, there’s an arc of hope, of ecstasy, of loss,” the host opines. “Honestly, I can’t listen to that last song without getting a little lump in my throat.”
“Tell me about it!” the other host jumps in. “The fi rst time I listened, I ruined the eye makeup I was trying to apply because I couldn’t stop crying but I didn’t want to turn it off. Which gave me flashbacks of my Sufjan Stevens phase.”
They share a quick chuckle.
“You’re too kind,” I say. “To even be mentioned in the same breath as an artist like Sufjan . . .”
“Really, it captured heartbreak so vividly,” the first one adds. “And now the whole music world wants to know, who is this Irishman and who did he write these songs about?”
“Yes, are they all about the same muse? The songs seem too personal to simply be about character archetypes. You write about the different facets of love so well.”
“I fall in love all the time,” I lie. “I’ve fallen in love hundreds of times. Lyrics come easier when I have the right inspiration.”
In the past, I’d fall fast, although admittedly, never deep.
Not until Cielo. She made me realize those passing fascinations and lust hadn’t been love at all. Two years after our separation, I still catch myself looking for glimmers of her in strangers. Sometimes I even realize I’ve been subconsciously scanning the front row, seeking her smoky hazel eyes so I can sing directly to her.
I haven’t been truly in love with anyone before or since Lo.
“Your lyrics have been described as ‘poignantly provocative.’ How does it feel to hear that about your songwriting?” The interviewer keeps a straight face, but she’s slowly crossing her legs while she stares at me.
“It’s certainly flattering.” Regardless of how the journalists and DJs goad me, I’ve no literary degree, and no interest in academically dissecting the sexual themes of my own songs during an interview. The music speaks for itself.
“Well, I’m sure your latest muse is very lucky.”
I fidget with the spiral cord of the headphones. We’re broadcasting live across the UK right now, and they want to bring up my ex-girlfriend, approaching the taboo subject deliberately because that’s what listeners theorize about.
“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid a lad’s got to keep some things to himself,” I answer with a wink.
According to my manager, Martin, keeping tight-lipped will add to my “mystique.” The label wants me to cultivate a slightly edgy image. More important, without details on my past relationship, fans can imagine themselves in my songs. A woman all but worshipped by a man, but the two destined to permanently part ways before the last reprise. In some songs, he is a warrior fi ghting for her. A fool. A lover. In my latest single, he is a
marionette, strings pulled in every direction until he is drawn and quartered. But in every song, she is a goddess. Every woman, Martin argues, wants to be loved like that. Loved so hard that her memory alone will drive a man to rip himself apart.
And that’s what I’ve done for the past year while touring for Heaven-Bound . Night after night, city after city: I tear myself open for an audience and enjoy a collective catharsis as we share in that emotion four minutes at a time. And I wonder if Cielo is listening.
“CHRIST! YOU’RE PURE style,” I say when Fionn answers the front door of our parents’ house wearing a Fair Isle jumper in red and white, Cork’s colors, with Gaelic footballs knit across his chest. He refuses to adopt the Galway jersey.
“Why are you knocking? It’s weird and you’ll offend Mam.”
Although I bought this house, I’ve never lived here. Entering without knocking wouldn’t feel right. Everyone else insists it’s weirder that I don’t simply let myself in through the back door.
“What is that abomination you’re wearing?” I ask.
“Mam has gotten into patterns lately.”
Garish but well-made knitwear is nothing compared to our seventeen-year-old sister’s hobby of ventriloquism. Nine months ago, when I’d last visited, Marie brought out two horrific dummies while my da silently begged me not to say anything negative. Their wooden grins made my skin crawl. So of course, Fionn and Marie teamed up to place them in unexpected spots during my visit. I nearly soiled myself stumbling to the bathroom on Christmas morning half-asleep, only to come face-to-
face with the soulless eyes of one perched on the toilet. Marie, with her angelic smile that has Mam and Da fooled, was the mastermind behind that prank.
My family’s new place is two stories tall and a short walk from a waterfront park. A far cry from the peeling paint and leaking roof of the cottage I was raised in back in Cork, and an even larger departure from the dodgy council flat my family had squeezed into when they fi rst moved to Galway to be closer to Marie’s specialist. After signing with the record label two years ago, one of my fi rst orders of personal business was moving my parents out of that moldering fl at. Even after selling our old house and with Da working two jobs, they could barely afford to rent in Galway, with Mam staying home to care for Marie. I’d put my musical ambitions on the back burner then, in favor of a more stable job as a solicitor so I could help out. It feels good to provide for my family.
Mam wordlessly wraps her arms tight around me and gives me a good shake.
Still in his work clothes from the warehouse where he drives a forklift, Da rises from the battered old recliner he’s had since I was a boy and claps me on the back. “Good to have you home.”
“Aye. Missed you, Da.”
Marie bolts down the stairs, prompting Ma to shout, “No running!”
She tackles me with surprising strength for a teenage girl.
“Well, then. Nice to see you, too.” I muss her pixie cut and take a step back to observe the subtle changes since I was here for Christmas. She’d started the new year by chopping seven inches of hair, pleased that it was fi nally long enough to donate to a wig-making charity. “The jumper’s lovely, too.”
Bright purple knitwear adorned with clowns and elephants swallows up her torso. Marie lost interest in elephants back in third grade and has never shown an affi nity for the circus. “Oh, just you wait.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Mam says. “Fionn, will you be a dear and go fetch your brother’s gift from my room?”
The sparkle in Marie’s eyes makes me uneasy as Fionn ascends the stairs and returns with a box. Mam eagerly gestures for me to open it. Music notes, harps, and guitars undulate in alternating stripes across the handmade jumper. It’s the most hideous garment I’ve ever seen— except for Marie’s.
“I made one for everyone,” Mam says proudly.
“What about Da?” Fionn asks. “He didn’t get a jumper.”
“Ach! You’re absolutely right. James, I’ll get started on one for you straightaway.”
Da shakes his head at Fionn. Marie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.
“Look at this! It’s lovely.” I lift my jumper out of the box. If I make eye contact with Fionn, he’s going to lose it and hurt Mam’s feelings. She obviously spent loads of time on each one.
“I thought you could wear it onstage. You won’t fi nd quality like this on those high streets in London.” She tugs at the Thom Browne cardigan the label’s stylist sent to my fl at a week ago. Other than surprise at its price tag, I don’t have any strong feelings about it. “They couldn’t even be bothered to put stripes on both arms.”
Fionn laughs then stifles it with a cough. Da shoots him a death glare.
“Th ank you, Mam.” I slip off the cardigan and pull the
jumper over my head. It fits well, and the craftsmanship is impeccable, but I’ve never owned a piece of clothing so ugly. “I love it.”
Herding us in front of the fi replace, Mam raises her phone. “Now, I want a photo of all of you in your matching jumpers!”
CHAPTER 2
Lo
A FLYING BEDPAN narrowly misses my head, striking the wall behind me with a clatter and a splatter.
“Get fucked by a fish!” the ancient patient shouts in Spanish from her hospital bed. Well, that’s an insult I haven’t heard before. Instead of the Irish lilt belonging to most of the staff and patients here, I recognize her lispy accent as Castilian. “I told you I never want to see you again.”
The nurse pulls me into the hallway. “I have four other patients to tend and it’s going to take ages to calm her down.”
“I’ll clean it up,” I offer. Environmental Services isn’t permitted to actually clean hazardous waste at our teaching hospital. Unfortunately, that means the worst of it falls on the already overextended nursing staff or students like me. “Really. I’ve got this.”
“Your funeral.”
A nasty fall explains why Mrs. Serrano is in the Accident & Emergency department; dementia explains her explosive reaction to a nurse coming in for vitals. Breathing through my
mouth, I reenter her room with absorbent pads and sanitizer. Medicine isn’t for the faint of heart. People have been telling me that since the day I announced I was becoming a doctor at seven years old.
“Good morning, Mrs. Serrano. I’m going to take your blood pressure now,” I tell her in Spanish. Bilingual people with memory issues often revert to their fi rst language and lose everything else.
She examines me with fi lmy, cataract-covered eyes. “Where are you from?”
“I’m American, but my dad is from Oaxaca, Mexico.” Although it’s a different dialect, the familiarity of Spanish seems to soothe her as I’d hoped. She offers me her arm and I slip the cuff on quickly while she’s agreeable.
“She thinks she can just walk in here?” She goes back to muttering about the nurse she confused for her sister. “I’d rather rot than accept her help.”
Contradicting a memory care patient only makes them more agitated, so I nod empathetically.
“And I don’t like people bothering with me. I can take care of myself,” she adds, sounding a little more lucid.
Looking at this woman feels like getting a peek at a possible future version of myself: a fierce sense of independence, colorful use of insults, the ability to hold a grudge for decades. Maybe that’s why I didn’t leave the room immediately after cleaning up. Combativeness is common, and there are plenty of other patients to see as I shadow the attending physician, but something about her flash of anger made me approach her instead of moving on.
“I understand it’s frustrating to be here,” I tell her with a soft smile. “We’re doing our best to get you back home soon.”
“My whole life, I lived on my own. Independent,” the old woman grumbles. “I feel so helpless now.”
I can relate to the unique restlessness of being stuck in a hospital bed. I never want to experience it again. “We all need to accept a little help from time to time.”
Her frown softens just a bit.
“I HEARD ABOUT your Code Brown earlier.” Oisín runs a hand through his endearingly fluff y hair. The hospital’s cafeteria thrums with the lunchtime rush. Physicians, family members, and patients who are well enough to sneak away from their rooms form a line that snakes through the bright space.
Code Brown actually means disaster. If Mrs. Serrano had better aim and had hit me with that bedpan, it certainly could’ve been.
Oisín stabs a grilled zucchini. “The nurses all said that patient was calmer after you spoke to her in Spanish.”
“I read that speaking a memory patient’s first language helps comfort them.”
“Well, she’s only asking for you now. Congrats on making a friend.”
“Hey, I have friends. Don’t you count?”
Oisín waves the fork between us. “I thought this was a ‘keep your enemies closer’ situation.”
“Ass.” I fl ick a purple Skittle at him, which bounces off the lapel of his white coat and lands in a pile of orzo. The purple ones taste diff erent here. European food standards probably make these candies a better product than their American coun-
terpart, but it doesn’t matter. They’re slightly off to me, even if Oisín insists they all taste like pure sugar. “Just because I’ve never passed out friendship bracelets in our lectures doesn’t mean I’m enemies with anyone. I’m just . . . competitive.”
As a woman of color in a male- dominated field, I have to continually prove my place and battle my own impostor syndrome. All with a non-confrontational smile on my face. Oisín and I have been neck and neck in our cohort for the past three years. While he enjoys the opportunity to be a dickhead from time to time, I’m the one who has been told to work on my bedside manner. Curt was the word on the A& E rotation feedback form— although the handwriting was messy and that r could’ve been an n.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text. I raise a brow at Oisín. “See? People love me.”
When I pick it up, there’s a message from my mom:
You need to schedule your checkup.
A groan escapes my mouth. “Okay, maybe someone loves me a little too much.”
“Clingy Tinder date?” Oisín asks.
“My mom, actually.”
“Yikes.” Th ings are rocky between him and his parents, too. He digs out his phone and scrolls through videos in between bites as I consider my reply.
Although my mom is a petite white woman, her contact photo in my phone is Godzilla. She has no idea. Before I can tell my mom that I called the cancer center this morning, she follows up with another text.
I called the oncologist to schedule for you, but they wouldn’t let me
Twenty-five, with a biology degree from UT Austin, in med school on the other side of the world, and she still treats me like a child. I shove a few Skittles into my mouth, concentrating on the sweetness instead of typing out a flurry of annoyance. My mom’s never much respected American medical privacy laws like HIPAA, so it’s no wonder she’s trying to take over my care here in Ireland. But this is embarrassing.
Just got o the phone with them! Scheduled for next week, I reply. My checkup has been carefully timed for me to give her the all clear in person when she comes next week for Lark’s wedding.
It’s not on the family calendar
Another Skittle crunches under my molars. I’d tagged it in my personal schedule and not the shared one. With a few strokes, I open the calendar app to correct the tag to our two-person family calendar that she insists on to keep tabs on me. It’s populated mostly by my clinical rounds and study groups, with a few of her hair appointments and oil changes sprinkled in. There’s also a standing Monday slot for when my mom and I give each other a full rundown of our week over video chat. If I skipped it, she’d probably hop on a plane immediately. The two-hour allotment for catching a show at the Hare’s Breath tonight is tagged in my personal calendar, under a reminder to pick up Lark’s dress from the bridal salon after clinicals today. Her bachelorette party is in there, too— a booze cruise I planned for the end of the week.
After a moment, another bubble pops up. I see it now. Ten minutes remain on my break. The bag of candy crinkles as I stash it in my pocket. Mom stressing me out is nothing new. She keeps a close eye on my health. There’s always a chance of recurrence with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, which my mother makes sure to remind me of frequently.
When I was diagnosed in middle school, she pulled me out of competitive swimming and public school to put me into a homeschool bubble. Then Dad became a traveling consultant for a tech company, leaving me home alone with a mom who became more and more protective. As I got sicker, our family broke apart. She clung on to any shred of control. It got worse during the divorce, especially for a teen ripped away from her social life and tethered to an IV half the time.
When I left for UT Austin a year after I went into remission, my mom insisted on having a spare key for my off-campus apartment in case of emergencies. She would let herself in when I was in class and raid my kitchen, tossing out the emotional-support junk food and replacing it with large containers of organic kale and vegetables, then stick articles to the fridge touting their antioxidant properties. I couldn’t even gain the “freshman fi fteen” in peace.
I could have enrolled in a med school out of state instead of across the Atlantic if I’d just wanted to cut down on my mom’s unannounced visits. But then I vacationed with Lark in Galway and fell in love with the seaside city, too. I applied for the Atlantic Bridge Program and shocked my mom by announcing I’d study medicine in Ireland. Moving to another country felt like the closest thing I could get to rebellion, while still staying on track with my goals.
“Everything okay?” Oisín asks, glancing up from his phone, which is faintly playing “Come Here to Me.” It was Ireland’s unoffi cial song of the summer. I may have blocked Aidan O’Toole on Spotify, as well as the hashtag of his name on socials, but that hasn’t kept me from hearing his music playing in boutiques and cafés, and as the background music to every other social media video, it seems.
Belatedly, he realizes who is playing and shoots me an apologetic look as the song cuts off mid-chorus.
“Yeah, it’s fi ne. You don’t have to do that.”
“Listen, hearing my ex-boyfriend sing love songs would piss me off, too. I count myself lucky that at least mine is a talentless gobshite.”
“Honestly? It still fi lls me with molten rage every time.” It’s only a slight exaggeration. How dare Aidan get famous for singing about how much he loves me, when I was so easily thrown away for the sake of that fame.
Oisín’s laugh bubbles up over the din of the cafeteria. “I swear fealty to you—”
“Didn’t you just call me your enemy?”
“— but it’s criminally catchy!”
“Traitor.”
“We all have problematic favorites.” Oisín throws up both palms in a placating gesture. “Please don’t pelt me with more sweets.”
“I can’t believe I’m gonna have to spend three days with my ex and my mom,” I grumble, brushing my bob off my shoulder and watching a few dark strands stick to my white coat. “Look, I’m already stress-shedding and it’s two weeks away.”