Beckett stakes me with one final glare before hanging his head and saying, “Let’s just get this over with.”
16
THATCHER MORETTI
Sometimes I forget just how fucking rich Jane’s family is until I meet the wealth head-on.
Like right now.
I’ve never seen a gold tissue holder until this moment. Let alone one in the bathroom of a plane. Salt scrub is in an opal dish with a spoon that looks more expensive than my salary, and ornate light fixtures cast a dim glow on the porcelain toilet.
Fit for royalty.
I have enough room to do push-ups, sit-ups, and throw some jumping jacks into the mix, and usually, I’d ignore the luxuries and focus on my duty.
But Jane is my girlfriend. This is the Cobalt family jet, affectionately nicknamed Heathcliff by Audrey, which outsizes all the other private planes and can comfortably carry all three famous families. It’s also outfitted with four bedrooms, five lounges, a twenty-person dining room, cinema and fitness area.
Where Jane comes from feels leagues different than where I’m born and bred. I’m staring at the Tiffany blue walls, the two sinks, and the fucking shower with thundering caution.
They’ll never accept someone like me.
I exhale out of my nose. That out-of-place feeling wants to beat me down, but I have to push forward.
Her brother is what matters here.
I face him while we’re cuffed together. “I can turn around and give you privacy while you piss, or I can uncuff you and stay forward.” I don’t trust Beckett, and I haven’t exactly patted him down for drugs.
He shifts his weight and stares everywhere but at me. “I just need to use the sink.” He seems antsy.
“I thought you needed to go the bathroom?” I’m tentative because Jane always talks about Cobalt 4D chess games, and I’m not about to be duped by one of her brothers.
Beckett scratches underneath the cuff. “No. I just need the sink.” He still can’t meet my eyes. “Please.” His voice is a sincere whisper. “I didn’t want to worry her, but I have to wash my hands. It’s really bothering me…” He expels a taut, anxious breath.
I realize his distress isn’t some deceptive thing. He’s uncomfortable being this vulnerable in front of me.
I make a choice, and I fish a tiny key out of my pocket. “Don’t do anything your sister wouldn’t want you to do.” I unlock his handcuff.
Beckett nods, and while I stand guard near the door, he rubs his wrist and approaches the sink. I watch him pump the soap dispenser three times. He methodically lathers his palms, in between his fingers, his forearms—all the way to his elbows.
He scrubs his hands, turns the faucet on and off five consecutive times, and glances back at me. “Can you…please just look at the wall?”
I shift my narrowed gaze onto the toilet, his nerves suffocating the bathroom, and I feel badly that his OCD is riding him this hard. I have no experience helping Beckett with this, but I understand brothers who want to keep their troubles hidden and private.
Jane will want to know.
I’ll tell her, and she’ll blame herself for pushing Beckett there—but I’ll lift her as high as I can and carry the guilt. It’s what I’m good at.
He repeats the routine three more times, and when he finishes washing soap suds, he curses under his breath and starts all over again. His skin is starting to grow red and inflamed.
“Is there something I can do?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then after another five minutes, he dries his hands on a monogramed towel. “When you mention this to Jane, can you add that this isn’t serious?” He comes over and extends his wrist.
Carefully, I snap on the cuff. “Why don’t you just tell her yourself?”
“Honestly…it’s hard for me to talk to her right now.” He’s still upset that she dragged him here.
“I’ll mention it,” I promise.
“Thanks.” He stares nervously at the door, like the latch is haunted. I notice how he twiddles his fingers, and I step past him, our wrists connected, and I open the door for Beckett.
He exhales in relief but avoids my eyes.
We exit, and I peer into the main lounge. Almost everyone has already boarded. Total headcount for the trip: a staggering 17 people.
Leave it to Maximoff Hale to transform the work of scouting a wedding location into a vacation for other people. He invited his family, security, and any plus-ones who wanted to journey to the Scottish Highlands for a week.
We’ll be back by December 20th, just in time for the holidays. My grandma has been begging me to bring Jane home for Christmas Eve. Every phone call is the same, but the most recent one was on speakerphone in Jane’s bedroom.
I was packing my duffel and her suitcase for Scotland.
“Youse twos are still coming for dinner on Christmas Eve?” my grandma asked.
On the bed, Jane smiled at the phone in my hand while she brushed Licorice. The gray cat had just come out of hiding.
“We’re still planning on it,” I confirmed.
“The whole family will be there,” my grandma said excitedly. Proud of the family, and Jane beamed up at me, understanding that feeling of pride in a lineage. “And I want to give Jane her baby blanket I’m crocheting. I should be finished by then.”
I didn’t flinch.
Jane went wide-eyed. “Oh, I’m…I’m not pregnant.”
“It’s not for now,” my grandma said. “I already made Thatcher one, but now youse can have two for the day you marry and have babies. I might not be around.”
“Grandma,” I said. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Hush now, I’m old. When I go, I’ll go, and you’ll have these things to remember me by.” She’s been preparing the family for her death since she was in her early sixties. Saying, I’m old. I’m gonna die soon.
She’s still healthy.
After we said our goodbyes and I hung up, Jane looked more curiously at me. “Has she crocheted your past girlfriends baby blankets?”
“Hell no.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t expect that reaction.
My pulse ratcheted up. “She likes you.” She can tell I love you.
“I like her a great deal too,” Jane whispered, but her brows bunched in concern. “What if…” Flush stained her freckled cheeks. “What if you dislike me in six or seven months and we break-up? Or possibly we might just mutually feel we’re not a perfect fit? These are rational probabilities.” She spoke in a single breath.
I realized then that Jane believes there’s a greater chance of us being a short-term couple than a permanent one.
“How is it rational that I’ll dislike you in six months when I love you now?” I asked point-blank.
She smiled, then frowned, then winced. “Anything could happen…I suppose.”
I nodded stiffly.
I can’t see the future any better than she can. Mathematically maybe that shit adds up in that direction, but we’re dealing with emotion.
Unwieldy, un-fucking-quantifiable, frightening emotion—and I just want to be her safety net. I want her to feel like she can fall into these feelings, and I’ll catch her.