Page 157 of Sinful Like Us
I can’t unfuck this, but I wish I could. Partly so we could continue the game together. Mostly because Jane wouldn’t feel like she failed.
I focus on something I can do.
A box of dead radios sits at my ankles, and I work on changing out the batteries. Chatter escalates around me, along with laughter. Flames crack in the fireplace.
Last night, the heaters broke again, and everyone congregates in the living room so they don’t freeze their asses off. Holiday classics play from Quinn’s phone, but no lights are strung. No eggnog to drink. No tree. No presents.
The gift that I planned to give Jane, I left at the townhouse.
Really, we just have each other, and that almost kills the homesickness. Bodyguards and clients play poker with cash, others talk quietly on couches or keep to themselves.
Like me.
I sit alone on a long bench near the doorway, where cool air flows in from the kitchen.
My eyes linger on the other side of the room, near a deep mahogany bookcase. Filled with dusty encyclopedias and almanacs. Jane and Maximoff huddle close together, alone, whispering in a heavy conversation with coffee and hot tea.
They’ve been like that for the past ten minutes, and every now and then Maximoff will pass Jane a box of shortbread cookies.
Can’t change the past.My inaction eats every part of me. So I just unclip the back of a radio and ditch out the dead battery.
Farrow exits the kitchen and stops next to my bench. “Here.” He taps a beer bottle to my shoulder, holding another in his right hand
I frown. “I thought we were out of beer.”
“Oscar hid a couple bottles.”
I’m not about to decline the offer. And a beer sounds good right now. I nod in thanks, untwisting the twist-off cap. “Does he know you’re giving me this?”
Farrow nods. “Yeah. We all agreed you need a beer more than any fucker here.”
I take a stiff swig. It’s been less than 24-hours and everyone who knows that I’m Thatcher is aware of the argument Jane and I had.
Over nudes.
The level of awkward has reached middle school dance territory. No one on the team has ribbed me, but I can tell they want to but aren’t sure how serious the fallout is. So every time I walk into a room, I’m met with silent stares and cagey glances.
I lower the bottle. “Me and Jane—we’re good.” I’m not sure Farrow cares to know my relationship status, but I tell him anyway since he’s here. I don’t go in-depth about how Jane and I talked all last night or that we’re on the same page, same understanding again.
We’re goodsums it up.
Farrow isn’t petty, I realize. If he were, he’d steal my beer back.
To my surprise, he takes a seat beside me and leans against the paisley green wallpaper. “That’s one of my favorite things about being with someone.” He sips his beer.
“What is?” I pop in a battery with one hand.
“Going through shit together. Growing with the person you love.” He smiles into his next swig, his gaze on Maximoff Hale.
I swallow more beer, eyes latched to Jane Cobalt.
She sits pin straight, ankles crossed, and brushes cookie crumbs off her sweater.
My chest rises.
I’m more used to imploding relationships when shit happens, but with Jane, I never want to give up on us. It’d be a sucker-punch to the gut if she decided we weren’t worth the hard parts. We can come out on top together, and the time we’re taking to pick each other up has only made us stronger.
I talk to Farrow. “Difference between us, the shit you had to go through wasn’t orchestrated by your boyfriend’s family.” I place the powered radio on a side table. “The Hales gave you water wings.”
