Page 10 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

I lurch out of the kitchen, 45 percent certain I’m leaning to the left like I’m on a listing ship.

My hip bangs into a doorframe.

Okay, 70 percent.

But I am 100 percent certain that I have never been this drunk in my life. The kind of drunk where I’m back in my guest room with no memory of walking there and I’m holding my phone and staring down at a link I don’t remember opening. It’s a tabloid site, a picture of Loch and me at the race’s starting line, not looking at each other in a way that’s even more potent than if we’d been staring into each other’s eyes.

The caption is something about us being buddies.

I drop to the floor, my back against the edge of the bed. Fingers shaking, I pull up the thread with Coal, vodka in control of my faculties so I fire off a text to him before the rest of me can catch up.

PEEP, MINI CANDY CANE, AND THE BEST CLAUS

how bad would it be if i kissed the guy who stole from us

My head hangs back against the mattress. The room is a merry-go-round of the too-bright overhead lights, spinning and spinning, and it smells like baked beans in here—

My phone rings. Not a text. A video call.

The vodka answers.

“First of all,” Coal says immediately, “you not texting in your normal proper format is the most terrifying way I’ve ever been yanked out of a meeting.”

I didn’t—what did I do? “Fuck. Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. Secondly—you know you texted the group chat, right?”

Oh, nothing sobers up a person faster than realizing a drunken mistake.

I swipe away the video chat screen and check the text thread and—yeah. Yep. I did that.

Iris responded with a bunch of question marks.

With trembling fingers, I move the video call back over. I’m pale and stricken in the self-view screen, and Coal immediately goes reassuring.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he tells me. “You know Iris is cool.”

“But she and I—I didn’t—shouldn’t have—”

“Kris. I need you to breathe right now.”

So I do. That’s what I’m good at. Doing what others need me to do. Right? That’s my whole problem.

Coal sits down somewhere, and I recognize the wallpaper behind him.

“Are you in a hallway?”

“Do you want me to go back in and take this call in a room full of winter Holiday reps?”

He said that already. Yanked out of a meeting.

“Fuck, Coal, you did not have to call me!”

“Kris—”

“Oh my god. Do they know why I’m in St. Patrick’s Day? The real reason? They found out, didn’t they? And what have I done to help anything? Oh fuck —”

“ Kris. ” Coal leans forward, shoulders hunching around the phone. “That meeting had nothing to do with Christmas’s joy. We won’t start any repayments until after the winter Holiday collective treaty is signed, which won’t be until negotiations are done, which are still looking to go for a few more weeks. We’re good for now, I swear. We have time. Breathe. Tell me what happened.”

My eyes flutter shut. The vodka is seemingly satisfied with the path it’s led me down and is now having words with all the beer in my system. Churning, vomit-type words.

Or maybe all that roiling is from the taste of Loch on my tongue.

“Kris,” Coal says again, softer. “What happened?”

I screw my thumb and finger into my eyes.

“Can I guess?” he presses.

I nod, sure, go for it—

“Did you finally realize that all that hatred you felt for Loch was actually you wanting to bang him?”

The look I give Coal’s face on my phone is every building ounce of shock that’s been welling from the moment I touched Loch’s hand in the car. “ You knew? ”

“Of course I knew. No one hates someone for breathing like that unless they’re trying really, really hard not to be turned on by them.”

My moan gets mangled in a laugh.

Coal’s face settles, patient. “Are you okay?”

“I’m drunk.” I chuckle, and a dam breaks. “I fell down a hill because he laughed. Oh, I met his uncle, the St. Patrick’s Day King—he’s massively fucking over Loch in a way that would make Dad proud. And then.” I choke, throat swelling in sharp response to the sting in my eyes. “Loch kissed me in the kitchen.”

“And—you’re not happy about that?” Coal’s voice is cautious, trying to feel me out.

“ No. I shouldn’t have let him do that. Coal, he could be stealing from us. I’ve been fucking up this entire investigation from the start, all because of, what? Him? What kind of asshole does something like that? I came here for a reason, and this was not that reason. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Kristopher—”

“You guessed it had happened though—you knew. What else do you know?” I cling to my phone, willing Coal to spill all my own secrets out at me. “Why did you know I’d fail at this? What do you know that you aren’t telling me? Who am I? Oh, fuck, that’s a pathetic question. Oh my god. Oh my god. ”

It’s too hot in here and I’m in this stuffy blue sweater still and suddenly I’m on my feet, tearing open the door, lurching sightlessly into the dark hallway.

The air is immediately colder and that helps but it isn’t enough.

“Kris—hey.” Coal moves, too, stands and jogs down his own hallway. “Hang on. I can come to you. I should’ve done that to begin with—why do I never go to instantaneous transportation magic before literally any other solution? Let me—”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

I twist down the staircase and barrel forward, into the library. “ I’m fine. ”

“Kris. You’re having a panic attack.”

“ I do not have panic attacks. ”

The library is black, the moon and stars outside muted by clouds, and I drop to the floor and spread out on my back between a few shelves of books.

It’s frigid in here.

The cold, cold air demands my heart slow down, freezing my lungs solid so I stop gasping and can take actual breaths. My limbs are a little numb, but the sting of the cold works sensation back into them too.

Coal’s in his room now. A light pops on, and he says something muffled to Hex. A door opens, shuts, and Coal sits on his bed and I stare up at him, phone held over my face.

My eyes are wet.

“Kris,” he starts. I think his eyes are wet, too, but why? I’m fine. He’s fine. This is fine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize—”

“Shut up. If you don’t want me to come kick your ass in person, then shut up and listen. Okay?”

I nod.

“I’m sorry I’m part of the reason you feel like you don’t know who you are,” he says. “But—”

“You aren’t, ” I cut in. “Coal—this isn’t what—”

“What did I say?” His voice is stricter than I’ve ever heard. And that shuts me up, the severity, a force of presence he’s always capable of but rarely, never shows.

“You may feel like you don’t know who you are,” he continues, “but I know who you are. You’re kind and considerate and you’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I know, and you’re probably already thinking of ways to help Loch with his uncle. You’re artistic and sensitive and strong, and there’s a reason you became my rock. But you’re allowed to be soft, too, and selfish. And I think that’s where you’re struggling, not knowing where to start with choosing stuff that’s for you. Why did you think you loved Iris?”

I sniff. “Don’t. Don’t make me talk about her.”

“Dumbass, I will come over there and hang you upside down if you don’t—”

“Jesus. Fine. I should have loved her, okay?”

“Why? Who said?”

“Just—everyone.”

“ Who? Specifically? Who looked at you and said, Kristopher, you need to fall in love with Iris ?”

My mouth hangs open. And I have no answer.

“You assumed it was what people expected of you?” Coal guesses. “Do you remember during Christmas, when Hex first got here, I asked what you wanted to do with your life?”

Yes. “No.”

“Liar. You almost told me. You almost said something, then you deflected. What were you going to say? What do you want to do?”

Alcohol is a cruel, tricky truth serum, because I fully intend to play up having no idea what he’s talking about when instead I say, “I want to write a book.”

I do?

I did.

Forever ago. So long ago it’s the wish of another person, and I’m shocked it’s still living within me. And it is, living, because saying it out loud fills me with a buzzing sensation, the same champagne fizz as when Loch touched me, like every moment without this is stasis.

I used to write books. Silly little stories. Coal read a few, and I even let Iris read a few too, and she—god, I forgot all about this. She drew characters from one of those books for me, two kids at a sum mer camp in what I vaguely remember as being pretty much a direct Percy Jackson rip-off. I still have that picture somewhere, because it meant the world to me, to see these people I’d made up in my head.

Coal shakes the phone. “Kris! God, yes. Yes, okay? That’s amazing and you should. I remember you used to write stories all the time. All your happily ever afters.”

I close my eyes and a tear leaks down my temple.

“And tonight,” Coal continues, “when he kissed you. Did you kiss him back?”

“I should’ve used tonight to question him about the joy theft.” I throw words like shields. “I chose not to do that, Coal. It was an intentional decision I made and I fucked over our Holiday all for—all for—”

“I would’ve been pissed if you had asked him about that.”

My eyes fly open.

“Did you kiss him back?” Coal repeats, punctuating each word.

Numb, I nod again.

“I think that was the first time in a long, long while when you did something because you wanted it. Not because it fulfilled some requirement you felt was put on you. And I’m proud of you.”

I flatten my hand over my eyes, tears stinging as sharp as every observation he lays down, every uncompromising truth because he knows me as well as he knows himself. And there’s comfort in that, so much comfort in that; this isn’t something I’m making up. If my brother sees it too, it must be real.

“In all that writing you used to do about happily ever after,” Coal continues, “did you ever think what being happy would actually feel like?”

“None of those things were supposed to make me happy.”

I hear the words. I’m not sure who said them.

“What?” Coal asks. His voice is low. I’m still covering my own eyes, can’t see him, can’t face myself.

Something’s building, I’m so sick of revelations tonight, I can’t handle more, stop —

“None of the things I tried to do were supposed to make me happy. They were supposed to work. ”

A sob grabs me. Cuts off anything else I might add.

“Work how?” Coal asks softly.

There were guidelines when I was younger. Those storybooks I loved so much. There was a collection of fairy tales, all the old-school ones. The loyal, duty-bound prince and his sweet partner, happy ever after. Do this and this and this, and boom, a perfect life.

The kind of life where—

Fuck.

The kind of life where my mom would come back.

If I got this storybook perfect life, she’d come back.

Coal hisses in a breath.

I said that last part out loud. I can’t regret it, because with it comes a groundswell of an unburdening, washing away.

“It’s so dumb.” I’m ripped to pieces over how pathetic my voice sounds. “That I do this. Why I do this. Fuck, I know nothing I do will bring her back, but—”

“I know,” Coal whispers. “I know, Kris. I’m sorry, and I—god, I hate her so much. I’m so sorry she’s hurting you.”

This was all wrapped up in Coal’s own personal revelations a few months back. The deep, eternal scars that our mother leaving put on him. I was so proud of him for recognizing that and starting to heal, while I’m falling apart because I thought if I built some antiquated perfect life, not only would Mom undo what she did, but no one else would have a reason to leave.

I altered my whole being into shapes that fit voids in everyone else’s lives so they’d stay, so my life would look perfect, so I wouldn’t be alone again. But I never asked myself what shape I wanted to take.

“For what it’s worth”—Coal’s voice is strained—“it wasn’t a bad goal. You wanted to be happy. You still do. Somewhere along the way, you lost sight of what would make you happy in favor of what you thought you should do. This dream isn’t working for you, is it? So maybe it’s time to try a new dream.”

“That’s the problem.” Another sob comes, a whimper that echoes in the wide, empty room. “It’s all too big, and what if I pick the wrong thing again?”

“Kris, you don’t have to figure out who you are in one moment. Certainly not a drunk moment, god, I beg of you. Just start small. See what comes together. Keep making choices because you want them, not because you think anyone expects it or it’ll make someone else happy. None of this is for anyone other than you. ”

“I came here to do a job, though. I came here to—”

“You can do that. Like I said, we have time until the missing joy becomes a real problem, and you’ve already made progress in finding out about his uncle being suspicious. You have a few days left. And honestly, if you end up spending your time in Ireland making out with Loch and doing nothing else, do you think I’ll give a shit? I mean, I do, in that I definitely care about not pissing off the winter Holidays collective, but it’s impossible for me to not make sure joy is my priority. And your joy? Top of the list. Always has been.”

If I wasn’t already a blubbering mess, Coal’s words would have pushed me over the edge.

“What if he’s the one stealing from us?” I ask. “What do I do then?”

“Just… be cautious, I guess. But I don’t think you’d be this twisted up about someone who was a thieving asshole. No matter what happens next, keep choosing yourself. Promise me you will.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I tried, tonight, with—with Loch, and—”

And he walked away.

I should not have done that.

Coal picks up on what I don’t say. “It didn’t end well?”

I shake my head.

His demeanor changes. Stiffens. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. Not—no.” Yes. He did, but not like that.

“Was he drunk too?” Coal asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then tomorrow’s a fresh start. For both of you. Try to talk to him. See if you can get some clarity on the situation without alcohol or stress clouding things. Even beyond this kiss, I think he’s doing something for you. Whatever’s forcing you to face these truths about yourself is worth pursuing.”

He’s right.

Loch is the first person I’ve interacted with who hasn’t immediately made me think about what he expects of me, what he needs, who I can be for him. It’s been nothing but fighting each other from the start—I mean, I’m thinking of how to be what he needs now, like how to help him with his uncle, but it isn’t at the sacrifice of any part of me. It’s what I want to do.

Coal hums. “No more thinking, okay? Go back to your room and go to sleep. Actually—” He squints. “Where are you? Did you stumble out somewhere safe or do I really need to come get you?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m in the library.” Something occurs to me. Like a barrier lifted, and I can feel things that happened more fully. “The library I was in with Loch, where he gave me those books. I should’ve known then. It was like a scene from a queer Beauty and the Beast. ”

Coal laughs. It urges a smile onto my face and I’m so relieved for it.

“Go to bed,” Coal says. “For real.”

“Okay.”

“Do not fall asleep on the floor of the library. And hey. Look at me.”

I do.

His face takes up most of the screen. “I love you, dumbass.”

I roll my eyes in a miserable attempt to hide how much it means to me. “I love you too. Asshole.”

“Pissant. See? I can use that word now, too.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

I click off the video call. The library drops into blackness around me, and I lie there on the carpet for another long, shuddering breath.

Then I lift my phone again and send Iris that photo I took of the mess in the kitchen.

A few seconds pass, and she texts back.

IRIS

IRIS

i’ll make a mixed media artist out of you yet

saw your other text. you doing all right?

how’d the bottle break?

How’d the bottle break?

How did the bottle break.

There are a few couches around an unlit fireplace about two rows up, back by the door. I make my way there and collapse on one. It’s stiff and meant for formal sitting, not a sprawling guy drunk off his ass, but I’m too strung out to care.

I’m fine. Thanks.

Sorry I texted the group chat. Meant to only bother Coal with my mental collapse.

IRIS

so you were going to send me the pic of the shattered bottle, then nothing?? like i wouldn’t have known something was up anyway

i’m free right now. call me? we can talk about it

Thanks. But I just got off the phone with Coal, so I’m all talked out.

IRIS

it’s been a pretty interesting progression of photos you’ve sent. first the one of loch. now the broken bottle.

what’s the next one gonna be?

My reaction is to tell her—jokingly, the way I would Coal—to fuck off. Are we there yet? After everything else tonight, why not find out?

The next photo will be me lovingly flipping you off.

IRIS

eh, derivative. you’ve got more photographer potential than that

Are you seriously critiquing my text photo dump?

IRIS

like a fine wine babycakes

A noise warbles through the library a beat before my fogged brain realizes I laughed. It settles in my chest, real and warm.

Just for you, I’ll try to make my emotional breakdowns form a poetic, complete story arc.

IRIS

that’s all i ask

but seriously, take care of yourself, okay?

I drop my phone onto my chest and lay there, arm thrown over my head.

Coal told me not to figure things out in a drunk moment. Iris got me thinking about poetic resolution, which is the opposite of what I should be doing now; forcing my life to fit a certain mold is what got me into this mess. But maybe that’s not what poetry is? Nothing beautiful is ever forced. So what pieces have I missed, what path am I already going down that I haven’t noticed because I’ve been too busy trying to make other paths work?

Okay. Short introspection moment.

What do I know about myself?

One. I like writing. I miss it. I miss it so much that I think that’s part of the ache that’s always in my chest—I miss doing it for me, not to drone on about the economic and political ramifications of the Jacobite party against Robespierre’s rise or other dry-ass bullshit that I do not care about.

Two. Well, One-A. I really hate school. Like, deeply, passionately loathe it.

Three. I want to kiss Loch again. I want to kiss him again and again and I want to find out what he was going to do when he was trying to take off my belt. I want to know if he always talks like that when he’s kissing or if he was drunk, because if that’s what he does when he’s sloshed then whatever that tongue of his can do sober is going to completely annihilate me.

Four. Four. Is there a Four?

Well. Three things is a start.

Why did Loch say he shouldn’t have done that? Why did he pull away—twice, in the car and in the kitchen? Maybe he was picking up on my uncertainty? Everyone else sure as hell seems able to read me.

I’m starting to lose consciousness. In and out like my breath, brighter then darker, hazy then still. And I want to make a decision, have a plan for the morning, but all I can do is close my eyes.