“It’s a fucking madhouse outside, guys. Way worse than a few days ago,” Sulli tells us in the tiny kitchen while the three of us unpack groceries from canvas tote bags.
At six beautiful feet tall with cascading brown hair, carved biceps, and a squared jaw, Sulli looks like the athlete she was born to be. She lingers in the walk-in pantry. Just so we can hand her paper towels and other items to shelve.
“Akara had to do some kind of reverse-maneuver and a three-point turn just to avoid running over some old dude with flowers,” Sulli says. “And there are literal fucking news vans. Like Channel 14 and Good Morning Philadelphia.”
I slowly take out a dozen eggs from a tote. I can imagine a morning news segment about the Cinderella ad. All the smiling anchors and their theories about who I’ll choose to date. It’s one thing to have my grandmother play matchmaker.
It’s another to have the world laser-focused and invested in my love life.
I’m trying not to worry, but I’m starting to realize this may be less of a passing storm and more of a staple to my every day.
I look to Sulli. “Hopefully they’ll disperse and we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.”
Maximoff feigns confusion. “What is that again?”
“Glorious dumpster fires on Tuesdays,” I say theatrically.
He nods strongly. “Shit storms every other Friday.”
I smile at him. “And we can’t forget the evening apocalypse.”
Maximoff smiles back. “Jesus, we’ve survived the apocalypse. It’s like we’re pros at this already.”
“That we are, old chap.” I mime tipping a top hat to him.
He hooks an arm around my shoulders. “Que ferais-je sans toi, ma moitié?” What would I do without you, my other half? He kisses the top of my head.
I’m about to reply, but we notice Sulli deep in thought, a few fingers to her lips.
“Sulli,” I call out. “Is something wrong?”
“Fuck…no, I just…I hope you two know that I’m a novice at this stuff compared to you guys.” She means the media chaos outside.
Maximoff hands her a jar of jellybeans, a topping she puts on pancakes. “You won’t even notice them after a while, Sul.”
“And we’re in this together,” I chime in. “You don’t have to face anyone or anything alone.”
“Yeah.” She nods, thinking. “It’s such a strange time to be moving in with you two. You’re like Philly’s Bachelorette, Jane, and Moffy, you’re getting married— ”
“Not any time soon,” he cuts in, his tone forceful like he’s enacting a new law: no wedding talk.
He’s been adamant this whole week about it too. While this crisis revolves around me, he doesn’t want any wedding planning going on.
Sulli smiles. “Got it. No wedding bells yet.”
Maximoff flips open a box of donuts that we bought for Sulli as a welcome, this house is now yours gift. He picked them up yesterday, so they may be stale. “Are you regretting moving in already?” he asks.
“No way.” She shelves the jellybeans. “I’m excited. Just a little freaked out by the people on the fucking street, but I think the FanCon prepared me for a lot.”
I’m happy the tour could help more than just my friendship with Moffy.
Sulli reaches for a Fruity Pebbles donut and bites into the dough. Cereal crumbs fall on her striped shirt. “And this place already feels like home.” She speaks with a mouthful. “I know where everything goes. I’ve slept over so many times, and you’re both here and so is Luna.”
My heart mushrooms, and a smile tugs my cheeks. I squeeze past Maximoff and wrap my arms around my cousin.
We hug and sway playfully side-to-side.
“I love you so much,” I tell her.
“I love you more.”
We pull back and smile. This past year, we’ve grown closer than ever before. Since she’s retired from competitive swimming, she’s been able to join us for more outings and trips.
And now she’s finally decided to leave the nest. She’s flown the parental coup and landed in our cramped but loving home.
Sulli could have so easily chosen my brothers’ flat in Hell’s Kitchen, seeing as how she’s best friends with Beckett. We’ve always had the open invitation extended to her, but I was even surprised when she finally accepted it.
I remember asking, “It’s because Eliot and Tom moved up to New York, isn’t it?” Living with two Cobalt boys is one thing. Living with four is hazardous. And I should know, I grew up with all five of them.
“Nope,” Sulli replied. “Beckett is super fucking busy with the new ballet, and I just really wanted a roommate. Luna sold me. She said we were going to get the fucked-up college experience that we’ll probably never really have.” She nudged my shoulder. “Plus, you and Moffy are pretty fucking rad.”
Our big life changes affect the lives of our bodyguards. Sulli’s move means that Akara Kitsuwon is officially living in security’s townhouse. Right now, most of SFO, plus Jack Highland, are helping him settle in next door. While also dealing with the mystery shoebox.
Later this weekend, the rest of our family is planning to help Sulli move furniture into Luna’s room. They’re transforming the space into a mini dorm. Complete with a bunk bed and beanbags. It almost makes me nostalgic for the whole three months I lived in Princeton dorms.
Almost.
Because those were also the loneliest, most miserable times of my life.
I don’t wish to repeat that.
The door to the adjoining townhouses suddenly opens. All of security returning. I try and look for Thatcher first, but I catch sight of Maximoff’s gaze. His powerful green eyes carry one urgent inquiry. As if silently asking: what was in the box?
12
JANE COBALT
Akara just shared the disturbing details of the shoebox with Sulli, Maximoff, and me in the tightly packed living room. Mainly to let us know this is a security matter.
Don’t worry, they all say.
It’s not about you , they all say.
It only affects us , they all say.
I think Security Force Omega has forgotten how much we deeply care about them and how much it hurts seeing them harassed while they shield us from harassment.
It’s our job , they say.
I know.
I appreciate their sacrifice more than they can possibly understand.
Did I ever imagine one of our bodyguards would be sent roadkill? In a box? With a bow wrapped around the mangled squirrel’s broken neck?
No.
Gross acts are tragically normal for me, but mostly when my family and I are the recipients. I’m not used to my bodyguard being a target.
Thatcher is a soldier. Tremendously tall. He’s physically a powerhouse, a supreme godly and angelic being who is built to protect and defend. I see so clearly that this is where he wants to be. I see how much of himself he’s willing to give to keep my family safe.
I’d just like to be next to him.
To be a wingwoman.
His confidante.
His right-hand.
I want to slip into his back pocket.
Possibly even literally sliding my hand down south and squeezing his…oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.
I try not to pulse. Now is definitely not the time. But the air has lightened as chatter returns, cats scampering around everyone who’s gathered here, which includes Farrow, Donnelly, Oscar, Quinn, Thatcher, and Jack.
I sit on a stair, nibbling on a chocolate turtle, and I find myself picking my bodyguard out of the small crowd.
Thatcher stands incredibly stoic at the front door. He’s shrugged off his flannel, his plain gray crew-neck snug on his firm build. Features hardened, biceps chiseled, and shoulders braced in a vigilant stronghold.
His narrowed gaze slides along the room and lands on me.
I inhale a soft breath.
His chest rises.
I ache to talk to him. To ask how he’s feeling. I ache to be closer, for his large hand to hover beside my arm or waist. I ache for so much between him and me that I shouldn’t welcome or invite.
But we are allowed to converse. We should talk.
Reach out, Jane.
Just as I begin to stand, Thatcher detaches from his spot, and he crosses the room. His attentive gaze never leaves me.