But is it so bad to leech another man’s confidence?
Yes.
No, because possibly he leeches a great deal from me too.
Does he?
What if he leeches nothing, Jane?
I don’t know anymore. I’ve never questioned my confidence so deeply, and these insecurities weigh a fifty-ton pressure on my chest that I don’t need today.
Think of Beckett.
Think of your brother.
Think of your goal.
I drop my hands off Thatcher, and I find strength to move. Whether it’s the right kind of strength, I’m not certain. I’m so confused, but I step out of his hold anyway.
His arm tears off my collarbones.
It hurts.
I can feel the air slice painfully, and I struggle to even look him in the eyes. I glance over at my best friend, and Maximoff shakes his head with a wince. Feeling my unease, possibly.
Farrow is eyeing Thatcher, then me. I think he sees a strain that my leech-insecurities just created.
“Jane?” Thatcher says.
I clear a pained knot in my throat. “I hate that we’re forcing my brother to join us.” I adjust the strap of my fuzzy mint-green purse, the unusual contents inside weighing on me. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” But none of us could formulate a better solution.
Silence thickens, the floor-numbers still increasing.
I finally look up at Thatcher.
He rubs his mouth, brows knitted. “Do you not want us to be here?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you not want me to be here then?”
“No,” I emphasize, my stomach lurching. “You have no idea how much…” I exhale, my pulse hiking to devastating speeds. “…how many times it’s dawned on me and overwhelmed me—that Moffy and I have fallen for two men who fight to help us protect who we love.” My eyes burn. “Not just half-heartedly or out of loyalty to us, but because you deeply love our siblings and cousins. And if we weren’t here, you’d still fight for them as deeply as we would, and that is priceless to me.”
I love him.
Say it, Jane.
His eyes cradle mine, offering comfort from afar. His chest rises in deeper breath.
I open my mouth. “I—”
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. We’ve arrived.
“Try not to wake Eliot and Tom,” Charlie whispers, letting us inside the lavish and sleek apartment. Dark, no lamps or lights turned on, I skulk ahead of everyone and reach Beckett’s bedroom.
I tie my wavy hair back with a velvet scrunchie.
Don’t let up.
Confidence.
I pull back my shoulders and gently open the door. Quiet, I tiptoe on the dark hardwood and into the cleanest, most organized space. Books sit in neat rows on a polished shelf, pencils perfectly lined on a desk, and a fern is situated in the precise corner, near ironed curtains where navy fabric is pleated in straight lines.
Beckett sleeps soundlessly beneath a tucked-in, blue comforter. He holds the pillow beneath his head, colorful floral tattoos sprawling down his right arm. Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.
It reminds me that he loves our family so greatly, despite having such little time to spend with us.
I walk closer to the bed. He looks peaceful.
And I hate to wake him. But I must.
“Beckett,” I whisper. “Beckett.” I reach the bed and lightly jostle his arm.
He jolts and flinches, eyes snapping open. But he instantly relaxes when he sees me. “Sis,” he exhales, rubbing his tired face. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re coming with us, little brother,” I remind him.
Horror freezes him, eyes like saucers. “No.” He notices Thatcher, Farrow, Moffy, and Charlie filling the bedroom, then his head whips back to me. “No. Jane, I told you I can’t go—”
“And I told you that if you used, we’d force you.”
“You can’t.” He uses his elbow to prop himself up.
“Are you naked?” I ask.
His face scrunches like what the fuck. “No—”
I fling the comforter off his body.
“Jane.” He’s just dressed in gray Calvin Klein underwear. And for his privacy, I keep my gaze above his neck, thank you very much.
“Get up. Get dressed. Pack a bag. Let’s go. You have an hour.” I perch my hands on my wide hips. Please, Beckett, make this easy.
He glares. “I’m not goin—”
Charlie flicks on the lights.
Beckett squints, hand shielding his eyes. “I’m twenty-one. I control my life, and all five of you need to get the fuck out of my room.”
None of us move a muscle. No one speaks.
Beckett lies back down, smoothly like silk resting on an idle lake. Even in his anger, he’s graceful.
I peek over my shoulder. “Thatcher.”
My boyfriend rips the rest of the bedding off, piling sheets and the comforter on the floor. Farrow comes closer and snatches the pillows, dumping them too. Charlie rolls in a suitcase, and Maximoff is careful with Beckett’s clothes as he opens each drawer. He tries to maintain the crisp shape of each folded item.
They pack his things.
Slowly, Beckett sits up against the headboard, aghast. He rests his elbows on his bent knees, fingers interlaced on his neck. Staring down at the bare mattress. If I pushed him over, he’d be in a fetal position, and it makes me terribly sad.
“Beckett, please,” I whisper. “We just want to help you.”
He pushes back curlier strands of his hair. “You’re hurting me.” His eyes are raw and red.
“I’m sorry.” I am.
I am.
Don’t cower.
He wipes his mouth before sliding off the bed. He’s finally cooperating.
I let him pass. “Can I help with your toiletries?”
He ignores me and nears the dresser, squeezing beside Maximoff. We all watch him collect gray sweatpants from a drawer. He tugs them over his waist, and then he grabs his leather wallet.
“You’re not leaving without us,” Charlie says hotly.
Beckett lets out a pained laugh. “You’re one to talk, Charlie. How many times have you ditched this family?”
Charlie looks to me, needing an assist.
I hike over to Beckett and tear the wallet out of his hand.
He tilts his head. “How am I supposed to fly without my license, sis? I need that.”
“So you do plan to come with us?” I question.
He stays quiet. Fuming.
Maximoff treks past us towards the bathroom. “I’ll get his toiletries.”
Thank you.
I
unzip my purse.
Beckett pinches his eyes. When he drops his hand, he zeroes in on Thatcher and Farrow who block the doorway. I can tell he’s hurt and confused. “You plan to have your boyfriend drag me onto a plane? Is that it?”
I slowly shake my head. “No.”
He frowns. “You can’t force me—”
I snap a fuzzy blue handcuff on his wrist, and the other end, I lock onto mine. “Congratulations, you’re now very much attached to me.”
Beckett looks slightly impressed but mostly resigned and upset. He sighs. “Jane…”
I smile a sympathetic smile. “Time to go to Scotland and be with family.”
15
JANE COBALT
By the time we board, my brother is still shirtless, just in sweatpants, and sufficiently handcuffed to me. With disheveled brown hair and his arm tattoos in view, he looks more unkempt than usual and more like the “bad boy of ballet” the media often portrays him as.
Beckett holds up his wrist, displaying the fuzzy handcuff that links me to him. “You can take this off now,” he says pointedly, but annoyance clings to the words. “I’m obviously not going anywhere.”
“The plane hasn’t taken off yet,” I note.
Our parent’s private jet is slowly filling with SFO and the two Epsilon bodyguards: Tony and O’Malley. Plus, Jack Highland, Maximoff, Charlie, Luna, Sulli, and Sulli’s boyfriend Will Rochester. They became an “official” couple last night, but only privately.
Sulli said she’d rather eat fertilizer than publicize her relationship. That it’s easier for the world to believe she’s with Akara. Just like the world thinks the rest of SFO are dating their clients, and I saw that most clearly when we were heading to the airport.