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

by Sarah Grunder Ruiz

A mess in every way. Someone must have made her see herself that way, and whoever it is, I hate them.

When I see homes like this—imperfect but clearly loved—it makes my chest ache. I want to have a place like this. Somewhere to belong. 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.

But my problem isn’t that I don’t think. It’s that my brain only has two modes: think everything all at once and make sense of none of it, or think about one thing obsessively at the expense of whatever actually needs my attention. The point being, I am always thinking. Just never about the right things.

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

“Tá tú go hálainn, ciaróg.” “What does that mean?” “It means you’re beautiful.” “Oh,” I say, feeling myself blush. “Do you know a lot of Irish?” “Just whatever I learned in school. And a few phrases to help me flirt with girls.” “Does it work?” “Sometimes.” He releases my chin. “Níl mé ag iarraidh go dtéann tú.”

His eyes roam my face before meeting mine again, and the way he looks at me makes my chest ache. He wipes the tears from beneath my eyes, then cradles my face in his hands. “How can you think you’re too much, when I can’t get enough of you?”

You deserve every good thing, even when you’re having dark thoughts. You deserve to be happy, even when you aren’t well. And love—you deserve that too.