Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(108)

I’m on both knees, holding her elbows and trying to get her to look at me. Her eyes are everywhere but on my face.

“You have to give me a chance,” she sobs. “One date. Anything. You’ll see.” Her voice cracks. “You’ll see I could be such a good girlfriend, and we’ll be in love and everything will be perfect for once and happy.”

Christ…I didn’t think it was leading there. I grapple and claw for the right response. My joints rust, neck stiff. “I do want you to be happy—”

She chokes on her tears. “My parents got divorced. Everyone at school hates me…” She yanks at my collar. I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Hugging a fragile human being.

I’m not sure I can provide the right comfort. The right fucking words or the perfect strength. All I want is for her to be unequivocally, irrevocably happy, but I can’t even give that to my own brother.

How do I fix this? How can I fucking fix this?

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice more stilted. “Just breathe.”

She sobs into the crook of my neck. Wet tears soaking my shirt. “Please, please, please. I don’t want to die.”

My pulse thumps like a hollowed drum. It’s her and me, and I know I’m not enough. I need to put her in touch with health professionals—I’ve done this before. I can make sure she’s okay. I can do that at least.

I turn my head. “Lydia,” I call out to my tour assistant. “If her parents aren’t here, get them on the phone.” She hurries.

Farrow squats beside me.

“Britni,” I say, “there are people who can help if you’re feeling alone or—”

“You’re the only one,” she says through blistering tears. She clutches my collar again like I’m her literal lifeline.

Farrow gently peels her fingers off my shirt and neck.

“I’m not the only one,” I assure her. “There are so many people out there who’ll help you, who care about you—”

“Nonono,” she slurs, shaking her head.

I could go into my fan line and ask a couple girls around her age if they’d want to come on stage. Sit with us for about five minutes. Keep Britni company with me. Cheer her up. Just talk and show her that people do care. Maybe she’d make a new friend.

I did that at the San Diego FanCon for an upset preteen, but here, with Britni, I don’t know. She reminds me of Xander, and he’d flip the fuck out of if I brought strangers into his bubble.

Britni clings onto my shoulders, and Farrow has trouble tearing her off without being forceful.

“Jane cares about you,” I say strongly. “My cousins care—”

“I only want you,” she cries into my neck.

My muscles tighten, and Lydia lowers a phone into my hand. Britni’s parents. While she’s crying against my chest, I talk to them, ask them who attended the FanCon with their daughter.

They have no clue. They didn’t even know she’d be here, and I’m not that surprised. I ask for consent to put her on the phone with healthcare professionals. They say yes, of course. Great, I go through the motions, but I’m cradling a human in my hands.

And I’m just twenty-two.

I’m not a superhero. I don’t have the answers or the meaning of life, but I’m fucking trying. All I can do is try.

When they want to quit, I’m not going to fucking quit on them.

It must be twenty or thirty minutes before Britni calms, speaks to her parents, and I have to leave her in the hands of our staff.

I’m on my feet, and the line coordinator, photographer, assistant, and my bodyguard all look at me for direction. I crack my neck, my muscles almost spasm they’re that tight.

I lock eyes with Farrow. He chews a piece of gum, and he gestures his head towards the backstage exit. To take a break.

For just a minute.

I nod, and to Lydia, I say, “I won’t be long.” As I pass Farrow, we walk side-by-side, and he speaks into his mic, telling security that I’m on a short break.

I slip through the quiet backstage, and I enter a dressing room.

Gift boxes, scrapbooks, and sweets are stacked high on a table and couch. Makeup and hair products spread across a vanity.

I open and close my fist. Drifting stiffly to a rack of clothes, back to the vanity. Farrow locks the door, but I don’t hold his gaze.

I put my hands on my head, restless but rigid. If I could, I’d be in the water somewhere. Some place. Then I’d climb out and run and run and fucking run.

I grip the edge of the vanity. Hunched forward, and in the mirror, I catch sight of my reddened, burning eyes and my soaked green shirt from her tears. Fuck. I wrench the shirt off my head. My jaw aches. I ball a hand in a fist.

I need to hit something.

Or swim.

Run.

Anger gnaws at my insides, the only emotion I can feel. I glare at the ceiling, my breath like knives.

“Need anything, wolf scout?”

Yeah.

It takes me a second. But I turn my head.

Farrow sits partially on the couch’s armrest. His gaze sweeps me, assessing me, and when they lift to mine, they practically hold me, protect me, love me.

And I say, “You.” My voice cracks.

Farrow moves.

I pinch my eyes that fucking burn and try to fill. I squat down, just as Farrow reaches me. His palm warms the back of my neck.