Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

Even if I didn’t have Farrow as a resource, I’d nod to my dad all the same. I may push and prod a lot, but I get that he can’t tell me every little damn thing. I kept the Luna tongue piercing from him.

And he didn’t care. You know what he told me? “I’m glad your sister has you to turn to. That’s what siblings are for.”

Then he grounded her for two weeks. No comics, movies, or computers. And he took all of her cosplay costumes out of her closet.

So in the office, I nod a couple times to my dad, but another question crashes against me.

“Is she okay?” I ask firmly. “Mom. Is she alright?” One of my greatest fears is hearing and seeing bad shit from a tabloid first. I don’t want to find out information from a second source.

I don’t want to be whiplashed. And I can’t live my life fed facts from the media. It’s too warped. So that’s why I push and push for answers.

“She’s been at a great place for years, bud. She can stick her hand down my pants and be fine. She’s fine.” He smiles a faraway smile. Like he’s recalling the moment.

I nod again. “I just hate that they’re using her addiction as click-bait.”

“It’s fucked up,” Ryke agrees.

We agree. How many times have we agreed on issues? Do we always agree? And why the fuck am I psychoanalyzing us?

The media. Maximoff Hale is just like Ryke Meadows!

I’ve been infected by the media. Tabloid parasites. No one notices my internal war except maybe Connor.

Ryke balls up a couple napkins and searches for another taco in the paper bag.

My dad shrugs like the foul play is just common. I recognize that we’ve all encountered this shit, but whenever the media touches my mom or dad’s addictions, they cross a line. Incinerating all sense of morality and ethics.

“What’s fucked up is this taco,” my dad says. “Where are the extra hot sauce packets?” It’s already dripping in orange hot sauce, but my dad would put Tabasco on everything if he could.

“You’ve probably burned half your taste buds in your mortal life,” I tell him.

“Then you’re doing well by not mimicking me.”

I flip his words over and over in my head. It’s not because I wouldn’t want to be like you, I want to say. But my dad fucking knows this.

It’s the world I’m concerned about.

It’s you.

I stare off for a second, and Ryke throws a handful of hot sauce packets at my dad. They hit him square in the face.

My dad drills a glare between his older brother’s eyes, only a year apart. Ryke is near laughter.

“I’ve decided you’re no longer my brother,” he says to Ryke.

“Who the fuck am I then?” Ryke balls up another dirty napkin.

“Just Some Guy. JSG for short.”

Connor grins wider. “I’ve been wanting to rename him for some time. Though I’d have gone with something else.”

Ryke groans. “We don’t want to fucking know.”

“I do,” I chime in.

“Of course you do,” Ryke says, tossing his wadded napkins into the paper bag. “You’re always on his fucking side.”

It takes him a long beat to finally look up at me. His tough brown eyes meet my steady forest-green, and I say, “I didn’t know there were sides.”

“There are sides.” My dad stands and reaches over to Ryke’s lap. “I’m always on the side with the good food.” He snatches the paper bag and plops back down next to me. “Taco?” He tries to break the tension, but I’m not dropping this.

“I’m not always on Uncle Connor’s side,” I rebut. “He called me an idiot last week. Why would I side with that?” I try to holster a smile as I gesture at Connor who arches one brow. We were playing chess, and when I lost, he told me not to worry. That I didn’t have a chance with my IQ compared to his IQ.

Subtly, he called me an idiot. He doesn’t deny or refute. And I love blunt honesty, so I actually like that memory.

“You tell me, Moffy,” Ryke says. “You’re the one who’s been dyeing your fucking hair for a year.”

The room quiets.

And he leans forward, forearms on his legs, to be closer to me. “What did I do? Just let me know, and we can fucking fix this.”

I realize that I’m sitting in the exact position as him. Bent forward, forearms on my legs. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just think.

I think about how Ryke Meadows may’ve had the greatest influence on my life. If I’m more like him than my father—isn’t that the conclusion?

Does that mean I spent too much time with him? Does that mean I love him more? Will the media draw these questions—and fuck these questions and my mind that won’t stop turning.

My dad raised me, and when I was twelve, I had a choice. I could either resent Ryke or I could love him as much as my dad does.

I chose to love him. As a teenager, he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. We went on annual camping trips. I created the Charity Camp-Away out of my love for hiking, camping, kayaking—and would that even exist without Ryke?

He showed me how to build a fire with flint. How to pitch a tent. How to climb rock faces. Outside of the Meadows family, I’m the only one who’s ever been to their Costa Rica cabin-treehouse.

Ryke and his daughter Sulli invited me.

“Moffy,” Ryke growls my name. “Did you fucking hear me?” His f-bombs come frequently but not very harshly. His gaze even softens on me. He doesn’t want to hurt me.

I don’t want to hurt him.

I’ve tried for years not to hurt him, but this past year—I snapped. The paternity rumors are weeds that won’t die. And with the agitating Maximoff Hale is just like Ryke Meadows! headlines, they sprout every time I blow a fuse and fight with my fists.

I should be chastised for the violence. Not be compared to my uncle out of affection.

“It’s not you,” I tell my uncle assuredly. “I love you. You know I love you. I’m just…” I motion to my head.

Overthinking. As always.

I just never want to be used as evidence for Loren Hale being unworthy or unfit as a father. I never want anyone to look at me and say, Maximoff is just like Ryke, so Ryke must’ve raised him. He must love Ryke more. He must hate his father. What if his father abuses him? What if he’s violent?

It’d be so easy for people to draw that conclusion because of my dad’s past. He’s a recovering alcoholic and has been sober for over twenty years, but his own dad was an alcoholic. The media said my grandfather abused my dad. In different ways. Some are true.

Some are false.

But I don’t want anyone to attach any ugly thing to Loren Hale. Stay back. I swear to fucking God. Sta

y back.

“What can I fucking do to help?” Ryke asks me. “I want to help.”

I nod repeatedly, and I spit it out. “Which one of you am I most like?” But it’s my dad who answers.

“You’re like all three of us, bud.”

I turn to my dad.

He touches his chest. “You’re sassy like me.” He points at Ryke. “A hardhead like my dear brother.” He nods to Connor. “And steadfast like my one true love.”

Connor grins. “I couldn’t agree more, darling.”

I start to smile. “With which part?”

He surprises me by saying, “All of it.”

I trust that they’re not pacifying me with lies. I nod a few more times. Ready to change the topic to one light-years away.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest.

My dad asks, “How are you doing with your new bodyguard?”

Dear World, are you fucking with me or what? Sincerely, a startled human.

An image pops in my head: me on top of Farrow in the backseat of my car. Since all three of them hire the bodyguards to protect their children, I’m pretty much certain they’d all hear “you’re with your bodyguard” as “Farrow Keene took advantage of you”—and it’s just not true.

It’s why I have to lie. Sort of. “Farrow is annoying, a Grade-A know-it-all.”

My dad’s eyes grow teasingly. “You like him that much?”

I take a swig of water to submerge my smile. He’s just joking, but Christ, it’s real.

“That’s it?” Ryke asks, brows knotted.

I think fast. “We’re cordial. I respect him. He respects me. That’s all there is to say.”

“You’re okay to let him handle your NDAs?” Connor asks, referring to my one-night stands.

“Sure. Yeah.” I nod. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask.” I set my water bottle down. “What’s better, silicone-based lube or water-based?” The last word leaves my lips, and the office door cracks open. I expect Connor’s assistant to peek inside.

…Farrow slips into the office.

What.

I rub my eyes to ensure that I’m absolutely, entirely 100% not fantasizing and haven’t tapped into some secret superpower. Obtaining a magical ability to conjure a newly-minted boyfriend sounds more fucking believable right now.