Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(68)

The thought races my pulse in a dizzying tempo, not often felt beyond Donnelly.

I appraise the room. About the same size of mine, there are splashes of Jane’s “grannie” style since she decorated. Frilly shams are perched on a floral comforter, the queen mattress a good kind of softness with no lumps or springs (already tested it).

A paisley sitting chair is nestled in the corner, an antique dresser on one wall, and a pale green weathered desk is beneath a heavy-draped window.

Donnelly sets the box on the bed.

“You could probably change the décor,” I tell him. “I don’t think Jane would mind.” Above the dresser, a humongous oil painting consumes the wall. Stormy clouds in the sky, a lush greenery backdrop, and a small hunter trekking through thick wilderness in the forefront make up the verdant, pastoral landscape.

“She told me the same thing, but I like her style.” Donnelly follows my gaze to the oil painting. “You know the name of that?” He doesn’t ask me like a quiz question. He can tell I recognize it.

“The Commencement of the Empire by Thomas Cole.” I run a finger over the ornate gold frame. “It’s the first of five paintings in his The Course of Empire series.”

Donnelly laughs. “Cobalts got you too.”

“Two of them are my best friends,” I say into a smile, and I realize he knew the name of the painting too. “I take it you know this painting because of Beckett.”

He nods. “Beckett has The Consummation of Empire hung in his room. I’d always take a good look at it every time I was there.” He eyes this painting, the one that portrays the natural world before a city is created. “It stays. Too much Cobalt history to pass it up.”

Cobalt history.

Each Cobalt kid has one of these paintings. Not originals—those are in a museum. But the replicas are still otherworldly.

Tom and Eliot share Destruction.

Ben and Audrey share The Arcadian.

And Charlie has the last painting in the series, Desolation.

Donnelly loves the Cobalts and their histories and traditions, and I don’t blame him. They have an allure and magnetism that draws me in, too, but I’m constantly reminded I’m not them. The world sees Cobalts as impenetrable immortals, and I’m just a Hale. I’m meant to bleed.

Donnelly unpacks a few shirts from the box.

“I can hang.” I open the empty closet. “I give good hang.”

His eyes flit to me, a sparkle in them. “I don’t doubt it.”

I grab one of the hangers. “Weapon of choice.” I wiggle the hanger.

“Be careful with that, space babe. I like my dust bunnies.” He tosses me one of his button-downs.

I catch it. “The dust bunnies will be mercifully spared.” I slide his shirt onto the hanger. “Just so you can parley with them later.”

He folds a pair of pants. “Trouble is I’d much rather parley with the Queen of Thebula.”

My face heats.

I know he reads my fics, but it’s not like we discuss them together. A few times, here and there, he’s mentioned that he likes my work, so I’m not so nervous to surface the topic. But I just…it’s different than talking about fandoms.

It’s a part of me.

In my silence, he watches me as I hang up his shirt. “Any new fics you’re working on?”

“Yeah, actually, I do have one.” I spin back to him and hold out my hands for another shirt.

He tosses again. I catch. It feels easy, less strained, and yet my heart is still beating a mile a minute like maybe this incredibly normal act of unpacking his clothes will be struck by a bolt of lightning.

“Title?” he asks.

I collect another hanger from the closet. “Beamed Up.”

He frowns. “Haven’t read that one yet.”

“I just posted it this morning.”

He nods slowly like that makes sense, and now I’m wondering how often Donnelly checks my account. More heat bathes my cheeks. Having an admirer feels like being chosen to board the starship and be launched to a new galaxy.

But then again, I’ve been his admirer for so, so long. I think about all the times I’ve fawned over his artwork. He’s so talented that I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I continue, “It’s a fuck or die kinda thing. I don’t know if you’d be into reading it, so totally skip it, if you want.”

He pulls out his phone, abandoning the box. “Fuck or die? I’m down.”

My smile hurts my cheeks. “It’s a trope. Have you heard of Aliens Made Them Do It? It’s the same thing in this context.”

He’s still scrolling on his phone. “So the aliens are making these humans fuck, and if they don’t, they kill ‘em?”

“Basically,” I say, waving the hanger around as I talk. “But there’s a lot of characterization and plot in there. That’s just the basic trope.”

“I’d like it even if it was just the fucking or dying.”

I bite the inside of my mouth to stop my smile from exploding off my face. He never judges me, and sometimes, most times, it feels like I’ve found the planet with the perfect amount of gravity. Like I’m neither glued to the ground nor floating in the clouds. The perfect in-between.

Hooking the hanger on the rack, I tell him, “Isaac Asimov, one of my favorite authors, wrote this short story called What Is This Thing Called Love? and he totally spun the fuck or die trope in a cool way. But I like it whether it’s cliché or reversed.”