Page 58 of Go Luck Yourself
Is he seriously mad about me and Siobhán?
Thereisnome and Siobhán.
Jesus motherfucking Christ in a shithole.
I stick the bib to my tank—Malachy’s distillery has a logo on this too, god, overkill—and dive after him.
As I elbow my way into the crowd, I spot the first group of Holiday reporters clustered in with regular ones. I recognize some from the events they covered in Christmas. A guy fromHoliday Herald;a reporter and a photographer from24 Hour Fête.They’re hanging back like they do when we’re all in public, which is a relieving buffer, that they can’t be all up in my face without arousing suspicion and breaking thekeep our worlds separate and privaterules.
But they spot me, and they spot Loch ahead of me, and I watch them take shots of us as I follow him.
The path he takes weaves deeper into the festival, behind the race registration tent and away from the gaggle of reporters. When I get about two yards behind him, we’re lost among normal people and I’m close enough to call out to him, but he slows his pace. Here is where the festival goers congregate, kids darting between legs and people milling around booths that sell food and hot drinks. Signsfor Green Hills Distillery are rampant, and there’s a giant tent farther down hawking bottles of its whiskey.
But the booth Loch ducks into displays rich maroon wood carved into sea creatures. He goes right up to an older guy and they exchange friendly hugs before talking animatedly, hands waving, all smiles.
I stop a few paces outside the tent, too far to hear what’s being said, and I’m unsure of why I even care to catch up with him.
But I stand there. Watching like a creep as they chat, then Loch nods goodbye and heads to the next tent, this one selling watercolors.
The process repeats: he greets a person, I’m guessing the artist; they talk and laugh; then he heads to the next tent, and so on.
Coal can often be found bouncing from person to person at our events. He knows absolutely everyone’s names and random facts about their lives. So this could be that, and these people could be linked to Loch’s court somehow.
Something doesn’t sit right, though.
Why isn’t Loch making sure reporters see him interact with people? My whole apology was to prove that he isn’t the irresponsible, scandalous prince the headlines say, but he didn’t even stop to let the Holiday press get any shots of us at the race tent, and he hasn’t once glanced around to see if they’re nearby now. They aren’t.
I let him pull ahead in the crowd, losing him in the people and noise.
My sternum tightens and I rub it absently.
I could ask one of the people he’s talked to what he’s doing. But what if they aren’t part of the Holiday world? Then I’m the weirdo stalking this guy for no good reason.
Or, here’s an idea: I could ask Loch himself.
Psh.Hellno.
I angle for the speaker’s tent to find Siobhán and see if she’ll give me answers, but an announcer calls all racers to the starting line.
Later, then.
The race begins on a blocked-off road that runs parallel to a wideriver, its water a flat, still mirror for the swath of blue sky. The opposite bank shows the descending tiers of hills that wove us down into Cork, and the route ahead is lined with ivy-wrapped trees that cut halos of shadow through the piercing sun.
I fall in with the other racers, stretching and jogging in place. It helps warm me where I’m still freezing, but I don’t feel it as much.
I do, however, feel him come up next to me and begin stretching too.
I don’t say anything.
Siobhán and Finn are off to the side with the spectators. Siobhán gives me a thumbs-up; Finn sees it and elbows her to stop.
A starting gun pops.
“Don’t trip, boyo,” Loch says and takes off.
I bolt after him.
It’s a 5k; it’s absolutely idiotic to lead at a dead sprint.
