Page 228 of Sinful Like Us

I eye him, more intrigued. He’s not even surveying his surroundings—which areverypastel blue. And frilly, and I suppose not entirely different to my room in the townhouse.

Except for the sheer opulence.

A diamond chandelier hangs over a four-poster princess-like bed. Set in the very center, the bed presides over a rosé-hued vanity, a hand-crafted wardrobe from Florence, shelves of jeweled Parisian trinkets—and not to forget the boas and outlandish costumes strewn over a dressing curtain, which costs more than his salary.

I am obnoxiously wealthy.

I have been this entire time. But now, he’s immersed in this luxury while he’s staying in my teenage bedroom with me. Right where I grew up.

The Cobalt Estate is our temporary home for the time being.

Neither of us envisioned living with my parents and my youngest brother and sister—but Thatcher agreed it’s safer to “post-up” in the gated neighborhood until we find a permanent place.

He glances back at me in my silence. “You’re okay with this arrangement?”

“It’s strange being here with you, but maybe that’s because you’re my future and this room is entirely nostalgic. And our present is finding its footing.”

His lip almost rises. “Our present is already standing.”

I smile more. “I agree, wholeheartedly. We haven’t fallen over.” I watch him set up the litter box with ease. My parents had a couple old ones, but we needed more for all seven cats.

If I think too hard, I can still feel the nauseous heat from the fire.

Thatcher, Farrow, Maximoff, Luna, and I—we lost everything we owned in the townhouse. Yesterday, we went to the site and walked the rubble. Soot and charred brick left behind.

I’m fortunate that I have the means to start over, but of course, I lost sentimental things. Framed photos that I never stored in my phone or backed up in the cloud (for security purposes), all the Post-it notes Thatcher wrote me, chunky heels my mom gifted me after the FanCon tour, and much more.

But I feel immensely grateful to have Thatcher here—and that no one else was hurt. All the material items seem far less important and unnecessary in the end.

“Are you ready?” Thatcher asks.

We’ve been moving hurriedly. We have somewhere to be, you see.

“Almost.” I dispose the cut tags into a trash bin and crouch down to a cat carrier. “I have something for you before we go.”

I can feel his confusion mount behind me.

My purple tulle skirt catches in the carrier’s zipper. “Merde,” I mutter and tear the fabric.So it shall be.

Thatcher suddenly squats down. He helps me unstick the zipper, and my cheeks hurt, my smile overpowering my face.

“Merci,” I say.

But his face has already fallen, seeing what’s inside the carrier.

“The night of the fire,” I explain, pulling out the item. “I saw this on the vanity and I shoved it inside with Ophelia, before you put Licorice with her.”

Thatcher takes the old library book out of my hand. The cover ofThe Outsidersis worn, and his chest rises as he flips to the list of names, eyeing the last one written.

Skylar Moretti

Thatcher started with less than me. I have possessions strewn throughout my childhood house. His whole life was in a bag, and it went up in flames.

I just wanted to preserve something for him.

He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you, Jane.” He pinches his eyes for a half a second, then stands and slipsThe Outsiderson my teenage bookshelf.

He could’ve tucked the book into his bag, and I find a lot of love in the fact that he set his childhood possession next to mine.