Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

Jane arches a brow, hands perched on her hips. “What can you say?”

“I think Sulli did accept Thatcher’s apology. She knows you don’t feel great about what you did.”

“So then why is she avoiding me?” Jane wonders.

“That’s between you and her.”

“I did something?” Jane asks, looking devastated.

“She’s going through a lot, Janie. Just let her process…” Fuck, I’m saying too much. I shut my mouth. Not even Maximoff has let this slip to Jane—what’s fucking wrong with me today?

Jane thinks quickly. Her eyes suddenly flood. “Merde.” She touches her belly. “It’s because I’m pregnant and she’s…”

Unexpectedly pregnant. Comparing you two.

Yeah.

The realization hangs in the air without me saying a word.

Thatcher squeezes Jane a little more.

She breathes out a controlled breath, trying to push aside the hurt.

I try to sweep this shit under the rug. “How’s my niece doing?” I crouch down to her belly-height. “Ready to meet Uncle Banks?”

Jane sucks in a sharp breath. “Thatcher.” She catches his arm.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

I stand up fully. It’s way too early for her to go into labor.

“I think she kicked. She’s moving.” A smile slowly replaces her hurt.

Thatcher touches the side of her bump. My stoic brother can’t restrain the swell of emotion. “I feel her.” They lock loving gazes, then share a moving kiss.

How could I not be happy for them?

I’m smiling, and partly, I think I’m happy for me too.

Sulli is pregnant. I’ll have this sweet moment with her. And I want a family like my brother has with Jane. I want the Blue Lagoon life with Sulli and Akara. Us and our kids. The fantasy element is being on an island. Eliminating all danger and outside criticism. I know I’ll never have that.

The world can’t just let us fucking live.

“You want to feel, Banks?” Jane asks.

I touch her pregnant belly. Sensing tiny fluttering movement. Toothpick between my teeth, I smile over at my brother. “She’s a strong one. Fifty-percent a Cobalt.”

“Fifty-percent a Moretti,” Jane finishes.

I drop my hand. “I’d say that’s the strongest combo of them all, but there might be a Meadows-Kitsuwon on the way.”

“Or a Meadows-Moretti,” Jane notes.

I lift a shoulder. Am I more afraid of a Meadows-Moretti baby? The other combo means I have the possibility of defaulting to the “fun uncle” instead of the dad—which keeps freaking Akara out. It’s freaking me out. He wants us in this paternal role together.

I do too.

Easier said than done.

I thread my arms. “You come up with a name?”

“Not yet.” Jane adjusts her slipping purse. “My grandmother keeps pushing for Violet or Dahlia.”

“I’m guessing those are definite nos.”

“Affirmative,” Thatcher says.

“No flower names. Though we’re considering Rose as a middle name. Maybe Gloria.”

Gloria. “Ma will flip,” I say to my brother. “I can already hear her now with a big grin. You shouldn’t have, but you should have.”

Thatcher smiles into a deep laugh.

Jane beams at his happiness. “We also thought maybe you’d want to use Gloria as a name.” She speaks to me. “In case the baby is yours.”

Baby names.

We haven’t discussed ‘em. Haven’t even contemplated buying baby stuff. A crib. A nursery. Haven’t even told her parents she’s pregnant yet.

I stiffen.

Ryke Meadows might kill us. I’m not looking forward to being on his bad side again.

“You should use it,” I say. “Our baby could be a boy.” And there’s no way in hell we’re naming him Michael.

33

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

Maybe Akara and I should’ve stayed up there with Banks. Not only am I agonizing over what Jane and Thatcher and Banks could be talking about right now, the hotel bar becomes the opposite of a fucking sanctuary.

I slide low onto the buttoned couch. Wanting to disappear into the swanky gold-stitched pillows. The 1920s prohibition decorated bar is small. Only one lounge area and only about five whiskey barrel stools at the sleek bar.

My family and I stamped our names and asses on the lounge furniture. Watching as unwelcome faces claim the unoccupied barstools.

The Rochesters are here.

Beside me, Charlie and Beckett’s piercing yellow-green eyes are nailing fuck you glares onto the family we all hate. I think…I think my ex-boyfriend is absent.

Quick peek over there and yep, I only spot Wyatt, Wesley, and Winnifred. For as long as I dated Will, I never really hung out with his family. They followed me on Instagram, then quickly unfollowed me after the break-up.

Then blocked me after I confronted Will at his family’s house.

All I know is that Wyatt is in his thirties, works for Rochester Industries, an entertainment & media conglomerate.

My ex is the next oldest at twenty-eight.

Wesley is twenty-five, also works for their family.

Winnifred is eighteen, and last I saw before the Instagram block is that she was accepted to Columbia University.

Eliot has been seated on the armrest of Luna’s chair and makes no effort to hide like me. He’s staring the Rochesters down. “There are four different bars here, and they’re choosing this one.”