Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

Maximoff edges closer to the table. “Are you home?”

“Yes, hi Moffy,” Audrey says softly. “I’m in my bedroom. I’ve grounded myself for eternity.” Her whimsical voice sounds like she’s starring in Little Women or Tuck Everlasting. “It’s what I deserve most of all. Who else is with you?”

“Everyone,” Jane says. “I can hand the phone over to Oscar if you’d like.”

“No, this is better.” She sighs morosely, then she sighs again, her voice quivering.

Donnelly winces, hating when the young kids cry. It’s not my favorite thing either. I spin a saltshaker and listen to the Cobalts.

“Audrey,” Charlie says. “What are you apologizing for?”

Her voice cracks. “I’m so sorry. I am.” More tears, this time a sob.

Beckett whispers to Jane, “Take it off speaker.”

Before Jane moves, Audrey blubbers, “I did it.”

My breath gives, and I must be too fixated on the stalker because my mind immediately goes there. It’s fucking irrational. Maximoff’s thirteen-year-old cousin isn’t creating death and murder images of him.

“Did what?” Jane asks, wide-eyed.

“I’m the one who shared the video,” she says in a tearful confession.

The Hot Santa video.

Beckett shakes his head repeatedly, arms outstretched. Like that’s not right. It can’t be his little sister, but she just admitted to it. Charlie softens his gaze on Beckett.

And then Jane motions for everyone to remain quiet, but Thatcher and Akara stand and pull out their phones. Texting the security team.

Donnelly barrels forward, face in hands. Yeah, his precious Cobalts fucked up. Guess what, they’re all human.

“I don’t understand, Audrey,” Jane says. “Why would you do that? You knew it was private.”

“I didn’t intend for the press to have it,” she cries softly. “All I ever wanted was for Emma Rodwin to believe that Oscar existed. She said I was lying, and I’m not a liar.” She cries harder but still speaks clearly. “When Beckett sent the video in the group text, I only thought of what it’d feel like for Emma to know the truth. And I copied the video to a flash drive to share with her.”

Charlie says, “And Emma sent the video to the press.”

Beckett relaxes. “You didn’t actually leak the video, Audrey. It was your friend.”

She sniffs. “I’m an adjacent party to this treachery, you have to realize.”

This is exactly why I’m fortunate to never be on a Cobalt family getaway. She just turned thirteen in January, and she speaks like she’s fifty. And this is just one Cobalt. When all seven are together, it’s an instant migraine. Stick me with the weirdo Hales any day. Fuck, I actually miss Luna right now.

“You didn’t,” Beckett says. “We can’t trust anyone but family and security. Lesson learned, and now you move on.”

“I can’t,” she cries. “What if I feel like I’ve done the worst thing a person could ever do?”

“You haven’t murdered anyone,” Oscar notes, cutting into his chicken.

Audrey blubbers more apologies to Oscar, and most of us start to relax. It’s better that it’s Audrey and not someone from security. As much as I dislike Epsilon, I wouldn’t want them to hurt the families. But I wish the leaker and the stalker had been the same person.

Then I could’ve closed the book to the other one, too.

“I’m deeply, deeply sorry,” Audrey says with a hiccup. “To everyone, I’ve failed the family. I should be banished.”

Beckett and Charlie smile.

“We won’t banish you until sunup,” Charlie teases.

“I’ll make all my amends before then.” She sniffs, sounding better.

“Have you told Mom and Dad?” Beckett asks.

Audrey sighs. “No…Mother and Father will be so disappointed. I couldn’t call anyone. I thought the cookies would do…but I should’ve called. I’m weak, so weak.” I imagine her throwing herself on her bed in a dramatic heap.

Half of us try not to laugh.

“You’re not weak,” Maximoff says, eyeing the phone. “You’re a Cobalt.”

“Toujours,” Charlie says, and I can translate that French word: always.

Audrey sniffs one last time.

“You have to tell Mom and Dad,” Jane urges. “Tonight. Wake them.”

“Will you throw flowers at my funeral?” Audrey asks.

Jane begins to smile. “Only roses. And you, mine.”

“Of course, sister.” She exhales, the conversation between the Cobalt girls weird as shit and slightly fascinating.

“Bye, Audrey.”

“Bye, Jane.”

They hang up.

Donnelly has unburied his face. “I love Cobalts.” He smirks.

“That’s called blind, stupid loyalty,” I say. “One of them may’ve just fucked up our jobs.”

38

MAXIMOFF HALE

Almost a hundred FanCons under our belt, we speed through March in seamless fashion.

I booked interviews in Forbes and Vanity Fair to publicize the tour, and most media outlets pulled this quote from a business magazine:

H.M.C. Philanthropies’ FanCon Tour moves onto its last leg stronger than ever. With an estimated $150 million earned in just three months, Maximoff Hale has capitalized on his fame for non-profit. He’s revolutionizing philanthropy by bringing in a new younger wave. It’s not just about blue-blooded Wall Street investors anymore. He’s found a group of twenty-somethings willing to spend money on him rather than a ticket to that new Taylor Swift concert. And the benefit: all proceeds go to charity. This twenty-two year-old is bulldozing his way through the philanthropy world. His last name is one of the most recognizable—but make no mistake—he’s carving out his own piece of history.

I wish they would’ve mentioned my cousins and the work of the crew and security. I couldn’t do this without them, but my spirits are still high throughout the Seattle FanCon. I didn’t need the accolades. I’m just happy with the number.

$150 million will help a lot of fucking people.

A line coordinator guides a lanky boy out after I hug him. Farrow stands several feet off to the side, and a few fans gift him portraits they drew. Bodyguard Fame is alive and thriving.

But weirdly, it’s not bad. So far, they’ve all been able to ignore the attention. Mostly thanks to my mom and dad. It’s easier for Omega without a giant, all-consuming paparazzi presence.

Our FanCon banners are erected on the Seattle concert stage, and velvet ropes section all five lines. In between greeting fans, I look around at the excited crowd, the overwhelmed smiles, and I think about the first meet-and-greets. How we smoothed out a lot of kinks.

How no one bailed.

I’m fucking proud of this tour. Of my cousins. Of security and crew. I’m already planning an end-of-tour party for everyone.

A line coordinator ushers the next fan forward. Up a set of stairs. On the stage. Towards me. The girl has chopped, dyed pink hair, and a black Superheroes & Scones T-shirt swallows her thin frame. She can’t be older than fifteen.

Before my eyes even hit the girl, she’s crying.

And by crying, I mean bawling her fucking eyes out. I’ve met a billion tears from fans on this tour, happy and sad and pained, but something about this girl slams at me and tries to rock me back.

Maybe because she has the same wiry build as my sisters. Maybe because she looks around Xander’s age. Maybe because she stumbles over her feet, and when I catch her, she crumples in my arms.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here,” I say strongly, and I mortar brick and steel inside of me. I don’t rock back or sway.

She sobs and rubs at her cheeks. I support all her weight, holding her up so she’s on two feet. If I let go, she’ll sink to the floor.

I wipe her tears with the hem of my green shirt. “What’s your name?”

She tries to stop crying, breaths ragged. “B-B-Britni.”

My lips pull in a small smile. “That’s a pretty name.”

She cries harder.

Goddammit.

I look over my shoulder. At Farrow. He’s fixated on this interaction, and I mouth, parents. We need to find her parents or whoever attended the FanCon with her. A family member, a friend, a goddamn adult.

Farrow waves over my assistant and speaks quickly.

I concentrate on Britni. “Want to sit with me for a second?” I ask.

She nods over and over.

So I slowly kneel on one knee and bring her down with me. I let go of her waist, and she sits on the stage, her legs splayed to the side. I rub her back and ask as gently as I can, “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

She sobs into her Superheroes & Scones shirt.

Like guttural sobs. Each one tries to dagger my ribcage and lungs. My bones grind to a halt, locked, muscles tensing. My jaw sharpens, brows scrunched.

I’m not as soft as some fans think. I care wholeheartedly about these people, these fans I’ve never met, but tough love comes easier for me. And that’s not what she needs.

I lick my lips and swallow a pit. I rub her back again. “Britni, everything’s—”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” she whimpers.

“I promise, it’s okay.” I nod to her, but she can’t meet my gaze. “You’re doing great.”

“I-I just…I’m having a hard time in school and at home and my life is over. You’re the only thing I need to make it better.”