Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  “But it wasn’t. And I usually don’t have to explain my job to you—”

  “You don’t now,” I say stiffly. My chest is on fire. I waft my sweater for more air circulation. I drop my gaze for a fraction of a second.

  Thatcher watches me with intense scrutiny, his eyes an extra furnace engulfing me whole. “Is this really about groceries? Or is something else goin’ on?” His South Philly accent comes through. Dog tags rest against his blue jacket.

  He looks like Banks, but he couldn’t be more Thatcher Moretti. Stern and bold and commanding.

  I lick my wind-chapped lips, air barely passing between them. Oxygen is dead-bolted inside my lungs. “I…” Words fail me. This is so new and different and I’m battling with too many warring emotions.

  Head vs. Heart. I’m a Cobalt. My head should always win.

  Concern ripens in his eyes. “If something is wrong, you can tell me.” He’s like iron and wine. Sturdy, unfailing, intoxicating, and mind-altering. Willing to banish my insecurities but jumbling my senses.

  “I don’t know how,” I admit. My palms are so clammy—ink from the paper smudges on my fingers. I fold the list and slip it in my purse.

  He hasn’t shifted an inch, his grip cemented on the handlebar of the cart. I think he might be afraid that one small movement could scare me off. I feel skittish, at least.

  He sweeps me over one more time. “When I don’t know what to say—or if I think I might fuck it, if I do speak—I just try and take a couple breaths first.”

  My mouth dries, and I attempt to inhale, but air crushes more pressure on my sternum. I’m going to have to just expel as much as I can, hopefully as bluntly as I can. He deserves the words I struggle to find.

  “It is about the groceries,” I tell him. “At least, that’s a part of it.”

  He nods me on.

  “The other part,” I continue, throat swollen but words gush out harder and faster, “is the fact that the public learned I’m planning Maximoff’s wedding. All today I’ve been confronted with horrible opinions about my life.” I take out my cell and pop up screenshots of blog post comments.

  Thatcher animates and raises a hand towards me. “You don’t have to read them to me, honey.”

  “I want to,” I say. “They don’t hurt me.” I begin. “‘Jane Cobalt, the coattail rider. Never doing something for herself. If she’s not working for her cousin, it’d probably be her mother, father, or siblings.’” My hand gripping my phone starts to tremble. I squeeze tighter. “‘She’s such a disappointment. Imagine being the daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt and choosing to follow Maximoff Hale around like a lost puppy.’” I blink back a sliver of pain. “‘Jane Cobalt could have been our queen. Instead we got a weak imposter who can’t do anything on her own.’”

  Thatcher takes a stringent, urgent step around the cart.

  My pulse spikes and I shuffle back.

  He holds up his hands like he comes in peace. “Jane.” He says my name with concern and severity. “You can stop reading that horseshit.”

  They don’t hurt me, I want to repeat. But they have to some degree. I always prided myself on rising above hatred and not letting the world’s ridicule affect me. I feel small when I let them in and they tear a chunk out of me.

  “I used to think it was horseshit too,” I say into a nod. “I did. I read the same garbage when I worked at H.M.C. Philanthropies, and I truly believed that they were wrong. Because at the end of the day, my job doesn’t define me.” I point at my chest. “I’m more independent, self-sufficient than anyone on the other side of a screen even knows. Sure, I can work for Moffy. I can work for my mom or dad or siblings. But I don’t need someone in my life. I don’t want for anything or anyone. The love I carry for myself is enough. It’s always been enough.” Tears my burn eyes. “Until I met you.”

  I expect him to look like I took a sword and shoved it through his ribcage, but he stands before me like a soldier wearing Kevlar, used to taking bullets.

  He doesn’t even flinch.

  “Keep going,” he demands.

  So I do.

  “It’s about the groceries.” I reroute to the beginning. “Because I want you around me every hour of every day. Not just as a bodyguard but as a boyfriend. In these small moments, I feel it tenfold. And I shouldn’t want it. I just shouldn’t. It makes me some co-dependent, weak-willed girl like all these people have theorized for years. I’m proving them right—and…and…” I can’t breathe.

  I tug at the collar of my sweater.

  Thatcher rushes forward and tries to touch me.

  But I keep him back and press my hand to his chest. Applying little force.

  His palms hover over my shoulders. “Stop for a second, honey. Just take a breath.” He gently cradles my elbows while I push a little harder. Uncertainly.

  Fumbling, my hands fumble against his body.

  “Just get away,” I say half-heartedly. My head wants him gone. My heart is telling me to fold into him. Let him wrap me up. Help me. God, I want that. But that’s the problem, I should be able to help myself.

  “Please,” I plead.

  He steps back, just one foot, and his hands drop off me.

  “This is all wrong,” I tell him through frustrated, helpless tears. I wipe at my eyes. “I shouldn’t be treating you like this. I’m not capable of having a boyfriend.” At least, not him. Not someone I want this much.

  “Jane, it’s fine—”

  “It’s not,” I say, adamant. “We’re done. I’m done.” Oh God.

  He grinds down on his teeth. “What are you saying?”

  I’m wide-eyed.

  “You’re breaking up with me?”

  “I am.” The words release quicker than I realize.

  He’s quiet, and I gather enough strength to meet his gaze head-on. He wears the same concern and intensity that he started this conversation with.

  “Are you going to say anything else?” I wonder. My body is still on fire. My heart in vicious knots. I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend. My first boyfriend. I feel no better than I did five seconds ago. I feel worse even, but I can’t take it back.

  Thatcher adjusts his mic in his ear. “I meant what I said in the limo before this trip. I’m going to match whatever pace you set. If you want to break up with me, fine. We’re broken up.” I can’t read him. His tone is more authoritative and impassive than angry.

  “So that’s it?” I ask, hurt suddenly pinching me. I didn’t purposefully break up with him so he’d fight for me, but I also never thought he’d give me up so easily.

  “No,” Thatcher replies, seriousness pushing forth. “We’re going to talk more tonight. You’re overwhelmed right now, and I don’t want to push you. But if you think this discussion is over, it’s not.”

  Oh…

  He glances past my shoulder, and his brows furrow. He clicks his mic at his collar. “Banks to SFO, what’s the word on the weather?” Him referring to himself as Banks throws me off for a second. I follow his gaze. Flurries stick to the windowpanes of the market.

  The sleet has officially turned to snow.

  Security checked the weather before we left, so I’m aware of the incoming storm, but it wasn’t supposed to arrive until later tonight. We should have plenty of time, yet the heavy snowfall outside doesn’t look promising.

  I take a tight breath and rub the tear tracks off my cheeks.

  His attention is on me, watching every little movement. I feel like I’m unraveling, and I don’t know how to stop.

  He clicks his mic once more. “Say again.”

  He waits and lines crease his forehead. Something’s happening.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Comms are fucked.” He takes out his cell, and I fish mine from my purse. I lost signal twenty miles from the market, so I’m not even surprised when I see No Service in the top corner.

  “No signal,” I tell him. “We can ask the woman up front about the weather.”

  He ti
lts his head towards that direction. “Let’s move out.”

  We abandon our shopping cart in the aisle, for now, and Thatcher walks ahead of me like he does when we’re on a crowded street. Uncomfortable tension winds between us. We’re not together anymore. It hasn’t fully hit me yet, and I think when it does, I’ll be throttled completely.

  Right now I’m just numb.

  We find the elderly gray-haired woman knitting behind the register. She drops her large needles when she sees us approaching.

  “Ready then?” Her Scottish accent is thick, and she searches for our items.

  “Not yet, ma’am,” Thatcher says. “We’re wondering if you heard anything about the weather.”

  She peers towards the window. “Aye, looks a bit brisk. Be careful on your way home. I should be locking up soon too.”

  He sweeps the rustic check-out counter, possibly looking for a computer, but she only has an old manual register. I’d bet that she’s never been on the internet before, let alone Google-searched weather reports.

  Thatcher must sense the same because he gives up with a polite, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turns to me. “We need to finish shopping in under five minutes, or else we could get stuck in the storm.”

  I open my mouth, but he’s unusually quicker than me.

  “If you’re going to say splitting up will be faster, I’m going to remind you again that it’s not an option.” He seems stricter. More adamant. Maybe he’s pissed we’re no longer dating. Maybe he’s just more serious now that the storm is looming and his comms are down.

  Either way, he’s radiating the I’m in charge of you energy that draws me in, and at the same time makes me want to push him away.

  It’s spinning my head.

  “I was going to mention it, yes,” I reply. “But I won’t anymore. Let’s just find the essentials and get this over with.” I reach for the list in my pocket and try to focus on the task at hand. Not on the fact that I’m standing next to my ex-boyfriend. Not the fact that strain still stretches between us.

  No, definitely don’t think about any of that, Jane.

  Definitely not.

  25

  THATCHER MORETTI

  We’re done. I’m done.

  Her words rush through my head as we make the drive back to Mackintosh House. We’re alone in a cramped rental car, and there are so many things I want to say. But I’m fighting between keeping focus on the snowy road and trying to formulate words that won’t push her further away.

  Unfuck this.

  I want to.

  I’m going to.

  We just left the food market five minutes ago, and the wind has escalated substantially. Snow sticks to the ground, and my windshield freezes in the corners, the shitty defroster not working that great.

  I steal a glance at Jane. She’s staring out her window, fist to her chin like she’s deep in thought.

  One hour.

  That’s how long it’s gonna take to get home.

  Maybe even longer if the ice slows me down.

  Suddenly, the car radio switches on as if it has a life of its own. Static and incoherent voices pour through. We both reach for the knobs at the same time.

  Our fingers brush, skin-to-skin. My muscles tense. Images of her naked, sprawling across our bed flash before my eyes like some erotic movie. Heat blazes everywhere.

  She inhales a shuddered breath and retracts as if she’s been electrocuted.

  Goddammit.

  Quickly, I shut off the radio and decrease the heat in the car. I’m sweating through my jacket and there’s a fucking snowstorm outside.

  “My mom would say that’s a bad omen.” Jane breaks the uncomfortable silence.

  She’s lost me. So I ask, “The radio turning on or us touching?”

  “The radio.” She fidgets in her seat. I can tell she wants to say more, but she goes quiet again.

  I keep one tensed hand on the steering wheel and shrug off my jacket with the other. I’m quick enough that she doesn’t have time to help me, and then I throw the fabric in the backseat.

  My eyes never leave the road. The snow grows heavier, obstructing the streets and my line of sight. It’s my responsibility to bring her home safely.

  Whatever discussion we need to have, it has to wait.

  I’m just not used to this unbearable silence with her. It weighs on me the longer we’re stuck together in the sedan. Sun sets behind rolling hills, the Highlands breathtaking but more ominous in the dark. Wind howls outside, trembling the car. I’ve been in plenty of snowstorms in Philly, but this is incomparable. In a blink, the entire road is gone.

  Lost to a sea of white.

  We’re in a fucking blizzard.

  “Thatcher.” She tries to peer through the whiteout, but I hear worry on the tail end of my name.

  I force myself not to look fully in her direction. Stay frosty. But in my peripheral, I can tell she has a hand firm on the dashboard, bracing herself.

  She asks, “Can you see anything?”

  “Less than a meter.” I decelerate to a crawl and turn on the fog lights. “We’re fine. I’m taking it slow.”

  No other cars are on the road. Darkness creates a tunnel-like feeling as snow piles on the car. She’s safe. It’s the only thing on my mind.

  I lose track of time in the quiet, and I don’t want to look down at the clock. My deltoids ache from sitting upright and tensed. I try to roll out my neck and crack some strain—

  Tires skate and the car drifts to the right.

  My jaw locks. Correcting immediately, I lift my foot off the gas and strengthen my grip on the wheel. My pulse hammers in my ears.

  “What was that?” Jane asks.

  “We hit a small patch of ice.” Black ice will ruin us, and if we slide on a larger spot, I won’t be able to course correct.

  I weigh the risks.

  Without cell service and internet and with no clear view of road signs, I’m not 100% certain of our distance to the house. All I know is that it’s a direct shot. One road. One long stretch. Nothing but land.

  I ask Jane for the time.

  She tells me and then says, “Why?”

  “I’m trying to calculate our distance to the house.”

  She does the mental math in one second flat. “Based on our speed and current time, we should have about thirty miles left to go.”

  Roughly fifty klicks away. Maybe more. Too far from the house to park on a bank and wait out the storm. If snow buries our car, we’ll need to hike thirty-miles in the morning—which means we’re fucked. We’re not prepared for an eight-hour trek on foot…but we could manage a three-hour walk to the house tomorrow if the weather lets up.

  “Here’s the plan.” I speed up the wipers. “We’re going make it as close to the house as possible, and then I’m going to pull off and we’ll wait it out in the car.”

  She inhales deeply. “You don’t think we can reach the house tonight?”

  “Not with black ic—” I lose control of the car again. Goddammit. Front wheels skid to the left for a full second. Quickly, I counter and right us onto the road.

  “Merde,” she curses.

  I rip my eyes off the windshield for a split-second, just to check on Jane. She has a hand posted on the door, but her blue eyes are focused pinpoints.

  I think she might be scanning for road signs.

  Returning my concentration to the street, I exhale through my nose. “If we can make thirty more klicks, we’ll be fine.”

  “I’m trying to keep track of our distance,” she tells me. “But it’s quite difficult.” Even now she wants to be my right-hand. I swallow back emotion that surges, constricting my lungs.

  And then, just like that, we’re spinning.

  It happens faster and swifter than the first two times, and I have zero control over the wheels. Nothing I do will stop tires from skating like four hockey pucks on ice, but I try to right us without causing more problems.

  Disorientation kicks in for a split-se
cond before we stop. I assess our surroundings with almost no visibility, but two tires dip a bit. Which means we’re probably on the bank of the road.

  I turn to her. “Jane, are you okay?” I reach for her before I remember we’re not together, and she might not want me to touch her.

  I pull back.

  She blinks hard. Her chest rises and falls heavily and she sweeps my frame just as much as I sweep her. Confusion pinches the creases of her eyes. “Why don’t you look like we just went through a rollercoaster?”

  “Because I’ve spun out on black ice before,” I tell her. “It’s nothing new.” It’s not as violent as a car crash, but the shock is the same. “You didn’t answer me. Are you okay?”

  She nods, gulping a bigger breath. “I think so. I just kept thinking we were going to flip like Maximoff and…” And Farrow and her brothers and little cousin.

  “We didn’t,” I say strongly. We’re just fucked. We’re nowhere near the house.

  “So now we wait in the car, and tomorrow we hike.” Confidence blazes her words. She pulls her shoulders back like she’s preparing for every war to come.

  “No, there’s not going to be a hike.”

  Her brows bunch. “Then what?”

  “We have to wait for help.” She can’t walk eight-hours in the snow without the right gear. I can’t put her in that situation, and unfortunately, I also can’t radio the team. Comms are still down.

  “You think we’re too far away.” Jane realizes into a slow nod. “Alright then.” She unlocks the glove compartment and grabs a flashlight. “We should gather provisions from the trunk and make sure the exhaust pipe isn’t blocked.” Goddamn, she’s smart.

  My lips almost lift.

  Bottom line, she’s one of the best people to have in this situation. I’m sure of that. Desire pumps through my body without much warning. Bottle that shit. I hate right now how much I’m enticed by each and every part of her.