“But it wasn’t. And I usually don’t have to explain my job to you—”
“You don’t now,” I say stiffly. My chest is on fire. I waft my sweater for more air circulation. I drop my gaze for a fraction of a second.
Thatcher watches me with intense scrutiny, his eyes an extra furnace engulfing me whole. “Is this really about groceries? Or is something else goin’ on?” His South Philly accent comes through. Dog tags rest against his blue jacket.
He looks like Banks, but he couldn’t be more Thatcher Moretti. Stern and bold and commanding.
I lick my wind-chapped lips, air barely passing between them. Oxygen is dead-bolted inside my lungs. “I…” Words fail me. This is so new and different and I’m battling with too many warring emotions.
Head vs. Heart. I’m a Cobalt. My head should always win.
Concern ripens in his eyes. “If something is wrong, you can tell me.” He’s like iron and wine. Sturdy, unfailing, intoxicating, and mind-altering. Willing to banish my insecurities but jumbling my senses.
“I don’t know how,” I admit. My palms are so clammy—ink from the paper smudges on my fingers. I fold the list and slip it in my purse.
He hasn’t shifted an inch, his grip cemented on the handlebar of the cart. I think he might be afraid that one small movement could scare me off. I feel skittish, at least.
He sweeps me over one more time. “When I don’t know what to say—or if I think I might fuck it, if I do speak—I just try and take a couple breaths first.”
My mouth dries, and I attempt to inhale, but air crushes more pressure on my sternum. I’m going to have to just expel as much as I can, hopefully as bluntly as I can. He deserves the words I struggle to find.
“It is about the groceries,” I tell him. “At least, that’s a part of it.”
He nods me on.
“The other part,” I continue, throat swollen but words gush out harder and faster, “is the fact that the public learned I’m planning Maximoff’s wedding. All today I’ve been confronted with horrible opinions about my life.” I take out my cell and pop up screenshots of blog post comments.
Thatcher animates and raises a hand towards me. “You don’t have to read them to me, honey.”
“I want to,” I say. “They don’t hurt me.” I begin. “‘Jane Cobalt, the coattail rider. Never doing something for herself. If she’s not working for her cousin, it’d probably be her mother, father, or siblings.’” My hand gripping my phone starts to tremble. I squeeze tighter. “‘She’s such a disappointment. Imagine being the daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt and choosing to follow Maximoff Hale around like a lost puppy.’” I blink back a sliver of pain. “‘Jane Cobalt could have been our queen. Instead we got a weak imposter who can’t do anything on her own.’”
Thatcher takes a stringent, urgent step around the cart.
My pulse spikes and I shuffle back.
He holds up his hands like he comes in peace. “Jane.” He says my name with concern and severity. “You can stop reading that horseshit.”
They don’t hurt me, I want to repeat. But they have to some degree. I always prided myself on rising above hatred and not letting the world’s ridicule affect me. I feel small when I let them in and they tear a chunk out of me.
“I used to think it was horseshit too,” I say into a nod. “I did. I read the same garbage when I worked at H.M.C. Philanthropies, and I truly believed that they were wrong. Because at the end of the day, my job doesn’t define me.” I point at my chest. “I’m more independent, self-sufficient than anyone on the other side of a screen even knows. Sure, I can work for Moffy. I can work for my mom or dad or siblings. But I don’t need someone in my life. I don’t want for anything or anyone. The love I carry for myself is enough. It’s always been enough.” Tears my burn eyes. “Until I met you.”
I expect him to look like I took a sword and shoved it through his ribcage, but he stands before me like a soldier wearing Kevlar, used to taking bullets.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Keep going,” he demands.
So I do.
“It’s about the groceries.” I reroute to the beginning. “Because I want you around me every hour of every day. Not just as a bodyguard but as a boyfriend. In these small moments, I feel it tenfold. And I shouldn’t want it. I just shouldn’t. It makes me some co-dependent, weak-willed girl like all these people have theorized for years. I’m proving them right—and…and…” I can’t breathe.
I tug at the collar of my sweater.
Thatcher rushes forward and tries to touch me.
But I keep him back and press my hand to his chest. Applying little force.
His palms hover over my shoulders. “Stop for a second, honey. Just take a breath.” He gently cradles my elbows while I push a little harder. Uncertainly.
Fumbling, my hands fumble against his body.
“Just get away,” I say half-heartedly. My head wants him gone. My heart is telling me to fold into him. Let him wrap me up. Help me. God, I want that. But that’s the problem, I should be able to help myself.
“Please,” I plead.
He steps back, just one foot, and his hands drop off me.
“This is all wrong,” I tell him through frustrated, helpless tears. I wipe at my eyes. “I shouldn’t be treating you like this. I’m not capable of having a boyfriend.” At least, not him. Not someone I want this much.
“Jane, it’s fine—”
“It’s not,” I say, adamant. “We’re done. I’m done.” Oh God.
He grinds down on his teeth. “What are you saying?”
I’m wide-eyed.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“I am.” The words release quicker than I realize.
He’s quiet, and I gather enough strength to meet his gaze head-on. He wears the same concern and intensity that he started this conversation with.
“Are you going to say anything else?” I wonder. My body is still on fire. My heart in vicious knots. I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend. My first boyfriend. I feel no better than I did five seconds ago. I feel worse even, but I can’t take it back.
Thatcher adjusts his mic in his ear. “I meant what I said in the limo before this trip. I’m going to match whatever pace you set. If you want to break up with me, fine. We’re broken up.” I can’t read him. His tone is more authoritative and impassive than angry.
“So that’s it?” I ask, hurt suddenly pinching me. I didn’t purposefully break up with him so he’d fight for me, but I also never thought he’d give me up so easily.
“No,” Thatcher replies, seriousness pushing forth. “We’re going to talk more tonight. You’re overwhelmed right now, and I don’t want to push you. But if you think this discussion is over, it’s not.”
Oh…
He glances past my shoulder, and his brows furrow. He clicks his mic at his collar. “Banks to SFO, what’s the word on the weather?” Him referring to himself as Banks throws me off for a second. I follow his gaze. Flurries stick to the windowpanes of the market.
The sleet has officially turned to snow.
Security checked the weather before we left, so I’m aware of the incoming storm, but it wasn’t supposed to arrive until later tonight. We should have plenty of time, yet the heavy snowfall outside doesn’t look promising.
I take a tight breath and rub the tear tracks off my cheeks.
His attention is on me, watching every little movement. I feel like I’m unraveling, and I don’t know how to stop.
He clicks his mic once more. “Say again.”
He waits and lines crease his forehead. Something’s happening.
“What’s wrong?”
“Comms are fucked.” He takes out his cell, and I fish mine from my purse. I lost signal twenty miles from the market, so I’m not even surprised when I see No Service in the top corner.
“No signal,” I tell him. “We can ask the woman up front about the weather.”
He ti
lts his head towards that direction. “Let’s move out.”
We abandon our shopping cart in the aisle, for now, and Thatcher walks ahead of me like he does when we’re on a crowded street. Uncomfortable tension winds between us. We’re not together anymore. It hasn’t fully hit me yet, and I think when it does, I’ll be throttled completely.
Right now I’m just numb.
We find the elderly gray-haired woman knitting behind the register. She drops her large needles when she sees us approaching.
“Ready then?” Her Scottish accent is thick, and she searches for our items.
“Not yet, ma’am,” Thatcher says. “We’re wondering if you heard anything about the weather.”
She peers towards the window. “Aye, looks a bit brisk. Be careful on your way home. I should be locking up soon too.”
He sweeps the rustic check-out counter, possibly looking for a computer, but she only has an old manual register. I’d bet that she’s never been on the internet before, let alone Google-searched weather reports.
Thatcher must sense the same because he gives up with a polite, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turns to me. “We need to finish shopping in under five minutes, or else we could get stuck in the storm.”
I open my mouth, but he’s unusually quicker than me.
“If you’re going to say splitting up will be faster, I’m going to remind you again that it’s not an option.” He seems stricter. More adamant. Maybe he’s pissed we’re no longer dating. Maybe he’s just more serious now that the storm is looming and his comms are down.
Either way, he’s radiating the I’m in charge of you energy that draws me in, and at the same time makes me want to push him away.
It’s spinning my head.
“I was going to mention it, yes,” I reply. “But I won’t anymore. Let’s just find the essentials and get this over with.” I reach for the list in my pocket and try to focus on the task at hand. Not on the fact that I’m standing next to my ex-boyfriend. Not the fact that strain still stretches between us.