Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

Sun has barely risen. Light blues of the early morning shade us, the air cool, and in front of me, Akara has reached back, and I cling tightly onto his hand. Behind me, I lean into the feeling of Banks’ strong, protective clutch on my waist.

Familiar.

Safe.

They have me. Fucking forever, they have me.

“SULLIVAN!” The shouting never stops.

Most of my family have already reached the entrance of the private marina. Paparazzi can’t go inside or touch the docks. Forget my fucking luggage—I’m just concentrated on surviving this madness and I have no assistants to help carry my bags. But Akara ordered extra security to grab our stuff.

Thanks, Kits.

I only worry about reaching the superyacht.

And I realize we’re one of the last left fighting inch-by-inch to reach the doors. My dad stuck around for as long as he could. Ultimately, he relinquished the task to my boyfriends—and I’m so fucking happy he trusts that they’ll take care of me.

Besides my triad, only one couple remains in the aggressive pits of paparazzi.

“LILY! LO!”

I glance to my right, and through the commotion and pushing and camera flashes—my gangly, green-eyed aunt is looking to me. Aunt Lily’s expression swells up inside me like the tides of time. She’s nodding to me like, you can do this, Sulli. You can do anything.

Uncle Lo has his arm around her frame.

And as they barrel ahead, less media teeming around them, I sense my aunt passing a torch to me. A torch I know she wishes would burn out, but like any fucking Olympian, I grab the torch and keep going.

After the music festival, I could have become a recluse. Locked myself in the penthouse. Never saw the light of day until the baby was born. Maybe longer. Maybe forever, I’d be a hermit.

Except I remember the overwhelming feeling after Thatcher was shot. The shame of cowering. The shame of retreating from the pyrotechnics. I know it’s okay to retreat when I’m terrified, but so badly, I just want to be brave.

I want to challenge myself to move forward, even when it’s the scariest thing on Earth. And so when Aunt Rose and Uncle Connor announced a spontaneous yacht trip, I didn’t hesitate to say, I’m fucking going.

I’m here today. I’m joining my family.

I’m never hiding.

The world will always try to break us, but my mom is right—I’ll lose a part of myself if I stay cooped up, and I’ll never have the chance to heal.

And this trip is healing for everyone—not just me. It’s a four-day vacation to escape the press, who’ve been hounding the ever-loving fuck out of everyone about the shooting. Banks said reporters are even bothering his mom and uncles.

Not even two weeks have passed, and Thatcher is still recovering—but he suggested a trip to his in-laws in the first place. He was thinking the lake house, but weather turned out to be surprisingly perfect for the yacht in September. So teenagers took off high school and everyone who needed to cancel work, cancelled.

Even Beckett is missing some ballet performances.

While Thatcher is recuperating, he’s not allowed to do any heavy lifting on the yacht. Just sitting, relaxing, being with Jane and his family—because his big Italian-American family are all invited too.

And I smile, knowing the Morettis are already Akara’s family—but they might be my family someday far into the future too, once we get hitched. Or maybe they’ll just seamlessly be mine like they became Akara’s in time. Just like I know my family is already theirs.

And me, Banks, and Akara—the three of us—we’re our own family too. In seven months, our baby will be with us. My smile never leaves, even as we keep pushing forward. Even as the cameras flash. Even as they shout our names.

* * *

Second day on board, we cruise around the Baja Peninsula, and night has fallen, twinkle lights strung above the main yacht deck where everyone has been mingling, dancing, and eating dessert.

I’ve pulled away from the big clusters of people. Now on the bow of the ship, I overlook the sparkling ocean as the full moon casts a glow across the water. Lounge pads surround a low-ground hot tub here, and I stick my feet into the warm water and eat a chocolate sprinkled cupcake.

Whoever chose tonight’s dessert menu gets a gold medal from me. Fruit parfaits with tangerines and Oreo crumble, plus chocolate cupcakes and churros.

Utter fucking perfection.

I’m not alone on the bow.

Jane and Millie Kay Miller bask under the moonlight with me, their feet in the fizzing hot tub. “Have you had any bizarre cravings?” I ask them, since I haven’t experienced that yet. I’m still superglued to my normal obsessions like chocolate and donuts.

“Cereal,” Jane says, dunking a spoon in a parfait. “I can’t go a morning without any type of sugary sweet cereal. Lucky Charms. Coco Puffs.”