Lo’s shoulders relax and he nods at me. “Okay.”
“Rose’s username is RoseCCobalt,” I tell him. “It was the only free one.”
“So I’m guessing Loren Hale is taken?” he asks me.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Wait, how can someone take our names?” Ryke frowns.
Oh jeez. He’s the only one not up to speed on the ways of Twitter. Daisy shows him her phone. “I’ll create one for you.”
“We’re really doing this?” he asks, hesitating.
“Just be yourself,” Connor tells him. “I know you probably fail at written word, but in person, you usually ace being who you are.”
“I’m going to ignore the part where you f**king insulted me.”
Connor grins. “Why? Those are the best parts.”
Ryke flips him off.
“How about ‘rykefuckmeadows’ as a username?” Daisy asks, typing into her phone. “Oh wait…that’s already taken too.”
“Seriously?” Ryke says, sounding impressed. He leans over her to check the screen.
“Just do it backwards,” Lo says, “MeadowsRyke. He won’t care.”
“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Ryke agrees.
“Got it,” Daisy tells us. In the next few minutes, we spout off multiple ideas for Daisy and Lo’s username. And I steal Lo’s phone to type in prospects.
“What’s yours?” Lo asks Connor, forgetting Connor’s verified Twitter account.
“My name, no breaks,” Connor replies.
@ConnorCobalt. It’s not surprising that he was able to snag that username. He had it before he even met us.
Lo peers over my shoulder as I zone in on a Twitter discussion between our fans. “Missed opportunity, Connor,” Lo says with a growing smile.
“What’s that?”
“One of your fans has the username: ConnorCockbalt.” Lo tilts his head at him. “Hate to tell you this, but it’s better than yours, love.”
Connor’s grin envelops his face. “I don’t disagree with you.”
I’m sucked into the Twitter discussion, my eyes glazing over the usernames. My hearts swells at each one.
@lorenhale
@rykemeadows
@ConnorCockbalt
@lilycalloways
@rosescalloway
@runcalloway
@callowaysisters
@lilocalloway
@coballoway
@cobaltscalloway
The people behind them mean something to me the way all fandoms do.
“That’s pretty cool,” Lo whispers in my ear. He’s returned to the screen, peering behind me at the rest of the usernames.
“Yeah,” I say with a bigger smile. “It’s pretty cool.”
“Try lorenhellion,” he breathes. I do, and a green checkmark shows that it’s available. Daisy chooses @daisyonmeadows, a silly pun that’s also a little flirtatious. It suits her.
“So what does us being on social media f**king mean exactly?” Ryke asks. I think he knows. He just wants someone to say it.
I speak up first. “We can’t try to hide anymore.” I nod resolutely. It’s ironic coming from the girl who used to be a hermit, who shied away from attention and cameras. By using social media, we’re now cementing a future in the public eye.
No takebacks.
But if we’re going to be under a spotlight, I’d much rather do it on my terms than someone else’s. Maybe then we’ll have a fighting chance at protecting Maximoff and Jane as they grow older. We all have a bigger voice now.
No one can steal that from us.
66
LOREN HALE
Ryke pops a bagel into a toaster. “Don’t f**king say it,” he tells me.
I must wear a mocking smile. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” While the girls talk quietly in the living room, we refill coffees in the kitchen.
Connor examines the expiration date on the milk. “I’ll say it.”
“Do it,” I prod.
“Daisy Meadows,” Connor puts it out there. The username she chose stirred old memories for us. We ream Ryke all the time about that possibility. Marrying her. Before, I’d shut him down. Now, it’s fun to watch him roll his eyes. And tell me to f**k off.
Ryke looks incensed as he waits for his breakfast to cook. “You two are f**king hilarious.”
“I thought we were more predictable than hilarious,” Connor says easily, trashing the milk. “But I accept both.”
I lean against the stove. “Are you going to name your kids Wild or Pony?”
“Shut the f**k up,” Ryke says lightly, and he even laughs. “Pony Meadows, really?”
“It’s nature.” I theatrically gasp like Daisy always does. “Nature is amazing.”
“You f**king suck at mimicking her.”
“Yeah, that was weak.” I watch Connor pour his coffee in a mug. He combs his hand through his wavy hair, flattening some of the thicker strands. “Hey…” My blood ices, and I hesitate to say what’s popped in my head.
But he spins around and sets his deep blue eyes on me. Waiting for me to finish.
I haven’t asked him about the article in a while, the one involving my son. It hasn’t cropped up on the internet. I assumed it was taken care of, but I’d sleep easier hearing it from him. I ask, “Did you and my dad work things out?”
“We’re not going to be best friends any time soon, but we’ve set aside our differences for now.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Turns out we have something in common.” I read his gaze that’s more open than usual, the answer clear.
They both love me.
That’s not even the strangest part. What’s crazy is that I feel worthy of love.
“So how’d you bury the article?” I ask with a frown. “Whatever it cost, I can write a check—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his defenses rising, his emotions padlocked.
“Connor—”
“Lo,” he says smoothly, “trust me when I tell you that it’s taken care of. This isn’t a part of your story anymore.”
Ryke grabs his popped bagel. “Just take the easy f**king win, Lo. We all dodged a shit storm.”
Not every situation has to be a full-on drag-out battle, and if this one is easier—yeah, I’ll take it. “Thanks,” I tell Connor.
“For you, anything.”
This time when he says it, I recognize the depth to his words. I’m not sure what he did for me. With someone as guarded as Connor, I doubt I’ll ever find out. But I’m sure that it was more than I could ever give.
67
LILY CALLOWAY
“The register is pretty simple, or if you’d rather man the expresso and coffee makers, you’re welcome to do that. I thought the comics would be more up your alley though.” I open some of the blinds on the Superheroes & Scones storefront windows. We’re closed for another two hours, but I’m guiding Willow around, Maya in tow.
“I probably shouldn’t be near hot liquids,” Willow says softly. “I can be a klutz when I’m nervous.” She adjusts the straps of her jean backpack on her arm. She still carries it around like a safety vest.
“Good to know,” I say, watching her scan the empty store, as though it’s her first time in here. Maybe as a future employee, it is. “If you don’t want a job—”
“No, I do,” she tells me quickly. “I really do. I’m just taking it all in.” She pushes up her glasses. “It’s my first time on my own…”