“Youaren’t,” I cut in. “Coal—this isn’t what—”
“What did I say?” His voice is stricter than I’ve ever heard. Andthatshuts me up, the severity, a force of presence he’s always capable of but rarely,nevershows.
“You may feel like you don’t know who you are,” he continues,“butIknow who you are. You’re kind and considerate and you’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I know, and you’re probably already thinking of ways to help Loch with his uncle. You’re artistic and sensitive and strong, and there’s a reason you became my rock. But you’re allowed to be soft, too, and selfish. And I think that’s where you’re struggling, not knowing where to start with choosing stuff that’s foryou.Why did you think you loved Iris?”
I sniff. “Don’t. Don’t make me talk about her.”
“Dumbass, I willcome over thereand hang you upside down if you don’t—”
“Jesus. Fine. I should have loved her, okay?”
“Why? Who said?”
“Just—everyone.”
“Who?Specifically? Who looked at you and said,Kristopher, you need to fall in love with Iris?”
My mouth hangs open. And I have no answer.
“You assumed it was what people expected of you?” Coal guesses. “Do you remember during Christmas, when Hex first got here, I asked what you wanted to do with your life?”
Yes. “No.”
“Liar. You almost told me. Youalmostsaid something, then you deflected. What were you going to say? What do you want to do?”
Alcohol is a cruel, tricky truth serum, because I fully intend to play up having no idea what he’s talking about when instead I say, “I want to write a book.”
I do?
I did.
Forever ago. So long ago it’s the wish of another person, and I’m shocked it’s still living within me. And it is,living,because saying it out loud fills me with a buzzing sensation, the same champagne fizz as when Loch touched me, like every moment without this is stasis.
I used to write books. Silly little stories. Coal read a few, and I even let Iris read a few too, and she—god, I forgot all about this. She drew characters from one of those books for me, two kids at a summer camp in what I vaguely remember as being pretty much a direct Percy Jackson rip-off. I still have that picture somewhere, because it meant theworldto me, toseethese people I’d made up in my head.
Coal shakes the phone. “Kris! God,yes.Yes, okay? That’samazingand you should. I remember you used to write stories all the time. All your happily ever afters.”
I close my eyes and a tear leaks down my temple.
“And tonight,” Coal continues, “when he kissed you. Did you kiss him back?”
“I should’ve used tonight to question him about the joy theft.” I throw words like shields. “Ichosenot to do that, Coal. It was an intentional decision I made and I fucked over our Holiday all for—all for—”
“I would’ve been pissed if you had asked him about that.”
My eyes fly open.
“Did you kiss him back?” Coal repeats, punctuating each word.
Numb, I nod again.
“I think that was the first time in a long, long while when you did something becauseyouwanted it. Not because it fulfilled some requirement you felt was put on you. And I’m proud of you.”
I flatten my hand over my eyes, tears stinging as sharp as every observation he lays down, every uncompromising truth because he knows me as well as he knows himself. And there’s comfort in that, so much comfort in that; this isn’t something I’m making up. If my brother sees it too, it must be real.
“In all that writing you used to do about happily ever after,” Coal continues, “did you ever think what being happy would actually feel like?”
“None of those things were supposed to make me happy.”
