Tangled Like Us (Like Us, #4)

by Krista Ritchie

“I want you to take as long as you need,” I tell her, not breaking our gazes. “I’ll still be here beside you at the end of everything.”

Everything I do reflects on my brother. I’m never just thinking about myself. I’m constantly thinking about how my actions will affect him.

You’re safe with me, honey. That’s a lasting promise I’ll always make.

They can see us. They can hear us. They think we’re fake dating. Fake fucking. It’s so far from the truth that even being in this room feels like wading in a lie. But I’m here. Beside her. And there’s really nowhere else I want to be.

I like all of you. Every part.”

All I wanted was for someone to reach out of the computer and give me a hug. To tell me that I’m beautiful. And that I never made a mistake. That my body is mine. And it’s unique. And it happened to say you’re going to get stretch marks this month. But that’s okay. Because it loves you. You love it.

I’m in between a kiss, when he whispers against my ear, “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

“Ensemble,” I tell him. Together. All four of my brothers repeat the word. And then Eliot grins, mischievous twinkle in his eye, and he says something I’ve heard him recite a thousand-and-one times. But tonight, it’s never felt truer. “‘Let me play the lion too…I will roar.’”

“I don’t think our attraction to each other has ever been a question, honey.”

but one thing’s certain—you don’t know me and you sure as fucking hell don’t know my type. If you did, you’d realize it’s the girl right next to me.”

There are two factors at play. One: our Instagram viewers think this is real. Two: Sulli and Luna think this is all fake. I know this is real.

But she is right—at least everyone is safe. Especially her.

My mom snaps a glare at me through the mirror. “You’re not too verbose. Your words are an asset.” She speaks like it’s written in stone and blood and all indelible things. “And if they don’t like you, then that says more about them than you.”

It’s all an Italian earful. And it’s home.

No one told her that Beckett would be here tonight. And I know she’s mentally counting each chair. How they’re all filled with each of her children. She fights tears, eyes reddened, and her hands brace the top of the chair, still standing.

“My heart is yours to do with as you please.”

And I wonder… What would it feel like for Thatcher to be at the table next to me?

“To love is to reach true fulfillment.”

“Ne fais pas mes erreurs, mon coeur,” he whispers. Don’t make my mistakes, my heart.

This is where she’s meant to be. In my arms. In my arms.

“No. I’m not leaving your side.” My voice is concrete. In my head, there is no other option. And even if there were, this is what I want. Her detail. Her.