Page 124 of Sinful Like Us
Concern ripens in his eyes. “If something is wrong, you can tell me.” He’s like iron and wine. Sturdy, unfailing, intoxicating, and mind-altering. Willing to banish my insecurities but jumbling my senses.
“I don’t know how,” I admit. My palms are so clammy—ink from the paper smudges on my fingers. I fold the list and slip it in my purse.
He hasn’t shifted an inch, his grip cemented on the handlebar of the cart. I think he might be afraid that one small movement could scare me off. Ifeelskittish, at least.
He sweeps me over one more time. “When I don’t know what to say—or if I think I might fuck it, if I do speak—I just try and take a couple breaths first.”
My mouth dries, and I attempt to inhale, but air crushes more pressure on my sternum. I’m going to have to just expel as much as I can, hopefully as bluntly as I can. He deserves the words I struggle to find.
“Itisabout the groceries,” I tell him. “At least, that’s a part of it.”
He nods me on.
“The other part,” I continue, throat swollen but words gush out harder and faster, “is the fact that the public learned I’m planning Maximoff’s wedding. All today I’ve been confronted with horrible opinions about my life.” I take out my cell and pop up screenshots of blog post comments.
Thatcher animates and raises a hand towards me. “You don’t have to read them to me, honey.”
“I want to,” I say. “They don’t hurt me.” I begin. “‘Jane Cobalt, the coattail rider. Never doing something for herself. If she’s not working for her cousin, it’d probably be her mother, father, or siblings.’” My hand gripping my phone starts to tremble. I squeeze tighter. “‘She’s such a disappointment. Imagine being the daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt and choosing to follow Maximoff Hale around like a lost puppy.’” I blink back a sliver of pain. “‘Jane Cobalt could have been our queen. Instead we got a weak imposter who can’t do anything on her own.’”
Thatcher takes a stringent, urgent step around the cart.
My pulse spikes and I shuffle back.
He holds up his hands like he comes in peace. “Jane.” He says my name with concern and severity. “You can stop reading that horseshit.”
They don’t hurt me, I want to repeat. But they have to some degree. I always prided myself on rising above hatred and not letting the world’s ridicule affect me. I feel small when I let them in and they tear a chunk out of me.
“I used to think it washorseshittoo,” I say into a nod. “I did. I read the same garbagewhen I worked at H.M.C. Philanthropies, and I truly believed that they were wrong. Because at the end of the day, my job doesn’t define me.” I point at my chest. “I’m more independent, self-sufficient than anyone on the other side of a screen even knows. Sure, I can work for Moffy. I can work for my mom or dad or siblings. But I don’tneedsomeone in my life. I don’t want for anything or anyone. The love I carry for myself is enough. It’salwaysbeen enough.” Tears my burn eyes. “Until I met you.”
I expect him to look like I took a sword and shoved it through his ribcage, but he stands before me like a soldier wearing Kevlar, used to taking bullets.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Keep going,” he demands.
So I do.
“It’s about the groceries.” I reroute to the beginning. “Because Iwantyou around me every hour of every day. Not just as a bodyguard but as a boyfriend. In these small moments, I feel it tenfold. And I shouldn’t want it. I just shouldn’t. It makes me some co-dependent, weak-willed girl like all these people have theorized foryears. I’m proving them right—and…and…” I can’t breathe.
I tug at the collar of my sweater.
Thatcher rushes forward and tries to touch me.
But I keep him back and press my hand to his chest. Applying little force.
His palms hover over my shoulders. “Stop for a second, honey. Just take a breath.” He gently cradles my elbows while I push a little harder. Uncertainly.
Fumbling, my handsfumbleagainst his body.
“Just get away,” I say half-heartedly. My head wants him gone. My heart is telling me to fold into him. Let him wrap me up.Help me.God, I want that. But that’s the problem, I should be able to help myself.
“Please,” I plead.
He steps back, just one foot, and his hands drop off me.
“This is all wrong,” I tell him through frustrated, helpless tears. I wipe at my eyes. “I shouldn’t be treating you like this. I’m not capable of having a boyfriend.”At least, not him. Not someone I wantthismuch.
“Jane, it’s fine—”
