Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(47)

StaleBread89: night, Illy





Illyana_Dallas222: night, SB





13





PAUL DONNELLY





I message Illy back on Fanaticon, asking if she got any sleep, and I’m climbing up the stairs to a rooftop bar. Fatigue isn’t weighing on me—I knocked back Frog’s leftover iced coffee in my apartment early this morning. Half was left, and she was about to chuck the drink.

“It’s all melted,” Frog told me with a cringe while I picked it up, “and it’s from yesterday.”

I took a swig. “Tastes like it’s from today to me.”

Then I stopped at Wawa, drank another coffee, bought a couple Lightning Bolt! energy drinks, smoked a cigarette, and I’m wired.

Farrow and Oscar are ahead of me, but they’re both looking back as I trail behind.

There’s a metaphor in there.

Symbolism. Something that Luna would understand more than me. Her being a writer and all. But I see it too. Feel it even more.

Remember when I said that thing about understanding the power and bond of a sibling? That’s because I always wanted a brother.

I fell into some luck, and I ended up getting two.

“Mystery Girl?” Farrow asks, seeing my phone.

Illy is a mystery. To them and to me. But Mystery Girl is what they’ve been calling the date I’m bringing on Friday.

It’s Wednesday, so our triple date is looming a lot closer.

“Mysterious something,” I climb up a few steps.

Oscar outstretches his arm to me. “What’s with your cagey ass not spilling more details? I can’t survive off crumbs.”

I suddenly hear Loren Hale in my head.

“I could stand here and tell you how you’re nothing. Nobody. I’ve ripped bigger careers away from wealthier people and dined on their ugly despair. You’re not even a snack I could gnaw on. You’re a goddamn crumb. And you’re not special to me. Don’t ever think you are.”

I blink his voice away, those words staying with me for too long. He said all that to me after I tattooed Luna when he asked me not to.

I rest on the stairwell banister. “All I’ve got are crumbs.”

“A name?” Oscar begs.

“Could be a Daphne, a Jasmine, a Tracey, but she’s not a Barbra or a Betty.”

“That’s not a crumb; that’s air,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. He’s not wrong. I’m doling out nothing because my date should stay a secret.

Oscar stares me down. “You’re killing me here. Legitimately.”

“That’s alright. Dr. Farrow will save you.”

“Dr. Hale,” Farrow corrects.

“Dr. Kale.” I mispronounce and motion him over to Oscar. “Stethoscope. Stat. He’s dyin’ on us. Can’t you see how ugly he’s starting to look?”

“That’s just Oliveira’s regular face.”

“Fuck you too, Redford,” Oscar says, trying not to laugh. “I’m the hottest fucker here.”

Neither are on Fanaticon, but in a “hot bodyguard” poll on the We Are Calloway forum, fans ranked Oscar below Farrow. Quinnie was #1, as always. Our little Casanova.

And me—I came dead last out of SFO.

Didn’t take it to heart. It’s hard to even be in the middle of the pack when all of us could grace a GQ cover if we really wanted.

My ego doesn’t bruise easily.

“You saving the hottest fucker or letting him die?” I ask Farrow.

He sucks in a breath. “Oliveira is maxed out on saves.”

“Like you’ve ever had to save my ass from near death, Redford.”

“And I don’t plan on ever having to.”

I grin, and Oscar does too. The three of us have more in common than stepping foot on the same Yale campus. They’re inhaling the same pure-grade self-reliance I am. Makes sense why we’ve all found ourselves in the same career. Same sphere.

Finally, Oscar gives up the Mystery Girl. “You know what, fine. I’ll get a real meal upstairs. I’m motherfucking starving, and I smell food.”

I don’t follow him.

Farrow is the one who stays a little longer on the stairs while Oscar pushes further ahead.

No matter where or how far back I am, Farrow has always found a way at my side when I need him. He’s my cool as shit brother who I love to tease ‘cause I’m just as cool, and like me, he rarely takes anything personally.

Life’s freeing in his company. Life should be like that for everyone, I believe.

I nod up to him. “How’s the baby-making going?”

His lips rise. “Are you asking about my sex life or about MK’s pregnancy?”

“Whatever you wanna tell me.” I climb higher on the staircase, only a step below Farrow.

He combs a casual hand through his hair. Strands dyed black again, he tips his head in thought, a smile spreading. “Sex with Maximoff is always amazing, and the surrogacy is still going smooth. For the most part.”

Millie Kay Miller is their surrogate. Farrow is going to have another baby—and that seems more than right. He’s the father we both wished we had. Always knew he’d be a great one, especially to Ripley.