Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

I go numb. Pressure tries to compound, but I fight off the heavy, heavier, and heaviest. I’m aware that I have such a short amount of time with this girl. Anything I say could make or break her, and I never take this responsibility lightly.

“Life can be hard sometimes,” I say. “My mom and dad taught me that when you’re not sure if you can keep going, you just need to take it one day at a time, one step at a time. Can you do that with me?”

She breathes heavily, and tears leak silently.

“You’re here, today,” I say, reaching for something in my soul to give to her, but it collapses my chest. “There are good things in this fucking world. It might not seem like it yesterday, maybe not even tomorrow, but it gets—”

“It’ll all end,” she cries and then clutches onto the collar of my crew-neck, grip frantic. Tugging.

Farrow nears, and I side-eye him, silently saying not yet. I even hold out a hand so he’ll stay back for a fucking second. Just hold on.

Hold on.

You don’t know that I used to cry myself to sleep at nine-years-old. Hearing bad shit about my family. About myself. Wondering what the fuck was real. I was a happy kid, but there were hours, days, weeks where I used to think every cruel, heartless bastard would break the people I loved.

I can’t fathom the kind of lows my brother goes through. What this girl may be going through. Where they just want to quit. But I understand what it’s like to wake up and want to scream.

And my parents would tell me, “One day at a time, one step at a time.” Stand up.

Keep going.

Move forward.

“Britni,” I start, but she twists the collar of my shirt.

I’m on both knees, holding her elbows and trying to get her to look at me. Her eyes are everywhere but on my face.

“You have to give me a chance,” she sobs. “One date. Anything. You’ll see.” Her voice cracks. “You’ll see I could be such a good girlfriend, and we’ll be in love and everything will be perfect for once and happy.”

Christ…I didn’t think it was leading there. I grapple and claw for the right response. My joints rust, neck stiff. “I do want you to be happy—”

She chokes on her tears. “My parents got divorced. Everyone at school hates me…” She yanks at my collar. I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Hugging a fragile human being.

I’m not sure I can provide the right comfort. The right fucking words or the perfect strength. All I want is for her to be unequivocally, irrevocably happy, but I can’t even give that to my own brother.

How do I fix this? How can I fucking fix this?

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice more stilted. “Just breathe.”

She sobs into the crook of my neck. Wet tears soaking my shirt. “Please, please, please. I don’t want to die.”

My pulse thumps like a hollowed drum. It’s her and me, and I know I’m not enough. I need to put her in touch with health professionals—I’ve done this before. I can make sure she’s okay. I can do that at least.

I turn my head. “Lydia,” I call out to my tour assistant. “If her parents aren’t here, get them on the phone.” She hurries.

Farrow squats beside me.

“Britni,” I say, “there are people who can help if you’re feeling alone or—”

“You’re the only one,” she says through blistering tears. She clutches my collar again like I’m her literal lifeline.

Farrow gently peels her fingers off my shirt and neck.

“I’m not the only one,” I assure her. “There are so many people out there who’ll help you, who care about you—”

“Nonono,” she slurs, shaking her head.

I could go into my fan line and ask a couple girls around her age if they’d want to come on stage. Sit with us for about five minutes. Keep Britni company with me. Cheer her up. Just talk and show her that people do care. Maybe she’d make a new friend.

I did that at the San Diego FanCon for an upset preteen, but here, with Britni, I don’t know. She reminds me of Xander, and he’d flip the fuck out of if I brought strangers into his bubble.

Britni clings onto my shoulders, and Farrow has trouble tearing her off without being forceful.

“Jane cares about you,” I say strongly. “My cousins care—”

“I only want you,” she cries into my neck.

My muscles tighten, and Lydia lowers a phone into my hand. Britni’s parents. While she’s crying against my chest, I talk to them, ask them who attended the FanCon with their daughter.

They have no clue. They didn’t even know she’d be here, and I’m not that surprised. I ask for consent to put her on the phone with healthcare professionals. They say yes, of course. Great, I go through the motions, but I’m cradling a human in my hands.

And I’m just twenty-two.

I’m not a superhero. I don’t have the answers or the meaning of life, but I’m fucking trying. All I can do is try.

When they want to quit, I’m not going to fucking quit on them.

It must be twenty or thirty minutes before Britni calms, speaks to her parents, and I have to leave her in the hands of our staff.

I’m on my feet, and the line coordinator, photographer, assistant, and my bodyguard all look at me for direction. I crack my neck, my muscles almost spasm they’re that tight.

I lock eyes with Farrow. He chews a piece of gum, and he gestures his head towards the backstage exit. To take a break.

For just a minute.

I nod, and to Lydia, I say, “I won’t be long.” As I pass Farrow, we walk side-by-side, and he speaks into his mic, telling security that I’m on a short break.

I slip through the quiet backstage, and I enter a dressing room.

Gift boxes, scrapbooks, and sweets are stacked high on a table and couch. Makeup and hair products spread across a vanity.

I open and close my fist. Drifting stiffly to a rack of clothes, back to the vanity. Farrow locks the door, but I don’t hold his gaze.

I put my hands on my head, restless but rigid. If I could, I’d be in the water somewhere. Some place. Then I’d climb out and run and run and fucking run.

I grip the edge of the vanity. Hunched forward, and in the mirror, I catch sight of my reddened, burning eyes and my soaked green shirt from her tears. Fuck. I wrench the shirt off my head. My jaw aches. I ball a hand in a fist.

I need to hit something.

Or swim.

Run.

Anger gnaws at my insides, the only emotion I can feel. I glare at the ceiling, my breath like knives.

“Need anything, wolf scout?”

Yeah.

It takes me a second. But I turn my head.

Farrow sits partially on the couch’s armrest. His gaze sweeps me, assessing me, and when they lift to mine, they practically hold me, protect me, love me.

And I say, “You.” My voice cracks.

Farrow moves.

I pinch my eyes that fucking burn and try to fill. I squat down, just as Farrow reaches me. His palm warms the back of my neck.

I cover my face with my hands, and I fucking scream. Pent-up rage, gnarled emotion coming out of me.

Not for long. I straighten up again. Pinching my eyes again. And I almost turn to grip the vanity again, but Farrow seizes my wrist.

And he draws me into his chest.

My boyfriend hugs me so damn tight. Our bodies welded, his heartbeat pounding against mine.

I fist the back of his shirt with one hand, my chest heaving against his chest. Hot tears wet my lashes. That girl got to me.

I can fucking admit that.

Farrow strengthens his clutch and tells me, “There’s nothing more you could’ve done for her.”

I hold the back of his head, my fingers lost in his white hair. I growl out a frustrated, pained noise.

Another beat passes, and I lean back.

Farrow holds my wet face. I don’t even care to wipe the tears that run off my jaw. His reddened eyes melt a

gainst me, easing my taut muscles and hot-blooded pulse.

I breathe heavily, my gaze bloodshot, throat raw, and I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I lick my lips. “I’ll never fucking know if I made her life worse or better.” At hot tear rolls down my cheek. I glare at the ground. Christ, what am I doing? “I’m not trying to unload this much weight on you—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Farrow gives me a look like I’ve officially jumped off the planet. “I’m your boyfriend.”

I can’t even crack some sarcasm. I just swallow a rock.

Farrow lifts his brows. “You’re supposed to unload on me. I’ve been unloading shit on you with my father and the stalker for months. It’s a two-way street.”

My chest rises in a bigger breath.

I pinch my eyes to dam the waterworks. I’ll need to return to the FanCon and take pictures. Soon. Hopefully not with bloodshot eyes. “I must’ve missed unloading shit in the Boyfriend Manual.”

He almost laughs, and his thumb wipes my cheek. “If there were a Boyfriend Manual—which there isn’t one—right next to that would be giving ‘unconditional emotional support’. And while you offer it to literally every person, I’m very selective.”

I drop my hand off my eyes with another breath. “Who else do you give it to?”

His lips rise. “Just you.”

My mouth curves upward, my body lightening, and I shake my head, surprised at what he makes me feel. I shouldn’t be that shocked anymore, but I kind of like that I am. Everything always feels like the first damn time with him.

His hands fall to my shoulders. I’m shirtless, chest bare, and his touch heats me up. I stay still and hold his neck for a second.

My mind reels. I let out a rough noise in my throat. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”