Unlucky Like Us (Like Us, #12)

by Krista Ritchie

Lo’s expression volleys between emotions I don’t try to read. It’d mean staring at his face for longer than a second, and it’s not a place I’m excited to reside.

“You gonna drive?” “You okay?” he asks sharply.

He breaks the silence. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank—” “For Ripley,” he cuts me off, and I look over. His eyes are bloodshot, reddened like he’s restraining the most stinging emotion. “You didn’t want me to know.” It’s not a question.

“You realize I make more money than Connor Cobalt?” He makes a face at me like I hit my head on the curb. “Whatever you’re giving Scottie is chump change to me. I’m paying. He’ll still think it’s coming from you, and he won’t ask for more.”

“I’m doing this for my grandson and for Moffy and Farrow. I’m not doing this for you.” It’s now that I relent. “Alright. Go ahead.”

“Rumors about you hating Donnelly. It’s a feud the press will want to see, and it’ll drive Donnelly towards Sean and away from you.” “That’s fine,” Lo says tightly. “As long as there’s no mention of Luna.”

He’s a good listener, just like his dads.

My dad, your grandpa, has years upon years of being beloved.” For standing devotedly at my mom’s side. For his sobriety. For raising four children—the oldest of which is treated like a national treasure.

“It’s never a no. Of course I wanna still go with you. Who else will be Team Callie with me?” He motions to me. “We’ll hit up all the Bass panels together. It’ll be dope.”

Donnelly whistles. “Look at you. You’re already way cooler than your papa. You tell him Uncle Donnelly said so, yeah?” Ripley nods a ton, acting very serious.

“I think you’d be happier there, but what do I know? I’m just your cousin.” He makes it seem like that title holds zero weight, but Charlie has meaning to my life. Even though he’s not editing any of my fics right now, I already miss picking his brain and trying to see how he views the world.

Maximoff adjusts Ripley in his arms. “It’s fine, Charlie. Just let them be.” Just let them be. I never really thought Moffy would be this supportive of me and Donnelly, and I can’t calm my mushrooming smile.

Donnelly jumps in, “We’re not together.” He pries out those words from his core, and pain blooms inside me. We’re not together. Why does that feel final? Permanent?

“I do, but there are times where it’s necessary,” Charlie sneers between his teeth. “Don’t make me fill that role. Please.”

Before Donnelly shifts his gaze away, I catch his anger and his hurt. He loves the Cobalts.

“You want to make a point like that again,” Farrow says heatedly to Charlie, “don’t be surprised when you meet an ending you won’t like.”

Farrow speaks into his comms mic instead. “Oliveira, come collect your baggage.” Now that hurt Charlie. His cheek muscle twitches. Then he gets in Farrow’s face.

Farrow still hasn’t given into Charlie or his own anger, and inside this palpable messiness, I lock eyes with Donnelly, a painful longing burrowing back in my lungs.

My Cobalt brethren called me contaminated—like I’m toxic waste. But that’s not even what’s got me hot.

He drops his head a fraction, then turns to me. “I’ll be more conscious if their son is around. It didn’t cross my mind in that particular moment, honestly.”

Farrow was only defending me, but he ended up trapped in a place that I know he would never want to be.

“Even though it’s a Cobalt who said it?” She knows how much I respect the Cobalt Empire, and being shit on by one of them isn’t giving me heart eyes.

I lived up in New York with him and Beckett. Charlie’s always been direct. Blunt. He shoots shotgun shells at close range, so you have to pay attention, but someone usually gets hurt. Gun was aimed for me this time, but I just feel like he took out my best friend instead.

“Joke’s on Charlie though ‘cause you’re definitely not a sheep, but I’m fucking glad he thinks you are.” “Why?” “Because if he went at you, I’d be in his face.”

Can’t even imagine how Farrow has felt watching a guy repeatedly go at the love of his life. I’d lose my mind.

“Get Farrow on the line. Jane’s going into labor, and I need some instructions. I have no cell service, and I can barely hear you.” Where’s Web MD when you need it most?

“I don’t want to do this without him. I don’t want to.” She wants her husband. She wants Thatcher, and she’s sobbing. My heart splits open because I know I’m not a good stand-in for the love of her life. I wouldn’t want this either.

She nods, her body easing like her husband is a morphine drip. Before I draw back, she catches my hand to squeeze it in appreciation. Relief spills tears out of the corner of her eyes. “Thank you.”

As I place the newborn in Jane’s arms, the waterworks hit me too, seeing Jane embrace her baby, kiss her soft cheek, instantly love her. Life is strange and beautiful, and moments like these, I’m grateful to be alive.

“Congratulations, Papa Moretti. You’ve got a beautiful baby girl.” I lower the mic to the newborn who lets out softer cries. Thatcher can hear his daughter.

“They’re asking for you.” So I collect the radio, earpiece. Comms are back with me. “Donnelly here.” “Check Jane,” Thatcher orders. “Get Farrow back on,”

Even though my palm isn’t clean, even though she knows we shouldn’t—she’s still holding my hand. I encase mine around hers.

Jane and Thatcher have big extended families, and I want to give the Cobalts and Morettis this time together. Don’t need to intrude, but Jane personally calls me and says, “Can you come here?”

My smile fades at the emotional look in his eyes. “Did something happen?” “Yeah,” he nods. “You delivered my daughter. You helped Jane.”

“She did all the work. I just cracked Olive Garden jokes.” Jane laughs inside the room. She heard me.

“I should’ve said it earlier—” “Nah, man, you just had a baby. You only needed to think about her and Jane.” I know what he’s about to say. The gratitude is penned in the shiny browns of his eyes. Still, Thatcher produces the words, “Thank you, Donnelly.” I lift my shoulders. “Happy to be there.” I mean it. Being able to witness a new life coming into the world has reminded me why I love existing.

“That’s not her name,” Jane says. “After what happened, after what you did for me”—I’m shaking my head, but tears are already flooding her eyes—“you did help me, Donnelly. You made sure Thatcher was there with me.” Anyone would’ve done that, but I don’t argue. “What’d you name her?” is all I ask. “Maeve. It’s Irish,” Jane says. “It means she who rules. And in Irish mythology, she’s a goddess.” Irish. Because of me. My gaze clouds with more emotion, and I look down at Maeve Moretti. A baby goddess is the perfect addition to the Cobalt Empire—and to Jane and Thatcher’s new family.

“I had to cancel dinner with my dad tonight,” I remind him. “For this. He’s not dumb. He’s gonna think I’m like Thatcher or Farrow to your family. Like I’m more than a no-named, replaceable bodyguard, and I have to be no one.” Lo is quiet.

“Please,” I’m begging here. I’m scared of being caught in this lie. Terrified, really. ‘Cause they won’t take me snitching on them kindly.

Stay sparkly, space

I almost told him, that is an awful reality. I’m happy you’re in mine.

Maybe I’m just being harder on myself since Donnelly is doing all the legwork for us to be together. He’s reconnecting with his dad for me. What’s my contribution? I’m here. In my bedroom. Relegated to waiting…and writing. Mostly to you, unearthly reader.

Thatcher calls out, needing to keep tabs on me, and this is when I know he’s talking to me as a bodyguard and not my cousin’s husband or a roommate. Being a new dad clearly hasn’t affected his concern for my safety.

I wonder if Frog knew she was protecting a sometimes-villain.

Each suit is even named after them. The Charlie, The Beckett, The Ben. Eliot and Tom were able to approve some of the design elements to their suits too, and I remember they needed to schedule a fitting.

“You didn’t bring your bodyguard here?” Beckett suddenly asks, his concern tripling as he approaches.

Do you regret that friendship? I want to ask him, but I’m scared of the answer. Because if it’s yes, my heart will shatter for Donnelly.

Ben has Eliot on the ground, trying to pin him. Eliot is wrestling Ben back, their faces reddened with visceral anger. Eliot vs. Ben.

“Luna, Luna,” Beckett says quickly, seizing my arm and drawing me away from his brothers.

Beckett comes forward, his hand on his forehead like someone shielding the sun. “Enough,” he says too quietly and then shouts, “ENOUGH!” It stills the room. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell that caustically. He sweeps his brothers and the mess strewn around them. His breath is uneven. “Enough.”