Fearless Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  Akara tips his head to me. “It might be a leak at Maximoff’s workplace.”

  Kinda seems likely.

  Oscar asks, “Kitsuwon, Real or Rumor?”

  We exchange a hard look. Neither of us want to air Sulli’s birth control on comms, but for the sake of letting SFO know all the leaks are real, Akara has to make that plunge into cement.

  “I hate this,” he tells me before he clicks his mic and tells them, “Real.”

  Before anyone else can interject, Akara adds, “I’m contacting the tech team. They’ll trace the IP address. Until we know more, the site is flagged as a watch. Nice find, Donnelly.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  I scroll through The Royal Leaks again. “I don’t know much about gossip sites like this,” I admit to my friend. I doubt it’s high-trafficked like Celebrity Crush or Us Weekly. “Unless you’re someone like Donnelly, will anyone find it?”

  “If you’re someone like Donnelly, you know how to make shit go viral,” Akara says as he texts the tech team. “But there’s only one post. Let’s hope the leaker is either good at guessing or no one will take them seriously.”

  Yeah.

  Let’s hope.

  Feels like that’s where my chips are these days. All-in on hope.

  16

  SULLIVAN MEADOWS

  “You already warmed up at the barre?” I ask Beckett as he fixes his white tunic over ballet tights. His dressing room is small, complete with a vanity and clothes rack.

  I sit on the extra stool. I haven’t been backstage long, but I hoped to spend some time with my best friend before his performance as Romeo tonight.

  Being around Beckett for so long, I quickly memorized his pre-performance schedule.

  Hair and makeup. (He does his own.)

  Warm-up with the other dancers at the barre.

  Costume.

  Take the stage.

  “Yeah.” He checks the analog clock ticking on the wall among ballet posters of Swan Lake and Cinderella. “I have about twenty minutes left. Never feels long enough.” His yellow-green eyes land softly on me. “It’s been a full week since you told your dad about your boyfriends.”

  He remembered. Beckett is hard on himself about using all his energy on ballet rather than family, but he is a great friend with the time he has.

  Right now, my two boyfriends stand outside the closed dressing room with Beckett’s 24/7 bodyguard, O’Malley. On-duty, they guard the door and give me some privacy with Beckett.

  “Yep, one full fucking week.” I lift my foot to the stool, hugging my leg. “And I’m nowhere closer to bridging any kind of silence. Even harder is still confronting my mom.”

  “I’d be shell-shocked if your mom didn’t support you dating both Akara and Banks. She’s a bigger risk-taker than you’ve ever been.”

  “I know,” I say in a deep breath. “I hoped she’d understand me chasing after my heart, but I thought after a week, my dad would too.”

  I still hesitate to reach out to my mom. Her opinion will be the one that matters most. The one that soul crushes me if she expels even a fraction of the hostility that my dad did.

  “It might take time.” Beckett fixes strands of his dark brown hair, trying to smooth the wavier pieces down. “My dad has said that Uncle Ryke views the world through his own experiences. So he must have a harder time understanding things he can’t personally relate to.”

  “Fucking great,” I mutter, just as the door blows open.

  I jolt, thinking Akara and Banks are bursting in for a security emergency, but in walks a face I’m not excited to see.

  “Charlie.” I try not to groan. His ploy to rekindle my friendship with Beckett might’ve worked, but he still blackmailed me in Montana.

  I didn’t fucking forget or appreciate the strongarming.

  “Hello to you, too,” Charlie says and gives a short goodbye wave. “Oscar.” And then he shuts the door, leaving his bodyguard with ours. To Beckett, he asks, “You’re on in twenty?”

  Beckett affirms with a nod, stretching his arm to his foot, and Charlie lounges against the Swan Lake poster.

  “You’re staying?” I ask Charlie, bummed out. But for a second there, I thought I had Beckett all to myself for twenty awesome minutes. Selfish? Fucking maybe, but I miss being on good terms with Beckett and our one-on-ones.

  “Don’t sound so excited, Sullivan.” Charlie massages his leg. His wrinkled, white button-down is half untucked in pink velvet pants like he woke up in yesterday’s clothes.

  “You’re not my favorite person right now,” I admit with a shrug.

  Beckett stretches his left quad. “Told you not to blackmail her.”

  “Worth it,” Charlie says simply.

  Beckett slips me an apology. “If you want to be mad at someone, just be mad at me.”

  “No, I’m done being angry at you. I’d just like an apology from Charlie.”

  “You’re not getting one,” he states.

  “On behalf of Charlie, I’m sorry,” Beckett says with honesty and depth, and I sigh heavily, hating that Beckett has to make amends for Charlie.

  That’s not how apologies work.

  “I guess I accept on your behalf,” I say, because I love Beckett and I know he loves Charlie, and I’d rather not have a hate-fest on someone he loves right now.

  Charlie is staring strangely at me. His lip is slightly corkscrewed, arms lightly threaded.

  I crinkle my brows. “What…?”

  “I heard you’re no longer single.”

  Oh fuck.

  “From who?” I turn fast to Beckett.

  Confusion touches his face. “I didn’t say anything to anyone, Sul.”

  Charlie answers, “I overheard Moffy and Jane before I sat down with them at breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “At Lucky’s Diner.”

  “Just the three of you?”

  He shrugs like it’s nothing, but holy fuck, they’re like really friends now. Crystal clear evidence just keeps piling on and on, and I thought I’d be happy about Charlie reuniting with Moffy. But the powerhouse of this friendship tripod is fucking terrifying.

  At least they’re on my side.

  Are they?

  My roommates are all supportive but cautious which has made everything fucking awkward. These days, I spend a lot of time in my bedroom.

  Now that Charlie knows the truth, I ask, “What do you think?”

  Charlie tugs at his hair, glances for a brief second to Beckett, then says, “You’re not ready to hear my opinion.”

  I bristle. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Beckett tells his twin brother.

  Charlie smiles. “My opinion is the asshole.”

  “More like you’re the asshole,” Beckett says smoothly and actually sweetly. He smiles over at his brother.

  Charlie’s lips rise even more. With a hand to his heart, he says, “Undisputable.”

  “Charlie,” I chime in. “I want to hear your opinion. I can handle an asshole one.”

  Charlie taps his lips in thought before he says, “Only because Beckett’s here, I’ll let this opinion out freely, but I did warn you, Sullivan.” He locks eyes with me. “I think it’s great that you found love in two men. The fact that they’re bodyguards—I don’t really give a shit.”

  I sit on pins and needles. “Where’s the asshole part?”

  “I think to be in a polyamorous relationship and in the public eye, you need to be a certain type of person to survive. And quite frankly, I think you’re too weak for it.”

  I go cold.

  “Fuck you,” I curse hotly.

  He unfolds his arms, opens his palms. “You wanted to hear it.”

  “Yeah, I did,” I mutter, frustrated that I’m letting his opinion cut deep. Who cares what Charlie thinks? I remember what Banks would tell me.

  He doesn’t know you like you know yourself.

  And Akara’s optimism, We’ll survive together.<
br />
  “His opinion isn’t mine,” Beckett suddenly says, the tone of his voice as melodic as the way he moves. “Charlie doesn’t understand that you have courage and grit, especially towards the things and people you love, and if you love your boyfriends as much or more than you love your little sister—no one will get in your way.”

  I let that flood me, even as Charlie says, “Time will tell where this all ends anyway.”

  I drop my foot. “You know, Charlie, you have a fucking talent of making me feel like I’m at Tribal Council in Survivor about to get voted off the island.”

  “Hmm,” he muses. “Are you projecting? Possibly you feel like you’re not strong enough to be the sole survivor—”

  “I’m not weak,” I cut in. “And you’re a dick.”

  “I am,” Charlie flashes a smile. “That’s the difference between you and me. I’m highly aware of my flaws.”

  “The ones you just let fester like ugly cysts that need ruptured?”

  Charlie blinks. “Beckett might be right about your grit.”

  Beckett smiles softly at me, and after I exhale, I notice the mess of crushed Coca-Cola cans on Beckett’s vanity. That’s odd.

  “What’s with all the coke cans?” I ask, drawing Charlie’s attention to the disaster too.

  Beckett is usually very precise about his things. Plus, if our Uncle Stokes (the CEO of Fizzle) saw the coke products, he’d think Beckett has become the Judas of the family. Uncle Stokes is hardcore about marketing strategies for Fizzle.

  Us promoting Coke Zero is not in that plan.

  Beckett glances at the vanity, then rolls his eyes. “Leo.” Annoyance coats that name. “He’s been using my dressing room while his is being repaired for water damage. The asshole does this”—he motions a graceful hand to the coke cans—“on purpose.”

  I stand to grab the trash bin, but Charlie is swifter. Snagging the bin, he swipes the cans into the trash before I can, and I try not to stab a look into him.

  But as Beckett’s best friend, that was my friendship duty.

  I plop back on the stool. “Does Leo know you have OCD?” I ask since it’s not public knowledge.

  “No,” Beckett fixes his hair again with more frustration. “And I prefer it stays that way.”

  “It will,” Charlie assures.

  “Maybe Leo is jealous of you.”

  “You think?” Charlie says like I’m an idiot.

  If I had a projectile, I’d throw it at him. Actually. I take off my sneaker and chuck. He dodges like I’m a child.

  “Can you spell immature?”

  “F-U-C-K.”

  Beckett laughs, then says to me, “He’s definitely jealous of me, Sul. He wants what I have.”

  “Which is?”

  “Looks, charm, talent,” he says while lowering to the floor in a split and stretching forward. “He’s pissed I took his role.”

  Beckett filled in for Leo Valavanis one night, and the company preferred his performance of Romeo over Leo’s.

  They switched spots.

  Now Leo is his understudy. At least until the end of November. Then they go into production for the Nutcracker.

  Beckett looks up from his stretch. “Leo hasn’t come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t measure up to me.”

  My lips lift. “Confidence or cockiness?” We’d ask the question all the time when one of us verged on the latter.

  He matches my smile. “Both. And I missed this.”

  “Me too.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been backstage at one of his performances.

  “Me three,” Charlie says mockingly.

  I take off my other shoe.

  He flinches, and that’s good enough for me.

  Beckett laughs more, and we all chat for a little bit before Beckett zones in on the phone I toss between my hands.

  “Just do it, Sul.” He reaches for his foot on the ground. “You’re not going to find a better time.”

  “After you’re gone. I don’t want to waste my time with you.”

  “It’s not a waste to me.” He nods me on in encouragement. “I don’t like seeing you at war with the people you love.”

  Charlie makes a gagging noise.

  I fling back, “How do you spell immature?”

  “I-M-M-A-T-U-R-E,” he says in point-one seconds, ending with a flat smile.

  Keeping up with Charlie is pounding my head, and I find myself on automatic. Dialing a number, like I know who always gives me comfort and love.

  I end the call fast. Before the second ring.

  What are you doing, Sulli?

  I push myself to do something more.

  Bracing the phone in front of my face, I FaceTime my mom.

  She answers on the first ring. “Sulli?” Her face breaks with hope and pain just seeing me, and I almost come undone. My vibrant, gorgeous mom is youth and sweetness and reckless inhibition, and memories crash against me of being so little and her being so young holding me as I cried over pickles.

  Fucking pickles.

  I hated all of them. Dill. Bread and butter. So fucking dumb. But Mom brushed her nose with mine and then tickled me until my tears morphed to laughs. And all my angsty, pickle-loathing feelings left me.

  How good she always made me feel.

  How happy I can be just seeing her, and I hate icing her out more than I’ve ever hated a single fucking pickle.

  I wipe my runny nose. Wishing we were in the same room, but that’s my fault. I could’ve come over and let her hug me. “I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to fucking call back.”

  “No, no.” She rubs at her eyes. “Don’t apologize. You can take all the time you need. I know I called too much—” Her voice cracks.

  “No,” I shake my head.

  “I did,” she nods. “I hated how much my mom hounded me growing up, and I didn’t want to make you feel—”

  “You didn’t,” I say fast. “You made me feel loved.”

  She exhales a tender breath. Smoke billows behind her head.

  “Mom—is that smoke?”

  She whips around. “Oh…shit.” The video is blurry and out of focus as she deals with the crisis off-screen.

  Beckett and Charlie have been talking quietly amongst themselves, but they overhear smoke and look to me.

  “I think everything’s okay,” I tell them. “Is everything okay, Mom? Mom?”

  “Yeah! Just burnt the quinoa.” She reframes herself in the video. “Your dad has been struggling with going vegan.”

  Me too. I can’t find the words, though.

  “And I’m trying a new recipe that he’d definitely cook better than me. But I can’t burn the avocado, so hey, he’ll have something edible to eat.”

  I try to smile, but the weight of the rift still lingers. “I couldn’t…I didn’t listen to your voicemails.”

  She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “That’s okay.” She nods a lot, but I can tell that hurt her.

  It hurt to say. “I love you, and I’m just scared of what you have to say.”

  “Your dad told me everything.” My mom can’t keep still. She jumps on the counter, jostles the camera as I assume her feet swing. “What he did, how he reacted—it was so, so wrong. I wish I would’ve been at the quarry with you all.”

  “Me too,” I say out loud this time.

  She takes a short breath. “I don’t agree with him. Your dad and I are different people, and I’ll always love and support him, but that also means telling him when he’s wrong.”

  Panic rips at me. “I don’t want this to come between you and him. Please don’t fucking fight over this—”

  “We’re not fighting,” she assures quickly, then jumps off the counter. After rounding a bunch of potted plants in the house, she ends up at the window nook. “One thing I’ve learned about him is that you have to be patient. He needs time. That’s all. In the meantime, you have me.” She offers the prettiest smile, and I can almost feel her hug.

  I breath
e easier, knowing I haven’t lost my mom. “I couldn’t go through this if you reacted how he reacted too.” My dad told me to call my mom. I realize now that he knew I needed her.

  Maybe he even knew she’d support me.

  “You don’t have to wonder what that’d be like because it’s gone, poof. Vanished.” She mock gasps. “I never saw it. The strangeness of it all.”

  We share a warm smile.

  And gently, I ask, “How much time do you think he’ll need? Weeks, months…years?”

  Goldilocks, a Golden Retriever, jumps on her lap. “I wish I could give you an answer. But the truth is that I don’t know.” She meets my eyes. “He just wants to protect you.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore, Mom. I don’t need him to fight all my battles. And me dating Akara and Banks shouldn’t be a battle in the first place.”

  “Totally agree.”

  I inhale strongly, but her understanding can’t completely mend the wound my dad created. Can I be at odds with my dad for more than a couple weeks? Not having him in my life is gut-wrenching. I want to tell him about my new job, and my swim times on the rooftop pool.

  My mom whispers, “I love you, Sullivan. I want you to know that.” Her eyes are glassed with tears.

  Mine redden and burn, and I say deeply, “I really, really love them, Mom. It’s World Series kind of stuff.”

  Her smile bursts across her face, eyes glass now with happiness. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I believe it’ll last, and that should be enough, right?”

  “Indubitably,” she says with a cute nod.

  I’m about to update her on the coaching gig at Warwick University, but I check the time. Only a few minutes left with Beckett. “Can I call you later? To talk more?”

  “I’d love that. You know I’m always here. Free. Just buzzing around. Trying not to burn food.”

  I laugh.

  She blows me a kiss. “Take care, peanut butter cupcake.”

  “Bye, Mom.” I blow her a kiss back.

  We hang up.

  “I’m not taking the piano,” Charlie says to Beckett in mid-conversation. I didn’t hear a lot, but I’m guessing this is about Grandmother Calloway’s wedding present to their older sister. “Our apartment is crammed enough with Tom’s shit.”