Alphas Like Us (Like Us, #3)

by Krista Ritchie

He chugs milk from the jug. “Tell whatever Hale needs you that I say what’s up.” “No,” I say easily and head for the door, “and man, stop assuming the worst about the Hales.” The parents are addicts, but they’re in recovery and sober. And they’re better than most mothers and fathers that Donnelly and I grew up around.

Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David. He’s mine. I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.

marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David. He’s mine. I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.

“Before I had you and your siblings, your mom was the one good thing in my life. And I know I’m supposed to tell you how love conquers all. How we could move mountains together. But the love we had almost destroyed us both. Love is like having a mortal wound and you’re bleeding out and no matter how hard you look, you can never find the goddamn cut.” He never broke eye contact. I kept looking. Listening, feeling his words. “It’s its own special brand of pain,” he told me. “Because no matter how much you love, you’re still a passenger to their life. You have to watch all their bad decisions. You can’t think for them or change them. Just be there for them. And sometimes, it’s not going to be good enough. Sometimes things happen out of your control.” He paused. “Love is pain, and you know what…I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t met it yet.”

So you know Winona Briar Meadows as the fourteen-year-old fearless animal lover with a spirit as wild as the Meadows family. You follow her Instagram account that’s littered with nature photography and rock climbing excursions. If she’s not advocating for animal rights with Ben Cobalt, then she’s hanging with her girl squad and keeping to herself. You beg her to post more selfies, and you criticize her when she doesn’t. I know her as Nona, my cousin who could practically be my little sister. Who I used to carry on my shoulders through the Costa Rican forest while she snapped photos of every damn thing: the leaves, the dirt, the ants and the trees. She would bloody her hands, run off a cliff, and split open her heart for any living thing, and it’s terrifying. Fair Warning: I will decapitate you with a rusted blade if you fuck with this one, and she’ll probably try to stop me.

You know Ben Pirrip Cobalt as the sixteen-year-old savvy environmentalist who makes friends easier than all of my family combined. He’ll even be your friend. He’s probably already followed you back on Twitter or Instagram, and he’s liked your pictures ten or twenty times. You think he’s one of the coolest Cobalt boys—with his accessibility, his windswept brown hair, baby blue eyes, and pretty boy charm—and you wouldn’t be wrong. I know him as Ben, sometimes Pippy, the youngest and most free-spirited Cobalt boy and my little cousin. A guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, who hurts over sad, broken things, and I know he wishes more people paid attention to important causes than the beauty mark on his cheek. Fair Warning: I will hold you beneath a frozen lake and drown you if you fuck with him.

“Look at me.” I hold his face as his breath shortens. “You’ll be here tomorrow and the next day. This isn’t it, wolf scout. You’re not ending here. And I’m confident…” I nod over and over, his eyes flooding. “You will see your sisters grow up to be old women and you’ll see your brother become an old man—and I’ll be right by your side.” He blinks and tears fall down his sharp cheekbone. “You will?” “Yeah,” I nod. “You’re stuck with me, wolf scout. I’ll annoy the shit out of you every single morning for decades. Longer, and our kids will take your side because you’re good and lovable.”

My brows rise. “I’m lightning then, and you’re thunder. You always follow me every time I appear.” His lips lift in a choked laugh. “You’re right…you will annoy me to death.”

I already have two enormously worried parents who stopped by about fifteen minutes ago. My mom brought a towering stack of my favorite comics and philosophy texts. To help distract me from the pain while I wait for news about surgery on my collarbone. She also gave Farrow a tight hug and had to “air hug” me. And my dad—he was choked up, glassy-eyed. They’re just grateful I’m alive. The paramedics told them that if Farrow didn’t release air from my lungs, I probably would’ve died before they arrived. But if you know my dad at all, he’s a hard sell. Saving my life is like half-a-brownie point. For my mom, Farrow earned every brownie that ever existed in every universe.

You’re not cool enough to be a ghost, so you’re not allowed to die. – Kinney

I frown, a little hurt. “Tu m'as appelé en dernier?” You called me last? Jane takes an audible breath, upset that I think that. “Not because I wanted to. Your mom said I should give you some time alone with your one true pairing before I call.” Farrow is laughing at my mom’s wordage. My neck heats. Jesus. My mom loving us together plays too damn well into Farrow’s hand, and I lose every round when we go head-to-head. “My mom needs to take it easy,” I tell Jane. “Never. Aunt Lily loves love.” “She can love my love ten billion times less in front of my boyfriend. That’d be perfect.”

“Are you really going to eat all my chocolate?” I wonder. Aunt Daisy brought the heart-shaped tin as a get well soon thing. She says chocolate candy is second best to chocolate cake. “You can’t eat anything before surgery,” he reminds me. “I’m doing you a favor. Less temptation, wolf scout.” He pops the third one in his mouth.

“I love you, Maximoff,” he says. “And I know you overthink because that’s what you do, and this is new for you. But I love you. And I know it fucking hurts to see someone from my past because it fucking hurt when I went through your NDAs. So if you need me to tell you five-thousand times, a million, that I’m so fucking in love with you, I will.”

‘The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time.’”

“Dum spiro, spero.” I circled that phrase in my paperback. I know he took Latin in college, but I ask anyway, “You know what that means⁠—” “‘While I breathe,’” he translates, “‘I hope.’” It overwhelms me. Hope. Him. Love. Pain. I inch closer, but a knock sounds at the door. We both rub our wet faces, and as our bloodshot eyes meet again, I know and he knows that what we share is greater and stronger than whatever the world has to throw at us. We won’t end here.

“You were groggy after you woke up from surgery, and your dad asked you how you were.” Farrow tosses my shirt aside and starts carefully reattaching the band around my bruised abs. I’m hanging on his every word, and he notices. He’s irritatingly drawing this out. “What the fuck did I say?” I have to ask. Farrow is close to laughter. “You told your dad you’re naming your son Batman.” My eyes pop out of my head. “No I didn’t.” He has to be fucking with me. “Yeah, you did,” Farrow smiles wide. “Your dad asked you, what son? And you said the one in the Batmobile.” I blink slowly. “I killed my dad. He’s dead, right? Death by Batman talk.”

“Your dad is alive,” Farrow says easily, “but he said your son sounds like a little prick.” I nod stiffly. “That’s definitely something my dad would say about a kid named Batman.”

“Swallow a Vicodin, Moffy. There is a list of weak people in our families who’d drown in a craving, and you’re not one of them.”

Charlie said that I’m not on his list of weak people. But I don’t know if I am strong enough to beat a craving. And I don’t want to find out. My dad and my uncle have made the same decision as me with painkillers. Alcoholism runs in the Hale and Meadows families. You know that. Everyone knows that. My dad has lectured me about addiction my entire goddamn life, and I’m terrified to awaken that monster inside of me. It’s been dormant for twenty-two years.

I’ve had every teenager, every kid in the family, make me promise that I wouldn’t die on them. These four are the ones that see me less like Captain America and more like an imperfect human. I need them in my world. I can admit that.

My sister has her eyes set on me. “So if you’re going three-fourths Loren Hale right now, I should expect a pretty harsh reaction from him?” Luna asks. I’m completely rigid, my jaw sharpened. “Yeah, don’t call it a date around Dad.” Jesus.

Akara looks about ready to strangle Oliveira. My lips want to rise, partially-somewhat entertained. The Omega lead points at Oscar with his beer. “I’ve been on her detail since she was sixteen. Her dad will have my dick under a knife if he hears you. Do not push it.” I let out a low whistle at Oscar. “Keep forgetting that lube before you get fucked hard.” “Taking one for the team, Redford. You’ve been fucked hard enough today.” I nod a few times. That was a good one, and Oscar holds my gaze for a quiet beat and nods back, more serious.

I’m not solving anyone else’s mini-dilemmas unless their name starts with Maximoff and ends with Hale. Boyfriend privileges.

“All of us here—we are Omega. Even if you’re transferred to another client, even if you quit or get fired. We’re the bodyguards on SFO until further notice.” Thatcher straightens off the door. “What about my brother?” Akara nods. “We’re still talking about adding Banks to Omega, and it’s likely that’s the way it’ll fall.” No one asks why. Banks and Thatcher are identical twins, and he’s been recognized just as much as Thatcher on the street.

He tries to marbleize his features. Tries to be her strong unshakable big brother. These parts of him are so intrinsically Maximoff Hale that I wouldn’t want him to change. He loves people so overwhelmingly, and he cares. Shit, he cares more than anyone, and when people need him to be their everything, he is always there. But it only makes me want to be there for him. Every time. Every day. Twice as hard. Ten times as much.

I was conked out for so long after my surgery. Now my mind is wide-awake and playing mental catch-up: talk to my brother (later). A porn star bought you (Jesus Christ). Protect your brother, protect your sisters, protect everyone (always). Don’t let Farrow go (I won’t). Marry him. Put a ring on it. What if he’s not into marriage? What if that’s why he rejected his ex’s proposal? But we talked about kids. Twice. Jokingly? No, it was fucking serious. I think. You can have kids without being married. Don’t name your son Batman.

Akara is playing with her chocolate brown hair, and he coils a long strand over his upper lip in a fake mustache. Sulli cracks a smile and shoves his chest.

Akara laughs lightly and whispers to Jack, “She thinks she’s a mermaid. You know, no swimming for one week means her legs grow back.” “Hey, there is some fucking logic in the mermaid debate,” Sulli tells Akara. “I love water. Mermaids love water. Therefore I am a fucking mermaid.” Akara ties a piece of her hair in a slipknot. “Sharks also love water.” “They do,” Jack agrees. “And eels. Stingrays. Manatees.” “Salmon,” Akara whispers. “Walruses⁠—” “Hey, maybe I’m a fucking walrus then,” Sulli jokes in another loud whisper. “I could also be a mermaid too.” Akara loosens the knot in her hair and gives her a look. “You’re not a walrus, Sul.”

People have always tried to hurt who I love. My parents, my sisters, my brother, all of my fucking family. Attacks from online, from on the street. And now the world knows that I love Farrow. You know that I’m in love. For real. All I want is to protect him, and all he wants is to protect me. It’s been our motto since the damn start.

Jane reaches him and lifts her chin since he’s a whole foot taller. “Excuse me, Thatcher, but there are people I need to have words with on my best friend’s behalf. Move aside.” Yeah, alright, I’m smiling. Thatcher never budges. “I can’t, Jane.”

Jane clears her throat. “Mr. Moretti,” she tries again, “I need to go break a few dicks. Can you please step aside?” Her angry face crinkles her nose. “No—”

We’ve been around each other every waking minute for almost a whole year. I know him. I fucking know Farrow like he knows me. He will tell you that he has no best friends. He has two that he treats like brothers. He will say that he’s an open book. But it’s a book he only allows his boyfriend to open. His casualness reads to some like indifference. Yet, he lives to save people. He’s independent and self-reliant, but he seeks out companionship and love. If he says you’re “good people”—he’ll surround himself around you, and you’ll be glad. Because he’s the kind of man who puts his whole soul into what he loves, and if he loves you, goddamn.

“When I love someone,” he says in a rough whisper, “I love them proudly, and you deserve the achingly normal, romantic shit more than anyone. Everything you’ve never had. All the pictures you post, all the videos you do on your own, I want to be in them—and it’d kill me not to give you that. Especially now that we’re public.”

My dad’s brows scrunch at me. “Did your mom and I not teach you the art of being a couch potato? Jesus Christ, I’ve truly failed as a parent.”

I love him. Fuck, I love him more than is comprehensible, more than anyone can possibly see, and I’ve always run towards what calls me. Maximoff. He calls out to me every second of every minute of every day, and to willingly turn my back and race away from him is unfathomable. Because it’d tear me apart. I’d sooner drop to my knees and scream, and then I’d dig my way back into his arms. If losing him is a consequence of what I choose to do next, I physically can’t do it. It’d hurt less to ignore this pull than to lose him.

“You know, the hardest things are usually the right things.” I nod a couple times, my thumb stroking his cheek. “A philosopher talking to you again?” Maximoff starts to smile, and it’s drop-dead gorgeous. “If you want to call my dad and uncle philosophers, then yeah. A couple philosopher kings told me that.” I wrack my brain. Should’ve known. I’ve heard Lo and Ryke say that phrase before.

Akara nods. “You’re quitting security, aren’t you?” “Yeah,” I say. “I’m quitting. I need to finish my residency.” And before they ask, I add, “Not for my father, but for me.” I first look at Donnelly. His lips slowly lift, unlit cigarette in his mouth. “We’re getting our Meredith back.” He slow-claps. I smile. “Man, you know I’m a Christina.”

I have almost no recollection of walking without paparazzi in Philly. And it’s all immortalized on videos they sold to tabloids. You’ve seen when I was a toddler, my dad threatened paparazzi who pushed too close to my mom while I was in her protective arms. Then I’d grow up and be the one holding my sister’s hand. Yelling at paparazzi to stay back, she’s only a kid.

“Why hasn’t Loren tweeted about your relationship like Lily?!” My sore muscles bind at the mention of my parents. Farrow’s carefree stride never grows panicked or pissed. He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic about any couple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and aunt raisins. On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day about us: #Marrow for life! This is what love looks like #Marrow Proud mom #Marrow

“Does Loren not approve of your relationship⁠—” I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hard time.

Farrow Redford Keene is infuriatingly cool, and God, I can’t believe he’s mine.

They’re treating him like family. And I don’t just mean a part of the Hales—I can’t take credit for this. I think it’s mostly because the security team loves him.

I rest my head back. “When you fuck with Farrow, you hurt me. So if you care about me at all, don’t come at him with things like I deserve better and he’s not good enough for me. Farrow Keene is the only one I let in. The only one.” I’d point at my chest if I could. “That’s not by accident. It’s because he’s more than enough for me. He’s every damn thing.”

I know how much I’m like Ryke Meadows, and I’ve been reaching a place where I can be proud of the similarities. I no longer feel like who I am is a knock against my dad. And I’ve realized something. My dad raised me to be like Ryke. Because he loved his brother more than he loved himself. That’s the hard truth. Because I just wish I could reach back in time and tell my dad that he’d have a son who loves him so goddamn much, and then maybe he’d realize that he’s worthy of being loved too.

“The media took my privacy; you haven’t taken a thing from me, Maximoff. You’re giving me something so fucking precious: your chaotic, messy, bizarre-as-fuck family, and I also love them as they fucking are. Plus, I look forward to coming home and putting out wildfires with you. It’s not that complicated.”

@KinneyGothHale: Older brother has been talking about Aristotle for 30 min at breakfast. She included a yawning sloth gif. @KinneyGothHale: Also Moffy’s boyfriend and me are the only ones who can make fun of him. You try, you die. I love that my youngest sister likes Farrow.

“If you can’t make it, don’t let Kinney scare you.” He chewed his gum with a rising smile. “Man, I’m not afraid of your thirteen-year-old sister. Especially because she thinks she can commune with dead people,” he said. “I promise I’ll make it.”

“It was just a little kid’s fear,” I tell him, “but I still remember going to restaurants where my aunts and uncles would have alcohol. There’d be a beer beside my dad’s water, and I’d worry all night that he’d accidentally drink out of the wrong glass.” “How’d you get over it?” Farrow asks, and he lets me slip his silver rings off his fingers and collect them in my callused palm. “My mom,” I tell him. “I told her why I was scared, and she said that my dad’s liver was made of vibranium.” Off his confusion, I add, “The same indestructible steel that Captain America’s shield is made of. She said that it’d take more than a single drink to destroy him.” He breaks into a smile, lightness in his eyes. “That sounds like your mom.”

You know Tom Carraway Cobalt as the eighteen-year-old lead singer of The Carraways. Tom’s band only just moved practices from the basement to concert venues, but they sell out every time. You’ve fallen in love with his irreverent charm, mischievousness, and the fact that he’s a daredevil on and off stage. I know him as my little cousin who will be the first to fall into chaos. Who chooses to run towards danger instead of away, and who calls me up every Saturday to talk about that guy in the back of the class he has a crush on. He means more to me than any words can describe. Fair Warning: if you fuck with him, we will both fuck with you.

My eyes drift back to the names on the screen. Redford Filipe Carraway No Middle Name Hale 1 No Middle Name Hale 2