Page 145 of Go Luck Yourself
The chair leather creaks under my hands.
Coal touches my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
I look at him, deadpan.
He’s not smiling. Not letting me brush this off. “I’m serious. I’m proud of you for putting up boundaries. I’m proud of you for protecting my brother. Because I kind of love him like crazy.”
I chew the inside of my cheek.Boundaries.Is that what I did? It’s what Ishould havedone, years ago. But I let it go until just seeing a missed notification from her was enough to set me off on a panic attack. Which I do have, I know now; and Wren’s hinted a few times at being willing to help me find someone to talk to about them.
But Coal shouldn’t be praising me for doing what I should have done years ago. For doing what was my responsibility to fix: protecting myself.
Is this how Loch felt every time one of us would compliment him? Uncomfortable and deflective because, deep down, it wasn’t heroic at all. It was the basest level of expectation, and we shouldn’t be heralded for meeting it.
His refusal to accept praise was grating.Wrong.
Is mine?
Coal hugs me. No warning. Just his solid presence and a too-brief moment of peace.
“You’ll believe me someday,” he tells me. I cling to him. “And I’ll keep reminding you of how brave you are until you do.”
School starts again.
I should go back.
I don’t.
No one says anything about it. Not Coal, not Iris. I ignore the emails I get about lectures and deadlines, and the decision to not go back passes over me so unobtrusively I barely notice it.
Coal spends as much time with me as he can, but he’s stretched between final meetings with the winter Holiday reps, the impending treaty signing, and the combined coronation-treaty party for after Easter. Iris comes to see me too when she’s able; and Hex.
I throw myself into helping Coal—to avoid Iris and Hex’s pity, but mostly to atone for my screw-up. We know St. Patrick’s Day stole from us; we know who, we know why. I expect Coal to come up with a gameplan for confronting them—confrontingLoch—to get the joy back. I expect to walk into his office and for him to tell me,Today’s the day, we’re going to confess everything to the winter Holidays collective and hope they forgive us for losing the joy we owe them.
But he doesn’t.
Negotiations carry on. Party plans are made. I fight to stay attentive during meetings, and anytime there’s a task that needs doing,however mundane, I jump on it, hurling myself headfirst into all necessary writings, administrative duties, errant chores—hell, I even start coordinating with our head chef to dish out meals at the meetings. I’m desperate to be useful, shaking internally from the remnants of my earthquake, waiting for the aftermath rubble to crush me.
But then, about two weeks after I got back, we receive an invitation. To the coronation of the St. Patrick’s Day King.
Along with that invitation comes another device like the one used to steal our joy, only this one, if plugged in, would transmit joytous.
Marta plugs it in, and St. Patrick’s Day sends back the joy they took from us almost instantly.
The need to atone darkens, warps, and the energy shifts every time I enter a room. Like I’m that sad, pissy dark shadow again that had to actively thinkdo not be a prickto get through interactions without sulking. Everyone I’m near picks up on that, treating me like there’s a fifteen-foot security radius emanating around me.
I try to rally. Coal needs me to buck up; Christmas needs me to get my shit together; if I’m not going back to school, I have to beuseful,smile at these winter Holiday reps, why is it so hard? This is my future now. It always was. Fitting into whatever’s needed of me.
My screw-up with St. Patrick’s Day resolved itself. I didn’t even have to do anything, did I? Loch gave the magic back. He probably would have anyway, if I had never gone there at all. He’d have eventually reclaimed his Holiday. He’d have eventually owned up to the theft; it’s the kind of person he is.
I did nothing.
My self-loathing grows wings and loops around my head and my resting expression is a pained snarl.
So after a meeting where I’m supposed to be taking notes but miss half of what was said and Wrensighsat me—probably not in exasperation, probably in sympathy, but fuck both of those things—I march myself back to my room, self-imposed house arrest.
I rip out of the suit I’m wearing and drag on a hoodie and sweats. The ornate couch in my suite’s main room is stupid uncomfortable, but I flop onto it anyway and pull out my phone.
My thumb automatically goes to the text thread I had with Loch.
