It slams into me.
I can protect my wife.
That’s what she’ll be. My wife.
My hand slides along her cheek, her tears falling, and our foreheads drift closer. Men chat softly behind us, giving me and her a moment, and their voices fade to the background.
“Thatcher.” She inhales like we’re on an ascent.
My chest caves and expands. “Jane.”
“You’re my bodyguard.” She speaks our blissful reality into the world.
I hold her close, emotion barreling into my body. Surging and stinging my eyes, and very deeply, I say, “You’re going to be my wife. I promise you that.”
She cries into a tearful smile, and her lips find my ear—her cheek brushing against my hard jaw—and tenderly, Jane whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you, and let me tell you how terribly and tremendously I do.”
I listen to Jane ramble quickly and slowly about her love for me, right against my ear—and I could shut my eyes and breath in. Like it’s my first breath on this earth.
I stand strong, my pulse soothed, and my hand lost in her frizzed hair. I can live inside hell, but for the first time, I’ve finally reached heaven—and I’m happy and I’m staying. I’m staying. To build a life and future and family. Right here, with Jane Eleanor Cobalt.
For forever.
49
JANE COBALT
Rather quickly, I snip off tags hooked to store-bought cat toys: new vibrant colored mice, a few feathery stuffed balls, and a cupcake and unicorn stuffed catnip set, thanks to the Meadows family.
And I steal a glance at the sexiest, sternest, and most iron-willed man my eyes have ever loved. Thatcher slices open packaging to a new litter box, our seven cats prancing curiously around him and me.
He’s careful with the knife as they nudge closer.
I smile, but then I remember where we are. Only two days have passed since the fire, and we’re all still picking up the pieces.
I turn more towards him. “Are you sure you’re okay to stay here until we all decide on a new place?” I add in haste, “And I know I’ve asked you a dozen times already, and this will be the last—I just need to be certain.”
“Yeah.” Thatcher rips open the cardboard box. “I’m good here.”
I eye him, more intrigued. He’s not even surveying his surroundings—which are very pastel blue. And frilly, and I suppose not entirely different to my room in the townhouse.
Except for the sheer opulence.
A diamond chandelier hangs over a four-poster princess-like bed. Set in the very center, the bed presides over a rosé-hued vanity, a hand-crafted wardrobe from Florence, shelves of jeweled Parisian trinkets—and not to forget the boas and outlandish costumes strewn over a dressing curtain, which costs more than his salary.
I am obnoxiously wealthy.
I have been this entire time. But now, he’s immersed in this luxury while he’s staying in my teenage bedroom with me. Right where I grew up.
The Cobalt Estate is our temporary home for the time being.
Neither of us envisioned living with my parents and my youngest brother and sister—but Thatcher agreed it’s safer to “post-up” in the gated neighborhood until we find a permanent place.
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.