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If he weren’t Charlie’s fraternal twin, maybe we’d find common ground. But if there really are sides in my family, Beckett will never be on mine.
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 so human. It hurts.
Forgiveness isn’t that hard for me—maybe it even comes too easily—but when faced with love or a pointless grudge, I’m going to accept love.
He kisses like he’s been depraved of my tongue and body.
The small confines of the shower fall to the wayside with our heat. Our touch. Both of us lean but muscular and cut, both nearly the same height, both at equal strength—we play for an advantage and his needs fuel mine.
I remember what Jane said about most people “crushing” on Maximoff. I can believe it. He’s such a man’s man. People either admire him, want to be him, or want to fuck him. And I never forget that out of everyone, he fell in love with me.
Oscar nods, not even marginally surprised. “I bet people lie to you about their virginity all the time too. Just so you’ll still fuck them.” “Lied,” Farrow corrects his misuse of present tense. Oscar throws a peanut at Farrow, who catches it and throws it back.
I text back: I love you more than the ghost hates me. I pocket my phone. At my choice of words, I instantly recall the past. Something my dad said to me once. I can practically hear his voice. “You can hate me for two days, Maximoff, but I’ll love you for a thousand more.” I was almost seven, and my parents grounded me for the first time. I screamed, “I hate you!” at my dad. Not thinking, not realizing how much that must’ve hurt him. And that’s what he told me.
It’ll cause the least amount of gossip, but it also means I’m wedged beside Charlie. Be nice, I try to tell myself. Don’t act like you’d rather sit next to a Death Eater.
Adventure and love for all, that’s the Meadows way.”
Jesus Christ. I scan the ballroom quickly, and I find Farrow in the back. Leaning against the closed conference room double-doors. Arms loosely crossed. Aviators on inside. He makes a hand motion that I think is supposed to mean calm down. And he also blows an actual bubblegum bubble.
I look deep into this guy and remember why I’m awake, why he’s here. I could’ve told him to go back to bed, but I didn’t. We spend an insane amount of time together, but whenever I’m around Maximoff, I only want him to draw closer, and I think, another minute, another hour.
I have no clue what kind of eyes I have. Kiss me, fuck me, love me—something greater than all three.
“She said I was moral to a fault and you can be impulsive, headstrong. We’re fucking different but we’re still two superheroes who’d die for each other. In any era, any alternate universe. Like Captain America and the Winter Soldier.”
Jane ponders this. “With your survival skills and my wit, we’d put up a good match against any adversary ahead, but we’re hopelessly unlucky, you and me.”
Jane is radiating embarrassed heat. But where other people tend to shy from it, she steps further into the light. Like that will be better. “Thatcher,” Jane greets. “I’m just going to come out and ask. Did you hear what we were talking about?”
“Sure, but they could also jump you, and then what?” I’m not backing down. “They could also jump you.” He’s not backing down either. “I’m a trained fighter.” “And I fight a lot,” he combats. My brows spike. “I have a gun.” “I have a switchblade.”
I’d rather take the chance to do more damage than never try to repair what we broke. The hardest part was opening this door.
“I guess friends isn’t in the fucking cards for us, huh?” And I have to accept this. “Non, il te suffit de m’attendre,” Charlie says in a perfect French lilt. No, you just need to wait for me. “De quelle manière?” I breathe. In what way? “To be strong enough to be near you and not hate everything about you and me.”
Charlie reaches forward and steals my philosophy book. He slings his legs sideways across the seat and flips through the pages. When our gazes briefly meet, he says, “Merci pour le matériel de lecture.” Thanks for the reading material.
I rest my arm on the table, my fingers close to his elbow. Can’t touch him in public. Can’t comfort him. Can’t love him loudly or proudly.
Maximoff knows the tradeoff is him. “I’m not worth it.” “Yeah you are.” My eyes burn. I wake up every morning, and I’m more in love with him than the day before.
His mouth curves upward. “Welcome back, space cadet.” I scowl and unbutton my jeans. “I barely spaced out.”
I swear to everything in this fucking universe—you can actually feel their love. It’s in the air and the silence between their words. The first thing I think is…I love them. The second thing pauses me cold. I want that. It aches in me. To be able to stand up and declare my love in front of millions of people.
I think about Lao Tzu, a Chinese philosopher who said, “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”
