Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

Luna lets out a long breath. “You really want to know?”

I probably should just let her bad thought perish. What if it changes our friendship? But I’d rather absolve Luna from whatever’s plaguing her. That’s what friends do, right? We dig through the nasty shit together.

So I say, “Lay it on me.”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I thought…I’m so happy it didn’t happen to me.”

Oh.

“Luna…” I start but I don’t know what else to say. I’m not great with words.

“It’s just…” She stops drawing on her knee. Her amber eyes rest against my green. “The world thinks I’m going to walk the same path as my mom. Become a sex addict. Have a surprise baby. I guess…it could still happen, but now I’m not the first, so I was just…relieved.”

She doesn’t seem happy now. Just remorseful.

“It’s okay,” I breathe.

“It’s not.” Her head drops.

“Yeah, it fucking is.” I elbow her until she raises her head. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you want to feel, and you know, I’m glad you weren’t first either if it’s not something you want.” She’s gone through a lot of hell being bullied in high school. People might think she’s an easy punching bag, but she’s one of the most resilient people I know.

“Do you want to have the baby then?” Luna wonders.

“I think so.” I pick at my ankle bracelet. “Plan B is different from an abortion…I don’t think I can abort a baby, knowing how hard it was for my mom to get pregnant, to have me…” I trail off, going quiet. “No part of me really wants to.”

Not even now.

At twenty-two.

With two boyfriends.

At the Summer Games.

I expel a heavy breath. “I just need to figure out how to tell Akara and Banks about it.”

Who’s the father? The thought plows into me. This might change everything all over again. I don’t want one of them to feel lesser because I’m having the other’s baby.

Jealousy hasn’t been a big factor these days, and what if that monster rears its fugly head?

Luna offers a sparkly turquoise gel pen. “You could write them a letter.”

Not a bad idea. While I take the pen, Luna lies on her belly and stretches to the floor, whisking a notebook from her backpack.

“Should I write two letters? One for each?” I ask. “Fuck, what if one letter sounds better than the other one and they compare—maybe I should just write one and address it to both. Ugh…” I rub my eyes, stress mounting.

Upright again, Luna places the notebook on my lap. “Don’t overthink.”

“That’s my fucking problem. I literally can’t stop overthinking.”

Luna smiles. “Whenever I get in my head, I just tell myself—do the opposite of what Moffy would do. No thinking, just go.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. And it’s kind of…you know, put me in some interesting situations. Not all great. But at least I didn’t stress about it.”

We’re both smiling.

She’s right. I need to go with the path that has the least amount of stress. For starters, I’m pretty sure stress is bad for a baby.

“One letter,” I say and flip open the notebook to a blank page. “I might give it to them the next time we cross paths.” Which I hope is soon. Despite carrying this massive secret, I miss having my boyfriends around me. “Decision fucking made.”

Telling them before trying to qualify for semifinals is probably not the best timing. But telling them after isn’t great timing either.

A knock sounds on the door as I scribble out a few words.

“I’ve got it.” Luna hops off the bed.

I glance down at my progress.

Dear Banks. Dear Kits.

I’m pregnant. And I’m keeping this little champ.

Champ. That word just came out of me like a second breath. I can practically hear my dad calling me champ for those confidence boosts. I stare at the letter for a long moment.

“It’s better if you two just stay inside.” Thatcher’s voice rips me from my reverie.

What is he doing here?

Luna lets six-foot-seven Thatcher fucking Moretti inside. Stern, serious, and an awkward root among this messy tree that is my fucking life.

He was never cheering for my relationship with Banks and Akara. Now he says he supports us together, but it’s obvious I’m not his favorite person. Being an untidy roommate doesn’t help.

“What’s going on?” I ask tensely.

Thatcher shuts and locks the door behind him. He’s in full security mode. Black slacks. Black button-down. Mic wire running up to his ear.

“I’m here to grab your lunch orders,” Thatcher says stiffly.

“It’s that packed?” I told security I didn’t want to go to the caf if it’s above 90% capacity. Other athletes gawking and staring at me, I can take. But I’ve been bombarded with selfie requests since I showed up at the Olympic Village, and to maintain some level of focus, I’m trying to avoid that.

“It’s peak lunchtime.”