“I will.” She nods, her collarbones tight.
One of us needs to move.
She’s just twenty-three.
“I’ll see you later,” I say another goodbye.
“À la prochaine.” Until next time.
And finally, I lift my cemented feet and move to the staircase.
9
JANE COBALT
Oh my …oh …my …oh my God.
We just shared an intimate moment in his kitchen, didn’t we? Heat still ascends my breastbone to my neck to my cheeks, and my breath comes out like I’ve jogged five-miles around the block. In practicality, that’s five-miles more than I would ever jog.
Or perhaps I’m just drawing conclusions and filling in blanks that I shouldn’t.
I gently shut the adjoining door behind me, half-gallon of milk tucked to my chest.
If I remove some bias, then I’m left with facts, and those facts are that I don’t need more from anyone. Not love, not sex, not anything in between, and Thatcher and I simply had a normal , polite conversation.
About his personal life, which he very rarely shares.
While he was in a towel—but towels are just ordinary fabrics a person uses after bathing. Towels don’t have to be sensual. Not even when they’re fastened to six-feet seven-inches of heaven and man.
He talked about his family traditions, then he washed my sunglasses without second thought, and did we both struggle to depart?
I touch my lips, my smile absolutely uncontrollable.
“Janie?”
“Hmm.” I wake out of a Thatcher Moretti stupor much too slowly. Just barely noticing Maximoff, who stands rigid beside the pink Victorian loveseat.
“Are you panting?”
“She’s definitely breathing hard,” Farrow states.
“What?” My mind snaps into clearer focus, and my face burns as I notice my audience of two men. Right where I left them.
I’d been in deep conversation with Maximoff and Farrow before I went to retrieve milk next door, and I knew they’d be here when I returned.
I just didn’t expect to be this distracted by my bodyguard.
“No, no panting.” I intake a normal breath and step away from the door. “This is my regular breathing pattern.”
The living room décor is frilly and pastel due to my taste. But Moffy didn’t mind that I decorated our townhouse. I brought in a rocking chair, a pink Victorian loveseat, mint-green rug, framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, and a small iron café table.
Our home smells of coffee, tea, and candles, so very unlike the cedar and musk of security’s townhouse.
“You look flushed .” Maximoff gestures to me with his Batman mug, full of steaming hot tea. He also grips a pack of pushpins.
“I am,” I say in a shallow breath, “so very flushed.”
I have no desire to skirt around the truth with my best friend and his fiancé when I want them involved in my life as much as I love being a part of theirs.
Really, I can’t remember a time where I haven’t been a part of Maximoff’s life. As the firstborns of the Hales and Cobalts, we’ve faced the brunt of the media spotlight and harassment together since birth.
I remember a school field trip to the zoo. Paparazzi were waiting outside the gated entrance, swarming the ticket booths. Two middle-aged cameramen kept shouting at us, “Jane! Maximoff! Have you started dating anyone yet?! Is there someone you like in school?!”
We were only twelve.
It was our normal. One we had to accept fully or else we’d go mad with irritations.
So once we entered the zoo, Maximoff looked over at me with confidence and a smile.
I smiled brightly back, and for the very first time, I told him, “It’s just you and me, old chap.”
He squeezed my shoulders in a side hug.
We were one another’s comfort and refuge. As teenagers, we’d deal with worse, but we had each other.
And we felt responsible for our siblings and cousins.
Maximoff very much enjoys responsibility. And I do, but to an extent. I don’t prefer leading anyone anywhere. It’s a terrible pressure to make decisions for large groups.
But I love holding the torch with him. Helping those behind us avoid falling into the dark underbelly of fame.
Because we knew whatever we experienced, our younger brothers, sisters, and cousins could soon experience after us. We tried to protect them from the cruelest parts of our reality. Blocking the numbers of porn producers off their phones, bartering with paparazzi so they’d leave them alone after school.
And then we’d take deep breaths. We’d hug and share secrets—late night in the Meadows treehouse, parked outside the school’s football field, after his swim meets and my mathlete competitions.
It’s just you and me, old chap.
And then it wasn’t.
Not anymore, not entirely.
Farrow Redford Keene came into vivid focus. With a picturesque know-it-all smile, unflappable confidence, and cascade of pirate tattoos. He’d comb a hand through his dyed platinum hair, roll his eyes, wear a teasing grin, and send my best friend into a fit of agitation.
Agitation that roused attraction.
He truly had this magnetic exchange with Maximoff that no one else did, and I saw it more up-close when he became Moffy’s bodyguard, and then closer, when they first dated and trusted me, out of everyone, to keep it secret.
I could’ve been bitter that I’d have to share Moffy, I suppose. Or I could’ve been awfully afraid that Farrow would take my place in my best friend’s life.
But I was cautiously optimistic instead.
Maximoff—my compassionate, stubborn, strong-willed best friend with a great aversion to big life changes—was willing to complicate his world by letting Farrow in.
I couldn’t resent the person who made Maximoff laugh and groan and smile in ways I’d never seen, but I was afraid of not meshing well with Farrow.
What if we never become friends? What if we actually dislike each other over time?
At first, building a friendship together seemed so dreadfully complex, but like all things with Farrow, he made it simple. During the Camp-Away last December, he chose to sit next to me in the mess hall. I was eating alone, and he could’ve easily sat next to Maximoff.
He made me feel like a first thought.
He’s never once made me feel like an unwanted third-wheel. He’s never pushed me out. He’s also gone out of his way to ensure I have plenty of time with Moffy.
Even the night of the car crash.
He’s given my best friend more, and somehow, he’s given me more, too. I feel as though I’ve gained another confidante, another ally, another defender and secret-keeper from the perils of our chaotic world.
I think Farrow is a beautiful person inside and out, and I will never desire to go backwards. To a time where he’s not with us. To just me and Maximoff.
Our worlds are more full of life with him here.
And now that I’ve fully admitted to both of them that I’m indeed very, very flushed, I plan to clarify further. But I’m easily distracted.
This time, by my cats. Five out of six are pawing at my calves.
“I know you’ve been waiting, my loves. Look what I have for you.” I rattle the half-gallon of milk. “Come follow.” I guide them to bowls lined in front of the brick fireplace.