Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(101)

We laugh.

Beckett smiles. “We’ll all protect you, Sulli, just try not to outrun us.”

“Virgins don’t die in horror movies,” I say and cross my arms as a breeze whips through. “You have it backwards.”

“Sluts die first,” Charlie says on the ground. He unbuttons another button on his white shirt. Even with the cold.

“Well, most of us will die then,” Oscar says, tying a bandana around his forehead.

I catch Charlie’s gaze. “Yeah, you’re right.” I nod, and everyone quiets as Charlie and I agree on something. A rarity on this damn trip. “Death by sex,” I explain. “It’s a trope, especially in older horror movies.”

Farrow ties his other boot. “Moral takeaway: sex is bad, kids. Protect your virginity.”

Charlie leans back on his elbows. “But if the virgin does die, it’s usually a girl and she’s always the final kill.” He smiles at Sulli. “Congratulations, you’ll outlive us all.”

“Fuck that.” She stands and wipes the gravel off her legs. “We’re all surviving.”

“Goals.” Donnelly blows smoke in the air. He tosses the cigarette pack to Beckett.

Farrow rises and stuffs his hands in a green Philadelphia Eagles hoodie. My hoodie.

I rub my mouth, trying to tell myself to look away. Stop staring like I’m fucking obsessed with him.

But my childhood crush is wearing my clothes. It’s the first time he’s dressed in something of mine. Maybe being in the middle of nowhere without paparazzi is the cause.

I skim him. Head to fucking toe. He took out his brow piercing, but he still has an earring, hoop in his nose and lip—and he has on my hoodie. Jesus.

Christ.

Fuck me and my short-circuiting brain. It’s just a fucking hoodie. He’s not wearing the meaning of life.

Farrow suddenly catches me staring. His lips quirk.

My neck heats, and I look away.

More smoke guzzles out of the bus. We all watch.

“Maybe we should put some distance between ourselves and the bus,” Jane suggests. She hops to her feet and takes off down the deserted, dark road.

I quickly follow suit. Jogging to catch up. “So I gotta tell you, this is the part of the horror movie where we both die. We’re the first to leave the group.”

She smiles softly. “On the contrary, old chap. We’re leading the group.”

I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, my cousins, their bodyguards, and Jack are following our trail.

Bodyguards click their flashlights, and I notice Farrow keeping pace with Oscar. He nods to me, but he doesn’t run ahead. Maybe to give me some alone time with Janie.

The further we are from the bus, the darker. My best friend powers on her phone light, and I unclip my carabineer on my jeans, an emergency flashlight attached.

I look at Janie. “What’s the chances we’re leading them to their deaths?”

Jane ponders this. “With your survival skills and my wit, we’d put up a good match against any adversary ahead, but we’re hopelessly unlucky, you and me.”

I put an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into my build. Almost like old times.

Shining my flashlight on the street, I ask, “Did you talk to your mom today?” Aunt Rose has been calling Janie every single day since the tour began, and every single day, Janie has ignored the call and replied with a text: not yet.

“No,” she says. “I thought about it. I did.” She ties her wavy hair in a low pony. “But so much time has passed, now I don’t even know what to say. They wrote those essays for me, and they both apologized. Now I feel like the brat that’s icing them out.”

“They fucked up,” I remind her. “You can take however long you need. That’s not being a brat.”

Her long lashes lift up to me. “You forgave your parents in a couple days, Moffy.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“My parents are…” I lick my dry lips, trying to step on the right word. I think about how people see the Hales. Fragile, breakable, humans—a row of dominos that topple with one blow. But that row of dominos always uprights again.

And again.

Again.

Strong.

My parents are strong, I remember, but it’s a kind of strength that appears after raw vulnerability. Like a scar after a wound.

I don’t like hurting them before they’re healed. “They don’t need me adding to their stress,” I end up saying. “Your parents eat and breathe loyalty. It’s okay to feel betrayed.”

“I don’t anymore though,” she says and kicks a loose piece of gravel with her ballet flat. “I understand why they did what they did. They love me. We received the royal interrogation treatment that they’d give each other. It’s actually quite flattering in this odd way.”

I frown. “Then why aren’t you talking to your mom?”

The wind whistles and wheat sways beside us. A cold chill snakes down my neck, and I zip up my gray jacket. Since we’re ahead of everyone, the landscape is fucking creepier.

Jane presses closer and hooks her arm with mine. “Like I said, I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with hi,” I suggest. “Your mom will probably fill in the rest.”