Page 82 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“You need to talk it out. You need diplomacy between all three of you. Not fencing matches. Not pagan rituals. It’s all just stupid, distracting gimmicks that don’t get to the heart of the matter. The three of you need to talk.”

His lips tighten as he gazes into the distance, and I know the meaning of that gesture, too. Theyou’re right but I won’t acknowledge itone.

“You seemed pretty happy last night with the ritual,” he eventually points out in a petty tone.

“I was. More than. But if three teenagers having sex in a loch does anything to restore the balance of the universe or whatever, then I’m yet to be convinced.”

Rory frowns deeply at this but doesn’t respond. “Besides, my father’s not a political dictator,” he mutters, picking at the sleeve of his shirt. “How dramatic. He just has to make difficult, unpopular decisions because the previous inept PMs almost managed to destroy the country.”

“Right,” I say, the sarcasm thick in my voice. “Surely you aren’t still sticking by him after what he did to you this morning?”

“He’s my father. If I don’t stick by him, then I have no one and I have no power.”

“You haveus,” I point out, running a hand down his bicep. He releases a long sigh, looking torn. “Why do you need more?”

“Because it’s not enough,” he mutters, slumping over the balcony and rubbing at his eyes. “Where’s the power here? A prince who’ll never be king. A separatist obsessed with breaking up the UK. And the son of a leader people believe is a political dictator.”

“If there is no king,” I point out slowly, “then there can be no kingdom — united or no. So it’s not Finlay who’s breaking up the UK. It’s your dad.”

Rory grows silent, staring hard at the illuminated castle as though having only just realized this. “So we’d become a disunited alliance instead of a united kingdom. Not quite as catchy in my opinion.” He bites his lip, glancing at me. “I’m run ragged,” he mutters, peeling away from the balcony, the fairy lights glimmering in his dark blond hair. He loops an arm through mine. “Come join me in my room?”

It’s a request, not a demand, and I wonder if he’s learning. I wonder if he’s learning to be better, if this morning with his father has humbled him somewhat.

I nod, following Rory without a backward glance. Always. My entire world is consumed by Rory, and a Rory who leads me to his bedroom may be my favorite version of him.

The others’ eyes are on us as we leave the rooftop, and in the periphery of my vision, I even notice Finlay standing suddenly as if to follow us. But it all fades away in my mind, because Rory Rory Rory.

We descend the many, many levels of staircases, though going downstairs is easier, and we twirl down the banisters, laughing breathlessly as we land on the level with the bedrooms. He nudges open the door marked Ruairidh and steps aside, giving me access to his private space.

I step inside, feeling honored. Every other time I’ve been in Rory’s bedroom, it seems to have been on the back of some disaster — Operation Strike First, Benji’s torture session. But this… This is just us. Just a boy and a girl alone in a bedroom.

Ruairidhisn’t the end of the Scottishness. In fact, it seems to be the beginning. His huge bed is covered in a deep, rich tartan, a plaid of dark blue and forest green. And stretched out above the headboard is a massive charcoal-gray landscape of terrain protruding from the wall. I stare at it in fascination. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“It’s Lochkelvin,” Rory says, looking pleased by my reaction. He moves across to his bed to examine it in closer detail. “It’s the lands I’ll inherit when the time comes.”

It’s a vast swath of hills and lonely barren moors reimagined in textured, shapely inclines along the wall. To me, it looks like an anonymous mass of swollen curves, as though the wall is alive with dips and craters. But to Rory, it has a different meaning. As though off by heart, he reels off the estate and the school, the rugged mountains where we walked, the winding loch where we bathed together last night.

Rory’s fingers trace the loch, which brackets both school and estate in its descent from one of the tallest mountains on the board, before trailing to the east. “I was worried,” Rory tells me reluctantly, the kind of thing he’d only ever save for behind a locked bedroom door, “when you said you wanted more than one person. I thought it meant I wasn’t enough for you. And arguably, I’ve been such a dickhead to you that I guess I deserved that.”

I stare at him, startled by this admission. “You’re enough,” I say, amazed that I have to spell it out for him. That far beneath the bravado is a boy who wonders if he’s good enough — for his father, for his friends, for me. “You asked for a fantasy… and you actually gave me it. You’re more than enough.”

Rory nods slowly. “I trust Finlay. He’s abundantly easy to read. And I know he’s a dick so I may as well use him as one.”

He sounds so serious that the dryness of his comment takes me by surprise. With a laugh, I set out to explore the rest of his bedroom.

There’s a tall bookcase full of leather-bound classics. Along his wall is a series of anonymous-looking binders. Open flat-down on his large writing desk is a hardback copy ofThe Three Musketeers, dog-eared and well-loved.

I glance back at Rory in interest. He watches me from the bed.

“A favorite?”

Rory turns his head to the side, not meeting my eyes. “I read it a lot… after my mother passed.” When I think he’s finished speaking, he adds quietly, “It’s stupid but I always make sure I have a copy out.” Each word is pulled out like blood from a stone, as though this level of honesty is something he’s wildly unaccustomed to.

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” I tell him, because I too carry mementos. I’ve constructed an entire lifetime — and death-time — around a single red ribbon. I play with a wooden yo-yo and wonder about the man who gave me it.

“Actually,” Rory starts, but then it’s as though he thinks better of it and purses his lips.

I raise an eyebrow, flicking through the book. “Yes?”

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