Home > Infamous Like Us (Like Us #10)

Infamous Like Us (Like Us #10)
Author: Krista Ritchie

 


1

 

 

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

 

 

Fireworks blast off into the California night sky. I don’t see colorful bursts of light, but the noise thunders around me and vibrates the ground. Even the bathroom stall rattles from the cacophony—a very real reminder that I shouldn’t be squandering my time here on this fucking toilet.

Or as Banks calls it—a shitter.

My lips rise as soon as I think about one of my boyfriends. Boyfriends. Not such a bizarre fucking concept anymore. At least to me. I’ve lost a lot of faith that the world will ever understand. I told Akara that I bet they’d only approve if I died.

In my death, they’d accept my love of two men because I’d be gone and there’d be nothing left to criticize or hate. Or maybe they’d just keep on hating.

We’re not letting anyone get to us, Akara reminded me. It’s been our motto since we confirmed our relationship to the world.

We’re not letting anyone get to us.

They won’t break us apart.

They won’t hurt us.

They won’t win.

I’m fucking competitive, but I never imagined the harder race would be against anonymous faces and internet hatred than swimming an actual Olympic event.

They won’t hurt us.

But fuck, does it hurt some days. Thick skin comes and goes like armor I’m renting from the Cobalt Empire, but Moffy says that the painful parts just make me human. Jane says Cobalts hurt too.

Beckett tells me not to worry—that all my family are here for me. And they are. Literally. Cousins, aunts, uncles, plus my mom, dad, and sister are in the packed stands somewhere outside this bathroom. Even Beckett, my notoriously busy best friend, has taken a couple weeks off ballet to cheer me on.

And here I am, holed up in a fucking toilet stall. Hoping my current mega-crisis will shrink to a mini-one. My pulse climbs, knees jostle. Boom!

I flinch.

Another firework bursts.

And then another.

It’s just a firework.

It’s just a fucking firework.

I blow out a measured breath and try to let my pulse decelerate. We arrived in Los Angeles over a week ago to frenzied crowds, aggressive paparazzi—more pushing and pulling—and I want to blame this fucking city for the extra mayhem, the extra stress, the invasive questions and blistering spotlight.

But it hasn’t just been a week of fame I can’t escape, can’t circumvent, can’t outwit, outplay, or outlast.

It’s been six months.

Six months since I climbed into my childhood treehouse with my boyfriends. Six months since I announced to the world that I’m in a poly relationship with two bodyguards.

Six months since everything changed.

Sitting on the shut toilet lid, more worry crawls under my skin, but the source isn’t from brash noises or impending danger.

Nerves swarm me as I stare hard at the slim white pregnancy test in my hand.

Boom!

I jerk my neck. You’re safe. You’re fine, Sulli. Fireworks are like a ticking clock, telling me I need to hurry. I need to go. Join the festivities.

Delight in all the hard work that brought me here.

The Summer Olympics.

Be with my boyfriends, who are no doubt a little fucking freaked out that I’m taking so long. But I can’t leave until I have this one answer.

“Sulli, get your fucking shit together,” I coach under my breath. My legs jostle more as I stare hard at the test.

I already pissed on the stick and recapped it.

Thirty-seconds through the 5-minute wait, and I swear I’m already sweating through this thick navy Ralph Lauren blazer.

“It’s the Opening Ceremony to the fucking Olympics,” I whisper. “And you’re in a bathroom talking to yourself while you wait for…” I can’t finish the words.

Not that I think someone will overhear. Akara and Banks searched the bathroom stalls before I even entered. All clear. Now my boyfriends stand guard outside the door, and my stomach is in knots.

I check my watch. “Three more minutes,” I say to myself. Hearing my own voice calms me a bit more. Noise is a constant background whenever I’m in public, and I haven’t been swimming in this much quiet during make-it-or-break-it, stress-induced situations in a while.

I could call Akara or Banks in here.

To wait with me. To be a shoulder to lean on. To comfort me. They both would. But here’s the fucking thing: I haven’t told them.

When I realized I missed my period recently, I didn’t want to bring up the issue to Akara or Banks. We already had one scare months ago after the condom ripped. And fuck, we’ve been careful since that slip-up at the end of January. I took Plan B. I got my period.

Not pregnant.

Now it’s the tail-end of July, and I’m in a worse situation. Too late for Plan B. A pregnancy test in hand.

The Olympics literally starting now.

Even buying a pregnancy test took Harry Potter levels of sorcery—exactly what Luna said to me when she slipped the pregnancy stick in my pocket like a badass James Bond.

Since Luna has experienced a pregnancy scare, I went to her for help. I thought about going to my mom, but I’m scared she’d tell Dad and he’ll end up thinking worse of Banks and Akara. He’s in my corner now, and he’s also slowly building a good relationship with them.

Emphasis on fucking slowly.

I bet that’ll all crumble like Humpty Dumpty if he believes they weren’t careful with me. Again. Like the world, my dad also heard about me taking Plan B. We had a tense family dinner that ended with him cursing out my boyfriends for not wearing protection. To which they had to so awkwardly clarify that condoms were involved.

One just broke.

So I’m trying to avoid that. But that feels so minor and so inconsequential to the bigger picture. Which is the jarring fact that I could actually be pregnant right now.

I chew on the corner of my lip. Not realizing how hard I’m biting. The bitter, iron taste of blood reaches my tongue. Fuck. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I check the time again.

Luckily, the United States is last in the Parade of Nations as the host country this year. So I have some time.

“One more minute,” I clock. My pulse quickens. Akara and Banks think I’m taking a shit. Fucking truly. I was lined up with the rest of the U.S. athletes when I pulled my boyfriends aside and whispered, “I have to take a nervous shit.”

They were both super duper fucking concerned and whisked me to the nearest public bathroom. My heart literally swelled five-sizes too big during that single moment.

Now my heart is shriveling into a ball. I never wanted to be the kind of girlfriend who’d keep secrets from her boyfriends. Especially not ones this monumental and life-changing.

Telling them I could be pregnant has felt like info that’ll be a blow to the head more than a warm, inviting hug.

So I didn’t do it.

Not yet. I figure if it’s negative, there’s no point in causing them more stress. With all the publicity surrounding our relationship and my Olympic journey, they’ve been more on edge. More watchful. Observant. Danger feels like its creeping around the corner, a second away from breathing on my neck, but I’m here to compete.

I’m here to win gold.

I can take the test. See the negative results. End my own paranoia and return to total concentration. Total victory.

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