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On paper, she and I worked. Oh my god, the hours of my life I wasted writing about that happy ending, bullshit poems and stories and letters, some love-struck sap. And I didn’t realize until the very moment of telling Iris I love you that I only loved the idea of a happy ending, not her.
And she gently said, “Kris…” in that delicate, trying-to-talk-down-a-crazy-person tone, and that was what clinched it for me.
I’m not too proud to admit that I can be bought with office supplies.
Me too, kris kingle
Do I sound as batshit as I think I do? The guy’s brows twist in stifled repulsion. Yeah. I do.
There’s a moment. Where I’m staring at the door. And I think to myself, This is my rock bottom. But I might as well find out what the full depth of my rock bottom looks like. Maybe there’s something interesting down here, like my dignity.
“You tinsel-bombed the St. Patrick’s Day Prince,” he says. “I have never been more proud of you in my life.”
“I believe he’s a jackass. I also believe that you’re incredibly capable of figuring out what’s going on.” Coal’s vicious grin returns. “And send me that video. I’m going to put it in one of those digital photo frames and set it above my fireplace.” “Piss off.” “And I’ll engrave it to say Baby’s First Political Incident.”
Fucking hell, why is their food so good? They’re the enemy. This should taste like dirt but I’m making a mental note to ask Renee to incorporate more Irish fare into our meals and I hate tipsy me for being a food whore.
“No—Kris. I love you. Go to bed. You’re drunk and tired.” “I’m fine. Totally sober. Never been more alert in my life.” Coal rolls his eyes. “Of course. You’re a picture of angelic grace. And since you’re so consumed by angelic grace right now, I’m going to tell you what to do, and you will gracefully obey me. One, you’re going to stop drinking whiskey, you lightweight dumbass. Two, you’re going to lay down and go to sleep. Three, you’re going to pretend that anytime Lochlann speaks, all you hear are choirs of little kids singing Catholic hymns. Four, you’re going to go to sleep.”
But relaxing is out of my capabilities at the moment. Hell, even thinking is out of my capabilities at the moment. I’m stagnant. A morbidly fascinated spectator in my own body as I let him put my fingers back on that orange line.
“I’m Irish, boyo. Talking shite is how we flirt.”
I never knew kissing could be this. Could be the fervor of every argument, the passion of every lashing that tongue has given me verbally, but in a way that melts my insides and I feel golden. His hands are on my jaw, clamped around my head, holding me in place like I might evaporate—I might, I am, he bites my lower lip and my blood is turning to champagne bubbles. I grab onto his sweater against his hips to anchor to this plane of existence, but I’m touching his hips, those arched hills, that deep V I saw in his studio, and I whimper pitifully.
I know that his kiss tasted like all the dreams I waxed on about in the writing I don’t do anymore, the words I wove while trying to imagine Iris but all I imagined was a fantasy, an ending. He tasted like those fantasies. He felt like those endings. It’s him.
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.
Me sober lol
“Yeah. A dumbass who’s whining about how he doesn’t do enough is just that—whining. He annoys everyone in his life with his refusal to accept the fact that he’s actually capable. So do me a favor, and do your sisters a favor, and stop with this whole act of not being worthy of your court’s support. I know Malachy’s gotten in your head, but fuck, dude. Just. Fuck.”
“It wasn’t a mistake. When we kissed. I couldn’t say that because of how much it meant to me, which is dumb, I know. I should be able to tell you. But I’m terrified of you. I’m terrified that you see the same broken shit in me that’s made other people leave because I’m a fucked-up mess and what do I have to offer you? God, Loch. Look at what you’re doing. Look at who you are.” I pry open my eyes. He’s still facing the canvas, his arm frozen, head cocked to the side. “You aren’t an awakening,” I whisper. “You’re the whole dawn. And I can’t believe I ever thought I’d seen the sun before you.”
“You’re a goddamn poet,” he snarls down at me, livid, “and I dinna stand a chance.” He kisses me, and the world goes ultraviolet.
“I don’t want better.” My thumbs dig circles into his hips, marking this spot, this moment. “I don’t want a fantasy. I don’t want sweetness. For once in my life, I want to be ruined.”
“If I had to choose again,” Hex cuts me off, “no matter the repercussions, no matter the situation, no matter what was at risk for Halloween, I’d choose Coal. I’d choose my own happiness.” My glare finally relaxes, widening in confusion. He shrugs helplessly. “My Holiday survived before me. It will survive after me. But I know now that I will not survive without him. So I’d choose him, and myself. Even if it makes no sense. Even if it hurts.”
