Page 102 of Lovers Like Us

He makes a hand motion that I think is supposed to meancalmdown.

And he also blows an actual bubblegumbubble.

His nonchalance helps me, somehow. I breathe. No one needs to tell me that my short fuse is fucking horrible. I know. When I’m around Charlie, I feel like he strikes the match. But I light the bomb and always detonatemyself.

“Boys, behave,” Jane says lightly, garnering a few audience chuckles. “Nextquestion?”

The college-aged girl must divert her original question because she asks me, “Do you and Charlie hate eachother?”

The moderator smiles sheepishly, and the line coordinator taps the girl’s shoulder. She never detaches from themicrophone.

They’re losing control of this Q&A. Much like we justhave.

Charlie swivels to face me. “What do you say, Moffy? Do you hateme?”

“No,” I sayflatly.

Charlie turns to the audience. “There yougo.”

I’m not here to play 5D chess with Charlie, but he keeps roping me in. I try my best to reroute the conversation off us. “How about we talk about your relationship with Beckett. What’s it like being atwin?”

Charlie hates thatquestion.

He glares at me. “What’s it like being the most beloved human on theplanet?”

“I’mnot—”

“Don’t be so humble,Maximoff,” Charlie says. “They love you.” He faces the crowd. “Isn’t that right?” He raises his mic out, and they all cheer, scream,yell.

I catch the moderator’s gaze, and he balks and fumbles with notecards. “Settle down,” he says. “Okay, let’s get back on trackhere.”

Everything is out of control, and I’m not sure how to right the train on the track since I’m mostly to blame for shoving itoff.

Ignoring Charlie, I say into the mic. “We’ll take a few more questions from theaudience.”

Instead of being disappointed, they all raise their hands in theair.

Don’t punch yourcousin.

At this point, that’s my low-bar level of success. And I’m just barely reachingit.

23

FARROW KEENE

Iconsider myself abnormally fearless,not a lot has ever rattled me, but a nightmare just kicked my ass awake. I’m caked in sweat, drawstring pants and black shirt suctioned to my body, and I open a cupboard on the dead-quiet tourbus.

Ripped Fuel is what I need, and the jug lies sideways on the shelf. A sticky note is attached. In guess-whose handwriting:do not take more than 3 aday.

I’d roll my eyes at Thatcher’s unnecessary instructions, but that takes energy on him that I don’t even want touse.

I twist off the cap while simultaneously plugging a cord in my phone. I fit earbuds in my ears, and then shake two pills in my palm. The fat-burning supplement contains ephedrine and caffeine, an easy trick to stayawake.

Because I’m not going back to sleep after that mind-fuck.

It’s 2:42 a.m. and the bus is parked at a Kentucky campground for approximately three-point-two more hours. We all agreed on a pit stop to let the drivers recharge for the next leg of thetour.

I’m a driver, and I can see the irony as I leave my bunk behind and unlock the bus doors. Clearly notsleeping.