“Ah, Siobhán, no—” Loch starts, but she’s pouting at my brother, who is obliviously looking down at Hex, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear.
“It’s not every day we have such esteemed guests with transportation magic,” she says, loud enough that Coal does hear.
“What now?” he asks, and I step in.
“We’d be happy to get everyone to Belfast,” I say. That much magic won’t break us.
Coal blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah! Christmas is more than pleased to extend this offering as thanks for St. Patrick’s Day’s invitation to—”
“Don’t overdo it,” I cut him off.
He shrugs. “Hey, I’m a diplomat now—you can’t shut that shit off. Loch knows what I’m talking about.”
Loch seems stunned that Coal is joking with him. “It’s hard to live a split life.”
Coal conjures some mistletoe. As he approaches the nearest door to set it up, I stay with Loch. Siobhán does too; Finn’s the only one who keeps her distance.
Siobhán squeezes Loch’s arm. “You’ll let us know how it goes, yeah? Do na make me pull it from ya.” She pauses, and her joy falls. “You owe us that at least. We could’ve helped. We’re in this too.”
Loch wilts. “I know.” He yanks her into a hug, face resting on her shoulder. “I know, deirfiúr. I did na mean it as a snub. I—”
His eyes hit mine.
“I owe it to you,” he whispers to her. “To fix what I broke.”
She pulls back and swats him in the chest. “You brokenothing,Lochy. This is all Malachy and his shit.” She smiles, happiness and sunshine again. “Now go and show them how great you are. Go and show them howworthyyou are.”
One half of his lips tips up. “Thanks.”
She winks at me as she slips over to grab her coat off a wall hook.
Loch stuffs his hands in his pockets, tension winding between us, within us, a rebound of unsaid words and unfelt emotions.
“You are,” I tell him, throat welling, “worthy of this.”
Even if he’s the one stealing from Christmas. Is that where his reticence is coming from? Or is it just who he is, someone incapable of accepting praise?
Regardless, I’m not going to make room for his discomfort. He’s going to know how great he is if it kills him, because even if he is the thief, I’ve seen why he had to steal from us. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it understandable.
Expectedly, Loch cringes and drops my gaze.
“Enjoy Belfast,” he says, then he’s gone, hurrying up the hall.
My heart does a hard twist, lurching me forward a step.
But Coal’s next to me, and he throws his arm around my neck before I can do something stupid, like run after Loch. “Don’t let him sour your day. We’re here, and we’re going to havefun.”
The Belfast street where Coal takes us is packed, old black cobblestones crowded with people just like us, faces painted, but taken further too—massive green hats and shamrock headbands and bright green coats. Storefronts around us are mostly pubs, doors thrown open and various bands competing for airspace with screaming fiddles.
This seems to be the epicenter of the festivities, which is why it isn’t surprising when the Holiday paparazzi find us after about twenty minutes of walking around. I clock them snapping our pictures, but I don’t feel that usual twist of offense or repulsion. What will their speculations be about why Loch isn’t here?
Siobhán and Finn transform into our tour guides—Siobhán willingly, Finn halfheartedly, still upset about Loch, but she at least seems distracted by Iris. We start at one pub and let the night carry us up the road, from bar to bar to a brief stop at a street vendor for flaky beef pasties, then back into it, until it’s a fog of music and laughter and bodies getting progressively looser.
Which is how we end up at one pub that’s playing the greatest hits of Irish musicians, and the crowd belts out each one like singing is giving their livers a pep talk. There’s a giant chunk dedicated to The Cranberries, and Iris downrightscreamswhen they start playing “Zombie.”
I’ve lost track of how many glasses of whiskey she’s had—she’d make Loch proud, honestly—but she jumps up from her chair at the table we’ve crowded around and sings alongside most everyone in the pub. Siobhán joins her, and Finn sits there and laughs and takes video blackmail.
Coal and Hex are making out. Unsurprisingly. Coal isn’t even drunk—he doesn’t really drink anymore since Hex, and I think he’s the only one clocking that I keep ordering soda. But with the night wearing on, they’re fully consumed in each other as the band croons about what’s in your head, in your head, zombie-ie-ie ohhhh—
