Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
He glances back at me in my silence. “You’re okay with this arrangement?”
“It’s strange being here with you, but maybe that’s because you’re my future and this room is entirely nostalgic. And our present is finding its footing.”
His lip almost rises. “Our present is already standing.”
I smile more. “I agree, wholeheartedly. We haven’t fallen over.” I watch him set up the litter box with ease. My parents had a couple old ones, but we needed more for all seven cats.
If I think too hard, I can still feel the nauseous heat from the fire.
Thatcher, Farrow, Maximoff, Luna, and I—we lost everything we owned in the townhouse. Yesterday, we went to the site and walked the rubble. Soot and charred brick left behind.
I’m fortunate that I have the means to start over, but of course, I lost sentimental things. Framed photos that I never stored in my phone or backed up in the cloud (for security purposes), all the Post-it notes Thatcher wrote me, chunky heels my mom gifted me after the FanCon tour, and much more.
But I feel immensely grateful to have Thatcher here—and that no one else was hurt. All the material items seem far less important and unnecessary in the end.
“Are you ready?” Thatcher asks.
We’ve been moving hurriedly. We have somewhere to be, you see.
“Almost.” I dispose the cut tags into a trash bin and crouch down to a cat carrier. “I have something for you before we go.”
I can feel his confusion mount behind me.
My purple tulle skirt catches in the carrier’s zipper. “Merde,” I mutter and tear the fabric. So it shall be.
Thatcher suddenly squats down. He helps me unstick the zipper, and my cheeks hurt, my smile overpowering my face.
“Merci,” I say.
But his face has already fallen, seeing what’s inside the carrier.
“The night of the fire,” I explain, pulling out the item. “I saw this on the vanity and I shoved it inside with Ophelia, before you put Licorice with her.”
Thatcher takes the old library book out of my hand. The cover of The Outsiders is worn, and his chest rises as he flips to the list of names, eyeing the last one written.
Skylar Moretti
Thatcher started with less than me. I have possessions strewn throughout my childhood house. His whole life was in a bag, and it went up in flames.
I just wanted to preserve something for him.
He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you, Jane.” He pinches his eyes for a half a second, then stands and slips The Outsiders on my teenage bookshelf.
He could’ve tucked the book into his bag, and I find a lot of love in the fact that he set his childhood possession next to mine.
I smile. “Now I’m ready.”
We leave the regal mansion, entering a late-March warmth. Spring has come very early this year, and we bathe in the temperate weather.
He slips his hand in mine, and we walk past a baby blue Land Rover, parked near the fountain.
My Volkswagen Beetle was too damaged in the fire to salvage, and so yesterday, I bought Thatcher a car for his Christmas present, and he chose the color for me.
Our vehicle sits very pretty, I think.
We descend the driveway. Pink tulip trees blooming on either side, and I glance up at Thatcher, his flannel shirt hiding the burn on his shoulder.
It’ll scar, but he’s said the pain has lessened. And I take comfort in that fact. Tony was released from the hospital at the same time as Thatcher, and the rumor is that he’s being transferred to Security Force Alpha.
Where he’ll be the bodyguard to Connor Cobalt—my brilliant, cutthroat dad. Who can make the tallest men feel infinitesimally microscopic and tiny.
With that behind us and so much ahead, the air sings with a newfound happiness. We reach the neighborhood street and stroll towards the music and voices at the end of the cul-de-sac.
We’re not the only ones en route.
Farrow and Maximoff step onto the road with Kinney perched on Moffy’s shoulders, her black combat boots thudding his chest. They leave the Hale house along with Luna and Xander. Like us, they’ve chosen to temporarily reside at our childhood homes. Just until we choose a new place to live.
They smile at Thatcher and me.
Luna waves a neon-green pompom, one I made for her long ago, growing up, and I realize Moffy, Xander and Kinney have their makeshift pompoms in hand too.
I laugh into a tearful smile, and I look up to Thatcher, who has such light in his eyes. And he’s the one to tell me, “Today is a happy day.”
“It is,” I nod.
We trek forward, and I hear Kinney ask her older brother, “Why are you so slow? Walk faster.”
“I could run, Kinney, but you’d scream—”
“Huh, I’m afraid of nothing.”
He sprints forward, whooshing past me, and Kinney shrieks.
We all laugh, and that laughter blends into the packed cul-de-sac where Thatcher’s big Italian-American family is among all of mine—parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. Plus, Omega bodyguards are here as friends. Grilling out burgers and cheesesteaks, music flowing into the bright blue sky. Beers are chilled and sipped.