Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

Farrow is trying to catch his breath in the pillow.

Then he turns his head. Watching me ease out of him completely. Then I kiss him.

Sex with Farrow is incomparable and immeasurable. I’m pretty much a goner. Totally and utterly obsessed with the before, during, and after—it’s ridiculous. In the best damn way.

I sit up, discard the condom, and grab a towel from my nightstand’s drawer. Tossing it to him.

Farrow leans up against the headboard. “Are you ever worried about becoming a sex addict?” He catches me off guard, and he waits for me to process.

I blink a couple times. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet cold on the hardwood. I glance back at him. “No.” It’s a flat definitive word.

“No?” Farrow seems surprised. “For how much you avoid drinking, I just thought…”

“I’m careful,” I say, standing. “I don’t let sex interfere with my daily life. Ever.” I’m highly aware of the warning signs of unhealthy behavior. Highly aware.

I can have a lot of sex and not be a sex addict. The minute sex ruins my relationships or my job—then it’s a goddamn problem.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have one.

“Fair enough,” Farrow says, balling the towel.

He drops the topic too fast.

I rotate to face him. “Do you think I have a problem?” As my mom’s bodyguard for three years, he was near a sex addict a lot longer than most people.

“No,” Farrow says. “No, I don’t, but being around you all the time, you do have addictive tendencies.”

I don’t ask for specifics. “I know.”

“Good,” he says into a nod.

28

FARROW KEENE

AT SUPERHEROES & Scones, Jane places multiple boxes of pastries on a low table. Bright and neon beanbags are strewn around the loft lounge, and an Avengers movie plays on mounted television screens.

The place is dead at 5:00 a.m., and I sip my coffee and take a seat adjacent to Maximoff on a blue beanbag. I’m almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Quinn.

Not my first choice. But a few days ago, Quinn said to me, “I keep missing you in the mornings. Your bed is empty, too.”

It didn’t shake me, but I wouldn’t concoct a wild, intricate lie that could unravel. I just told him, “Occasionally, I’ll crash on the couch or in one of the cars. It’s colder.” He knows how hot my attic room can get.

Be more careful around Quinn, I agreed to Maximoff’s new rule. I may’ve physically distanced us this morning, but I’m still consciously staring at my boyfriend. I smile into my coffee when he pretends to be more interested in an Avengers film on mute.

He holds a paper cup of hot tea, drinking slowly. Trying not to look at me. We all know he ranks me above Iron Man, Thor, and whatever other Avenger makes an on-screen appearance. Not just because I’m clearly better and clearly not fictional.

But because I’m his bodyguard. His real-life superhero.

Jane opens two pink boxes. “For the meeting, we have croissants, muffins, stuffed donuts, frosted donuts, Danishes, scones, bagels, a few waffles, but do not, under any circumstance, eat these.” She lifts up a heart-shaped tin. “I spent two hours helping my one and only sister with math homework yesterday, and afterwards, she gave me strict orders to deliver these to Oscar Oliveira. I will complete the task.”

I lean forward and grab the tin out of her hands.

“Farrow!”

“Breathe. I’m not eating Oscar’s cookies.” I pop the tin and inspect the perfectly heart-shaped sugar cookies, pink icing and written with Oscar and I love you.

Maximoff grimaces at Jane. “Can your twelve-year-old sister pick someone who’s not thirty-years-old to crush on?”

What about someone five years older? I try really hard not to tease or irritate him.

“You can sheath your swords, Moffy. It’s harmless,” Jane says and eagle-eyes me as I pass the tin to Quinn. He snatches a cookie.

Jane glares and then yanks the entire tin out of his hands. “Quinn.”

I laugh. I like Quinn more and more every day.

Not hesitating, he bites into the cookie. “Oscar is my brother. I should get one cookie out of that. Hey, I’ll be his best man or whatever at their pretend wedding.”

Audrey disinvited me to that “wedding” three years ago after I told her she has bad taste in men.

Jane lowers on her beanbag and protectively clutches the tin to her lap. I’ve noticed the bag of peas she’s been carrying around all morning and sitting on, and my intrigue is spilling into concern.

I have to ask now.

“Did I miss Nate coming over last night?” I motion with my coffee to the peas that she’s using as an ice pack.

Jane looks genuinely surprised that I’m asking. She searches my gaze with intense curiosity. Wondering why—why did I ask.

Because you mean something to Maximoff.

And you’re starting to mean something to me.

Maximoff’s cheekbones sharpen, but he keeps his attention on the TV, not worried. I assume she must’ve told him the news this morning in the bathroom.

Quinn frowns at Jane. “Did Nate sneak in? You didn’t tell me he was coming over—”

“He didn’t,” she says quickly.

“A new guy?” Quinn asks. “Then I should’ve been there. With an NDA.”

“Not unless you’d like to try to give my sex toys an NDA.” Jane smiles as realization parts Quinn’s lips.

“Oh.”

I arch my brows at Jane. “Not enough lube there?”

“No.” She sits straighter. It’s her “I’m preparing a speech” posture. “Sex is almost a family legacy. My parents were in porn.”

Maximoff corrects, “Not willingly.” Their tapes were leaked.

“Still,” she says, “I thought perhaps, my real passion is in sex toys. I could’ve been a fabulous sex toy reviewer.”

I rest my arm on my bent knee. “And what happened?”

“I inserted something in terribly wrong.”

We all make a pained face.

Jane takes a deep, reassuring breath before declaring, “I’ve realized it’s not for me.”

Seriously, I say, “I know what’ll make you feel better.”

“What?” she wonders, a gleam in her eye.

“One of Oliveira’s cookies.”

Quinn laughs, and Maximoff stares between Jane and me like we’re seconds from destroying a relationship we haven’t really even built.

Jane tips her head to me like touché.

“Akara to Farrow and Quinn.” The Omega lead’s voice bleeds through my mic. “Sul and I are leaving now. We’ll be there soon.” A motorcycle revs in the background.

I stand and inspect the pastries. “Sulli and Akara are on their way,” I tell Maximoff. “What do you want to eat?”

His eyes narrow like you shouldn’t speak to me in front of Quinn.

I cock my head, smiling. Come on. It’d draw more attention if we were playing a silent game with one another. I trust myself to rein in the causal flirting. I’m sure he trusts himself, too. He just likes to add five padlocked chains onto a dead-bolted door.

He stands, posture stringent. “I can get my own food.” It’s a common phrase for him: I can do that myself. You don’t need to open my car door. Et cetera, et cetera.

It’s more endearing than he understands. I grab an egg and cheese croissant and watch him grab a blackberry scone. We sit back down at nearly the exact same time.

His attention wants to be on me so badly. He stares at my hair for a long, long beat like it’s brand new.

“My hair has been blue for two weeks,” I remind him, the electric-blue strands pushed back out of my face. I wanted a change. I only have one barbell in my eyebrow now. Plus, I put in my small hoop earring.

“I got that, thanks,” he says, licking his lips and sipping his hot tea.

I laugh into a smile.

Quinn spreads c

ream cheese on his bagel with a plastic knife. “Can someone explain why there’s a production meeting for We Are Calloway if filming doesn’t start until next January?” He licks his thumb.

That’s why we’re all here.

A production meeting.

We Are Calloway has been an Emmy nominated and award-winning docuseries for over a decade. It’s the only platform that enables the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts to voice their opinions and tell their stories. It’s to ensure their truth is heard and not twisted on social media.

When We Are Calloway first premiered, I was a kid, and I remember sneaking downstairs and hiding behind my father’s sofa while he watched the R-rated show (for mature themes). I peeked around the armrest and saw Lily Calloway.