Lovers Like Us (Like Us, #2)

by Krista Ritchie

My dad has always been candid with me, but this is different. How he’s speaking—it feels like he’s reaching to a place he rarely touches and he’s splitting himself open. He’s fallible. Imperfect. He’s been telling me that since I was little, but my dad had always been a superhero in my eyes. He’s so human. It hurts.

‘let me play the lion too: I will roar’

I hunger for his touch, his love.

“I just find him beautiful to look at. Like an Italian painting. He’s exquisite, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted to hear, but maybe you shouldn’t surround yourself with people who kiss your ass all day, all long.”

You know Eliot Alice Cobalt as the king of drama. Literally, he’s starred in local plays from William Shakespeare to Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and he’s already signed to a theatre company for the next two years. He often films himself and posts humorous soliloquies about a lamp or toothbrush, and he’s not afraid to be uninhabited and wild. I know him as my passionate eighteen-year-old cousin who thrives in chaos. Who, 9 times out of 10, will light a napkin on fire if I’m at dinner with him. Who loves stories but struggles with reading. Can’t make sense of street signs or restaurant menus. Can barely pick apart a single sentence. Who used to ask Jane, his brothers, and me to read books out loud. Hardbacks pile high in his bedroom, and for fun, he writes plays using a voice-app. He’s dyslexic, and a fucking brilliant, soulful actor who can make an audience cry with a few words. Fair Warning: even with all the mayhem he brings, I love this guy, and I’ll drive a sword straight in your gut if you fuck with him.

MY SHAYLAAAA