Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance, #2)

by Sara Raasch

I’m not too proud to admit that I can be bought with office supplies.

“Listen up, pal—I am two days from this paper on French political thought determining whether I pass this course on European politics,” and that won’t save me from having to do a fourth year at what is typically a three-year school, but fuck that. “Which means right now, my body is being held together by obscure facts about the French Revolution.

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.

His list of likes was as vague as the ones for his sisters: painting—which, duh, art history—and whiskey. If that’s what we’re doing, my whole personality is writing and self-doubt.

I altered my whole being into shapes that fit voids in everyone else’s lives so they’d stay, so my life would look perfect, so I wouldn’t be alone again. But I never asked myself what shape I wanted to take.

“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.”

I imagine myself both a bird and an egg, building this nest of creativity around my unformed and delicate soul, nurturing it with stories I still love. I barely leave my room, but even in that solitude, I’m taking up more space than I’ve ever allowed myself.