While he was in a towel—but towels are just ordinary fabrics a person uses after bathing. Towels don’t have to be sensual. Not even when they’re fastened to six-feet seven-inches of heaven and man.
He talked about his family traditions, then he washed my sunglasses without second thought, and did we both struggle to depart?
I touch my lips, my smile absolutely uncontrollable.
“Janie?”
“Hmm.” I wake out of a Thatcher Moretti stupor much too slowly. Just barely noticing Maximoff, who stands rigid beside the pink Victorian loveseat.
“Are you panting?”
“She’s definitely breathing hard,” Farrow states.
“What?” My mind snaps into clearer focus, and my face burns as I notice my audience of two men. Right where I left them.
I’d been in deep conversation with Maximoff and Farrow before I went to retrieve milk next door, and I knew they’d be here when I returned.
I just didn’t expect to be this distracted by my bodyguard.
“No, no panting.” I intake a normal breath and step away from the door. “This is my regular breathing pattern.”
The living room décor is frilly and pastel due to my taste. But Moffy didn’t mind that I decorated our townhouse. I brought in a rocking chair, a pink Victorian loveseat, mint-green rug, framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, and a small iron café table.
Our home smells of coffee, tea, and candles, so very unlike the cedar and musk of security’s townhouse.
“You look flushed .” Maximoff gestures to me with his Batman mug, full of steaming hot tea. He also grips a pack of pushpins.
“I am,” I say in a shallow breath, “so very flushed.”
I have no desire to skirt around the truth with my best friend and his fiancé when I want them involved in my life as much as I love being a part of theirs.
Really, I can’t remember a time where I haven’t been a part of Maximoff’s life. As the firstborns of the Hales and Cobalts, we’ve faced the brunt of the media spotlight and harassment together since birth.
I remember a school field trip to the zoo. Paparazzi were waiting outside the gated entrance, swarming the ticket booths. Two middle-aged cameramen kept shouting at us, “Jane! Maximoff! Have you started dating anyone yet?! Is there someone you like in school?!”
We were only twelve.
It was our normal. One we had to accept fully or else we’d go mad with irritations.
So once we entered the zoo, Maximoff looked over at me with confidence and a smile.
I smiled brightly back, and for the very first time, I told him, “It’s just you and me, old chap.”
He squeezed my shoulders in a side hug.
We were one another’s comfort and refuge. As teenagers, we’d deal with worse, but we had each other.
And we felt responsible for our siblings and cousins.
Maximoff very much enjoys responsibility. And I do, but to an extent. I don’t prefer leading anyone anywhere. It’s a terrible pressure to make decisions for large groups.
But I love holding the torch with him. Helping those behind us avoid falling into the dark underbelly of fame.
Because we knew whatever we experienced, our younger brothers, sisters, and cousins could soon experience after us. We tried to protect them from the cruelest parts of our reality. Blocking the numbers of porn producers off their phones, bartering with paparazzi so they’d leave them alone after school.
And then we’d take deep breaths. We’d hug and share secrets—late night in the Meadows treehouse, parked outside the school’s football field, after his swim meets and my mathlete competitions.
It’s just you and me, old chap.
And then it wasn’t.
Not anymore, not entirely.
Farrow Redford Keene came into vivid focus. With a picturesque know-it-all smile, unflappable confidence, and cascade of pirate tattoos. He’d comb a hand through his dyed platinum hair, roll his eyes, wear a teasing grin, and send my best friend into a fit of agitation.
Agitation that roused attraction.
He truly had this magnetic exchange with Maximoff that no one else did, and I saw it more up-close when he became Moffy’s bodyguard, and then closer, when they first dated and trusted me, out of everyone, to keep it secret.
I could’ve been bitter that I’d have to share Moffy, I suppose. Or I could’ve been awfully afraid that Farrow would take my place in my best friend’s life.
But I was cautiously optimistic instead.
Maximoff—my compassionate, stubborn, strong-willed best friend with a great aversion to big life changes—was willing to complicate his world by letting Farrow in.
I couldn’t resent the person who made Maximoff laugh and groan and smile in ways I’d never seen, but I was afraid of not meshing well with Farrow.
What if we never become friends? What if we actually dislike each other over time?
At first, building a friendship together seemed so dreadfully complex, but like all things with Farrow, he made it simple. During the Camp-Away last December, he chose to sit next to me in the mess hall. I was eating alone, and he could’ve easily sat next to Maximoff.
He made me feel like a first thought.
He’s never once made me feel like an unwanted third-wheel. He’s never pushed me out. He’s also gone out of his way to ensure I have plenty of time with Moffy.
Even the night of the car crash.
He’s given my best friend more, and somehow, he’s given me more, too. I feel as though I’ve gained another confidante, another ally, another defender and secret-keeper from the perils of our chaotic world.
I think Farrow is a beautiful person inside and out, and I will never desire to go backwards. To a time where he’s not with us. To just me and Maximoff.
Our worlds are more full of life with him here.
And now that I’ve fully admitted to both of them that I’m indeed very, very flushed, I plan to clarify further. But I’m easily distracted.
This time, by my cats. Five out of six are pawing at my calves.
“I know you’ve been waiting, my loves. Look what I have for you.” I rattle the half-gallon of milk. “Come follow.” I guide them to bowls lined in front of the brick fireplace.
Toodles, a tuxedo short-hair, is far too lazy to bother and lounges apathetically on the stair.
“Janie,” Maximoff says firmly. In a way that reminds me to focus.
I divide milk evenly between the bowls. Admittedly, I’ll put myself last because I find other people far more interesting. Cats as well.
But I love how much Maximoff helps me try to concentrate on me for more than a fleeting moment.
“It’s not a lengthy story.” I cap the empty gallon while Ophelia, Carpenter, Walrus, Lady Macbeth, and Licorice eagerly lap up milk. A smile touches my lips.
I stand straighter and turn to face both men.
Maximoff has thick brown hair, forest-green eyes, and sharp features full of protectiveness and concern. We’re no longer teenagers. He’s twenty-three, but he often stands like he’s carrying the world on his broad shoulders.
I’d be able to see the fresh puffy scar on his collarbone from his surgery—but he’s dressed in a Third Eye Blind tee, one of his fiancé’s shirts.
Both men already showered this morning. We all got an ea
rly start to the day after the commotion outside. Guys screaming my name at the top of their lungs. Every day it grows louder.
It’s not endearing. Some of them are older than my dad.
Thank you, Grandmother.
I’m in a warped version of Say Anything , but without the boombox and without John Cusack as my love interest. And I may be famous, but I don’t typically deal with fanatic admirers.
I have hecklers.
Men who are quick to criticize my physical appearance. I’m not pretty enough. Not busty enough. Not full-assed enough. And I have too wide of hips. Too big of a stomach.
But after much consideration, I’ve learned to love my body. Because it’s mine and there is only one of me.
I don’t have all the right curves in the right places. I am chubby. But I love my belly rolls, and I adore my love handles and my flat pancake-like ass that’s dimpled with cellulite.
The more I love myself, the more I feel a warm, invisible hug wrap around my body.
Better.
I watch Farrow dip a spoon in oatmeal, but he’s taken a pause. His focused brown eyes are on me.
He’s dressed in his usual black V-neck tucked in black slacks with a black belt and security radio attached, and he’s been sitting casually on the Victorian loveseat. One tattooed foot on the cushion, elbow to his bent knee, and he’s holding an oatmeal bowl.
Farrow tilts his head. “You saw Moretti.”
He’s also observant and perceptive, exactly what I’d hope for in the bodyguard to my best friend.
“Wait, what?” Maximoff whips toward his one true love so quickly that he nearly sloshes hot tea on himself. “Fuck .”
“Careful.” Farrow smiles into a bite of oatmeal.
Maximoff almost reddens, not in embarrassment.
We are all so very flushed these days.
I place the empty milk jug on the mantel and take a seat on the rocking chair. Shifting a fuzzy purple pillow out of the way.
Moffy tries to grimace and hide his attraction. “I’m always more careful than you, man.”
Farrow lifts his brows at him. “Never said you weren’t, wolf scout.” He unravels my best friend in such small moments.