Page 130 of Be Your Anything
“So…I mean, shit,” I say, rubbing at the stubble on my chin. “As your business partner, I’m stoked, but I have to be honest here. As Hannah’s brother—”
“No, I get it,” he interrupts, rolling his head to stretch out his neck. “This makes things complicated.”
We stand in silence for a beat, neither of us saying anything. Then, I cross my arms and give him a stern look.
“Don’t fuck this up, Wyatt. Don’t keep this a fucking secret and then break my sister’s heart.”
He nods at me. “I have no intention of hurting her.”
“But that doesn’t mean you won’t. Trust me, I’ve been there, and if I remember correctly, so have you—quite recently.”
Wyatt rests his hands on his hips. “I’ve got it, Lucas.”
“Alright, then. Keep me updated, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Wyatt gives me a little wave then heads down the steps and out through the courtyard to the street.
I take a few minutes to move slowly through my house, turning all the lights off and making sure the windows are closed and the doors are locked. And then I lie in bed for much longer than I should, wondering about what comes next, not just for me, but for everyone—for Remmy and the baby, for Wyatt and Hannah.
I think about all the change coming our way. The upheaval we’re going to be experiencing. The shift in the tide.
A storm is coming, and it’s hard not to be worried about what that will mean for us all.
When I put the ad in the paper, I knew what I was getting myself into. I’ve always been somewhat private, never really putting my personal life out there for the world to see. Partially because it’s nobody’s business, but mostly because I just don’t want the attention.
Fame-grabbers and attention-seekers, at least in my mind, are people who don’t have enough in their lives to make them feel worthwhile, so they go out searching for it in public opinion.
I’ve never needed that. I have enough money, I have enough relationships, and I do what I enjoy. That’s all I need. Or, it was all IthoughtI needed. Until Lennon.
Now I know all those things don’t really matter if I can’t enjoy them with the person I love.
I wasn’t originally planning on doing a grand gesture, mainly because a one-time declaration isn’t enough to convince a queen you’ll do anything to make her happy.
But then I realized the one thing Lennon never had from me that she always wanted. For me to belong to her, and for everyone to know it. So, I’m doing what I can to give her a chance at having that. If she still wants it.
The one thing I was always concerned about was her family’s role in deciding her future, and I’m hoping today she proves that both of us are worth it, that we are worth getting exactly what we want, regardless of anyone else’s opinions or expectations.
“Lucas, can you tell me anything about this leading lady of yours?”
The reporter approaches me with a photographer and a recorder, giving me a friendly smile I know is used to try to build trust. I also know Caitie Fulton is a shark, and if I were going to hint at anything with a reporter, she wouldn’t be the one I’d talk to.
“Not unless she decides to come today,” I reply with a smile of my own as I pull the swim cap onto my head.
“Oh, come on. You know the South Bay is swirling with reports that you’ve broken up with Remington Wallace for this other woman. Was there an affair?”
I laugh. “Caitie, I have no intention of sharing information about my relationships with you. Anyone who’s important to me will have the details they need to decide whether I’ve done something wrong or not.” I shrug. “And that’s really all I’m concerned about.”
“So the story that you serenaded a group of women at Papa Louis’ on Friday evening…is that true?”
I stretch an arm across my chest. “Myself, Wyatt Calloway, and Otto Sinclair sang a barbershop quartet, without a fourth, at Papa Louis’. We put on a show for the entire restaurant, including a table of our siblings and friends.”
“Ten minutes!” someone calls out from behind me.
“Look, I appreciate what you’re doing,” I tell her, “but if there’s a story for you, it’ll be at the finish line, not here.”
Her smile drops, along with the hand holding the recorder, and she heads off into the crowd with her photographer.
I’m desperate to roll my eyes at her, but I refrain because I’m in public. Fetu would kill me for getting into a tiff with a reporter.
