Last Call at the Local (Love, Lists & Fancy Ships, #3)

by Sarah Grunder Ruiz

A place that’s mine, where I can be myself with people who understand me and like me just the way I am. People who don’t wish I was someone else.

When she lifts her gaze to mine, the first thing I think is, I’ve fucked up, because it’s at that exact moment I realize I’m going to be undone by this girl.

“Aithníonn ciaróg, ciaróg eile,” he says. “It’s an Irish proverb. Roughly translated, it means, One beetle recognizes another.”

Where would I go if I could go anywhere? I don’t like to think about things like that. I’d love to see new places. Have adventures. New experiences. Meet all sorts of people. But traveling means uncertainty. It means unfamiliar places and situations, new triggers, no routine to rely on. It’s easier to pretend I don’t like traveling than to admit that this is one more thing OCD has taken from me.

Her hand in mine doesn’t take the thoughts away or make me feel better. But it gives me something to hold on to when I have no idea if I’ll sink or swim.

I’m not well. I haven’t been able to admit that, not even to myself. I’m not well. But I’m going to get better.

I turn to face her and tell her I love her and that, whatever is going on, things will be okay, but her eyes are already shut.