Page 108 of Go Luck Yourself
Loch grunts as I slam them into his chest.
“Pulled these out of your vast collection,” I say. “I was happy to find that your library wasn’t all dry-ass classics. You said you can’t give me what I need, but maybe I can give you whatyouneed. Some actualjoy.”
They’re books I loved when I was younger. Books I read when I was at the peak of my writing obsession, when I wasso certainall these happy endings could be mine if I… if I wasmore.And yeah, this is what started me off on my fucked-up belief system, but at the time, I was so innocent in my joy, andthat’swhat I miss more than anything. To be happy and not analyze why.
Loch fumbles the books in his hands, eyes fastened on me, not a shred of anger left now.
“Kris,” he tries. “I—”
But I leave, and get two feet out of the library when Siobhán yells something at him in Irish.
I don’t bother using magic to translate. I get up to my room and drop into the desk and keep writing.
And it turns into writing about him.
The same vein as the shit I used to wax on about over Iris. Only it’s more pointed, and the places where I’d get stuck over her, they flow now—like the framework was in place, but it’d refused to congeal because it was waiting for that final piece. Forhim.
For that stubborn prick.
I should send it to the reporters. An exposé on Lochlann Patrick from the inside, who hereallyis. I’d have to tone it down rather significantly; this is opulent, flowery writing, words I haven’t gotten to use in years because there’s no room for them in academic papers or political documents for Christmas. Words likediaphanousandgrazeandephemeralandravageand evensloppy,because there is poetry in mess, too.
I write, and write, sculpting reality into something imperfect and beautiful.
I don’t come out of my fugue state for a long, long time, breaking back to the surface with a gasp. My back screams from being bent over, stomach roiling with hunger and eyes going slightly crossed. They burn when I grab for my phone to check the time.
After midnight.
A smile rises.
In spite of the pain, I feelgood.
There are missed texts from Coal and Iris about tomorrow’s details for Belfast. They’re planning off of Wren’s original schedule, so I give a thumbs-up at the where and when we’re meeting, then scan the rest of my notifications.
There’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN
You didn’t tell me those books you gave me were so fucking sad
I launch to my feet, good feeling evaporating.
Thatasshole.
This number was for your sister. For emergencies.
UNKNOWN
This is an emergency. Look outside your door.
Frowning, I open the door to see a dinner tray on the hall’s carpet. My stomach rumbles at the smell of braised meat and potatoes.
Next to it, in a neat stack, are four leather notebooks under an unopened package of cushion-grip pens.
Heat burns up my face.
Fuck him.
I juggle the tray and writing supplies, nudge the door shut with my hip, and set everything next to the notebook Colm gave me.
