Page 50 of Go Luck Yourself
Well, not today.
I’m halfway through pulling on my running gear—the schedule says to change here, not at the race, then meet in the foyer at eight—when I smell… breakfast? Bacon, for sure.
My slight nausea goesoh-ho, we are not so slight anymoreand rampages up my throat.
I shove my fist against my mouth. For fuck’s sake, do not barf before a run.
I follow the noxious fumes to the door, open it, and find a breakfast tray on the threshold.
A quick glance tells me the hall is empty; it’s barely six thirty, and while I’d blame my sleeplessness on the time change, it’s entirely because I don’t really sleep anyway and more passed out in restless turmoil for a handful of hours last night.
I grab the tray, knock the door shut with my hip, and deposit the tray on the desk. It has a pitcher of water and, under a metal cloche, I discover a plate piled with thick-cut bacon, scrambled eggs, scorched tomatoes, mushrooms, and a giant scoop of baked beans.
The smell smashes into me like a battering ram.
I slam the cloche back down and rock over the desk with another gag. “Oh, no—”
There’s a note next to the pitcher.
Hangover Cure. DRINK ALL THE WATER.
In that curling, cursive script I recognize from the study room door.
Did he—
Did Loch make mebreakfast?
I swallow again. Hard.
Sending me this is diabolical.
I am not going to throw up. As long as I get out of this room. Like, right now. God, the smell.
Loch is the actual devil.
I’m the first one in the foyer by a long shot, having to escape my room and all, so I catch up with shit I missed on my phone.
A few texts from Coal, making sure I didn’t do anything dumb last night. No comment.
Messages from Wren too, updating me on today’s schedule and expectations.
More in the group chat between Coal and Iris, Coal saying how he’s started planning for his combinedI am Santa nowslashannouncing the winter Holidays collectiveparty. Iris jumps in with how her sister hasn’t finalized a date for the wedding that was supposed to happen weeks ago between her and the Valentine’s Day Prince, but Easter prep is swamping them all anyway, so whenever the Christmas party happens she’ll try tomake an appearance.
Coal’s already responded that he’ll hold off on any parties until after Easter so Iris can not only be there, but also bementally present.
I assure Wren I’m on top of things—I’m ready to go early, I’ll be on my best behavior; I’ll finish up the latest meeting talking points today too, what else can I do?
Then I fire off a few texts to Coal—do you need anything for the party; the missing joy hasn’t caused problems with the other leaders yet has it?
I click on the last of my notifications—
—and every hangover symptom intensifies in a sickening furor.
Mom texted me.
A sour tang burns the back of my tongue, head pounding angrily.
It’s a photo. The one Coal said he’d gotten from Dad before I left for Ireland, of him and Mom at a pool bar.
