Page 96 of Lovers Like Us
“I’m not hiding under the table.” They already see me. It’s a lostcause.
“Maximoff Hale!” one shouts, approaching our table. He wears a Chicago Cubs T-shirt, and his friend has on a Superheroes & Sconesbeanie.
All the bodyguards are quietly alert, and Farrow is sitting too close to me. He knows it, and in a sly second, he slides off the stool while unwrapping a piece ofgum.
And he extends a hand to them, “Watch out for the glass.” He motions to thenapkins.
“Oh shit,” one guy says and steps around the broken glass. Nearing me. I stand off the stool, but I rest my forearm on the table. It’s hard to tell if he’s a fan, a guy who likes comics, or atroll.
They ask if they can shake my hand, and you know what, the strangest thing happens. My gut reaction isno. I almost never saynoto afan.
I think about how Farrow Keene lingers a foot next to me. How if I shake their hands and they throw a drink, a punch or pull a knife, my bodyguard will block theirpath.
And he’ll be the one doused with liquor. Hit in theface.
Or god-fucking-forbid,stabbed.
Telling Farrow to not do his job—that’s not an option. But I’m realizing that if I want to protect him, I need to stepback.
Whenever I can, I need to be more careful. He can’t take a bullet for me if the gun is never loaded. And I’m not scared of what people can do to me. I’ve always been afraid of what they can do to the people Ilove.
And I fucking lovehim.
So in a resolute, unwavering moment, I tell the guys, “No, sorry. Nottonight.”
Farrow’s eyes flash to me, surprise inthem.
“It’ll be super fast,” the geeky guysays.
“Sorry,” I say, notbudging.
Farrow adds, “The bar isclosed.”
The sportier guy points to the Jack Daniels. “Then how’d you getthat?”
“We’re special,” Oscarsays.
“Whiskey?” the geekier guy says with the shake of his head. He puts his hands on his S&S beanie and looks to me. “You shouldn’t be drinking,dude.”
It almost makes me smile, how much he speaks like we’re best friends. I like that I’m something for someone out there, and maybe I was for him. When he needed the idea of me, Iexisted.
“I know,” I tellhim.
“You’re supposed to be sober,” he says, genuinelyconcerned.
“Still am. Ipromise.”
The Chicago Cubs guy sways a little like he’s been drinking, and he points at me. “Danny is right. Stay away from thebooze.”
Thatcher rotates on his stool. “Maybe you two should call it a night?” His tone is like an older brother to a littlesibling.
“Can we get some selfies first?” Danny asks, pushing his beanie off and fixing his auburnhair.
“Not tonight,” I tellthem.
“Really?” His shoulders sag, bummed, and that’s the worst part. But weighing the safety of my boyfriend over the two-minute happiness of a fan, there’s nocontest.
Farrow is going to win every damntime.
