Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Farrow smiles so fucking wide, and he lifts his brows in a wave like that just happened, wolf scout.
Yeah.
That just happened. And I can’t believe I’m smiling.
“Damn,” Quinn says.
“Coulda used some emojis,” Donnelly suggests.
“Fuck,” Oscar says with a breathy whistle. “Was the promise kept, Redford?”
“Jealous?” Farrow asks, but his gaze never leaves me.
22
MAXIMOFF HALE
“Can you guys hug and make up? Please,” Sulli says with one hand on my shoulder, her other hand on Charlie’s.
We’re in a backroom at the Chicago FanCon. The photo and signing portion went off without a hitch. No power outage. No dislocated shoulder. And now we’re minutes from going onstage for the very first Q&A.
Baskets of sweets, candy, stuffed animals, scrapbooks, and other homemade gifts tower unsteadily on a coffee table. All from fans. Reminding me that people are here for us. They’re counting on us.
And I’m not going to let anyone down this time.
“We’re okay,” I tell Sulli.
Charlie nods, both of us avoiding each other’s eye.
Sulli sighs and digs in a sweets basket. “They’re gonna notice this fucking…fuck whatever you call it.” She waves a hand between us, then dumps chocolate snowcaps in her palm.
“Tension,” Beckett defines, squatting down and rising. He tries to stretch his arms, muscles shot from lifting girls for five hours.
“You okay?” I ask him. “You can take a break.”
Charlie watches his brother keenly, concern evident.
Beckett cricks his neck. “I’m not ditching. I’ll be fine.” Sulli gives him a side-hug.
Jane has been scribbling math equations in a notebook. Something that helps clear her mind. But she shuts the notebook. And then scans our uneven huddle. “Look at us.”
My eyes drift to each of my cousins. We look like we’re five colossally different people who come from the same unconventional place.
Beckett is dressed in The Carraways merch, supporting Tom’s band, and colorful tattoos sprawl down his arm.
Sulli wears cut-off jean shorts in the winter, a dolphin pendant roped around her neck, and her dark hair cascades down her chest.
I’m in jeans and a green Halway Comics shirt. Arms crossed, shoulders squared but thankfully not sore anymore.
Janie is decked out in pastels and sequins, pants snug on her waist. Wavy brunette hair uncombed.
And Charlie always looks like he just got fucked in a bathroom. Four buttons undone on his white, wrinkled dress shirt.
Beckett gives his sister a what-the-fuck face. “We look like a hot mess, sis. This isn’t a revelation.”
“We look like we’re close. The five of us together. But somehow we’ve all come apart.” Jane doesn’t say the cause, and it’s not the rumor.
If anything the rumor brought us together with this tour—but what pulled us apart was me. And Charlie.
“Moffy and I won’t sit next to each other,” Charlie suddenly says. “Easy enough.”
We all nod.
“We shouldn’t sit next to each other either,” Jane tells me.
I spin on my best friend, my face sharpened and brows cinched. I get that this is the first time we’ve opened ourselves to questions since the secret affair rumor. But there’s a hitch. “It’s going to seem fucking weird if we don’t sit next to each other, Janie.”
She thinks for a moment, then nods. Pink bedazzled cat sunglasses shield her eyes, but her freckled cheeks pull in a smile that says I’m ready for battle.
The FanCon coordinator pops her head in and tells us it’s time.
And I assure Beckett, “It won’t be three hours.”
Charlie grabs a water bottle. As he passes me, he whispers, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Fans pack the ballroom, every chair filled. An aisle splits down the middle and leads to a microphone where fans can ask questions.
A giant banner—FanCon presented by H.M.C. Philanthropies—backdrops a decent sized stage. Five chairs are already lined up in a row, and the tour’s moderator touches the microphone at the podium.
As soon as the moderator introduces us, we step on stage. The crowd roars. Cheering and whistling. Cameras flash, and I smile, wave.
I grab a microphone off my chair and take the second seat. Because at the very last second, we decided to sit oldest to youngest: Jane, me, Charlie, Beckett, and Sullivan. 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.
Excited fans make it easier. My smile grows, and I raise my microphone to my mouth. “Hey, Chicago,” I greet to another bout of cheers. I grin. “You’re all great. How are you enjoying the FanCon so far?”
They woot and holler.
Janie speaks in her mic. “We’ve loved meeting you, and we’re very appreciative that you’ve bought tickets for a good cause.”
Clapping, and someone screams, “I LOVE YOU, CHARLIE!”
The corner of his mouth inches upwards, but he doesn’t say a damn thing.
Sulli taps her mic. “Is this on?” Her voice booms. “Oh, fuck whoa.”
The crowd laughs.