Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance, #2)

by Sara Raasch

I was in love with the idea of a fairy tale ending, but I wasn’t in love with her. So that’s my type, I guess. Fantasies.”

“you not texting in your normal proper format is the most terrifying way I’ve ever been yanked out of a meeting.”

In my defense, liking people that way was easy and calm, and I wanted easy and calm. I wanted simple and drama-free and steady. Now, I’m wondering if I ever wanted that, or if I thought it would make me happy as a contrast to how torn up I always am about my other life stressors. I thought the balance to being in a constant state of anxiety was peace; but what if it’s chaos? Not fighting my own chaos or trying to tamp down my emotions, but leaning into it until I’m yelling and he’s yelling and honestly, it’s hot. Maybe liking someone should be this caustic, a long, slow, silent death.

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 like diaphanous and graze and ephemeral and ravage and even sloppy, because there is poetry in mess, too.

It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it understandable.

“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 so pretty when you beg, Kris.”

It’s easier than seeing another choice I’m making, and it might be the wrong choice—it is the wrong choice—but walking away is a wrong choice, too. Maybe sometimes, a bad choice can result in goodness. Because sometimes, a good choice can result in pain.

“You don’t paint a whole picture at once, right? And I wouldn’t write a whole book in a single moment. So let’s take it word by word. What you just did, us, all of it. Word by word, okay?”

“She knows. She doesn’t care. And that’s why I wrote it—she’ll never care, not really. She’ll keep acting like nothing happened and we can pretend it all away without acknowledging all the shit she’s dragged us through—” “Us. We,” Loch cuts me off. “You’re allowed to feel this. Just you.” My eyes sting, filling too much now. A tear breaks free, tracks down my cheek. “She’ll keep acting like she didn’t do anything. To me. She’ll keep acting like what she did wasn’t cowardly even though she knows she hurt me. And even if she’ll never care, I care, and I’m not going to keep acting like it’s my responsibility to make up for what she did. This way”—I nod at the letter, on the desk now—“I get to acknowledge what she did. I get to deal with it. It’s for me.”

“I don’t know what your problem is—maybe you don’t deserve me, which is insane; but I sure as hell don’t deserve you, either. So be unworthy with me, in this moment, right now. We’re here. We have all day. I showed you part of my soul and we’re next to a bed. So kiss me, you idiot, and be with me.”

“Do not regret choosing yourself,” he tells me. “No matter what outcome is unfolding now—Coal is glad you did. We all are.”

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.”

What does being happy feel like? Not the ending. The after.

I’ve been so obsessed with various endings giving me closure or happiness that I’ve neglected the journey to get to any of them. Like putting words into a story, word by word.

What about the journey I’m on right now? What about this moment, the one I’m in? What can I do in this moment to help me feel content, whole, safe, fulfilled?

I need to do this for me. I need that selfishness still.

His smile goes cataclysmic.

My chest constricts. “You see me,” is all I can think to put words to.

I told you once—there is no greater measure of value than what you give to a piece of art. And I’ve come to mean that in a bit of a different way. There is no value greater than what you have for me.”