Off the Map


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Acknowledgments
 Also by Trish Doller
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Acknowledgments
 Contents
 Copyright
 start of contents
 
 
 
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 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
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 To the real Carla Black
 
 
 I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.
 —MARK TWAIN
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 My dad always says that the people waiting for you at the airport should never be strangers. They should be family members, overjoyed to reunite after being separated—even if it’s only been a few days. Or lovers, so impatient to see you that they sweep you into their arms and kiss you passionately in public. Or maybe even close friends, excited to create new memories and reminisce about the old.
 Dad doesn’t believe in searching for cardboard signs with your name printed in black Sharpie letters or awkwardly scanning faces, wondering if that brown-haired man—the one standing beside the ugly modern art sculpture that all airports seem to have—is the person you’re seeking. And according to Biggie Black, if meeting a stranger at the airport is unavoidable, there is nowhere less inspiring than the Air Margaritaville.
 So, when my plane touches down at Dublin Airport, and I switch on my phone for the first time since my layover in Philly, I’m pleased to find a text from Eamon Sullivan, asking me to meet him in a pub near the city center. Bars don’t necessarily make identifying strangers any easier, but it’s a much more interesting origin story if you eventually become friends. And if you happen to ID the wrong guy in the bar, you can always blame it on the booze.
 The name of the pub is The Confession Box, which calls to mind scandalous secrets, clandestine affairs, and alcohol flowing freely enough to loosen tongues. It sounds like it might be a seedy little dive in the wrong part of town. It sounds like my kind of place. I smile to myself, wondering what this choice says about Eamon Sullivan.
 I respond: PERFECT. JUST LANDED.
 My fellow passengers begin to rouse like zombies as our plane taxis toward the terminal. Biggie taught me to wait in my seat until the plane has formally arrived, out of respect for the flight crew, but also because there’s no point in launching yourself into the aisle when there’s nowhere to go. All around me, electronics are stowed. Neck pillows removed. Personal belongings moved from beneath the seat in front of them to their laps, their legs bouncing, waiting to spring up. The wheels have barely stopped moving before the overhead bins are thrown open and the aisle is clogged with people waiting to get off the plane.
 Another nugget of wisdom from my dad: Why hurry up and wait when you can simply wait?
 For a man who holds no specific religious beliefs, Biggie’s attitude is remarkably Zen. But after visits to thirteen countries and the lower forty-eight states, I have never known his advice to fail me. I stretch out my legs in the emergency exit row with Social Distortion pulsing through my headphones as the horde shambles