Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(9)

He pokes her. She pokes back. And vice versa. But I see something romantic brewing. I…mistakenly told my friends that.

“You think they’re fucking?” Eliot asked me.

“I didn’t say that,” I muttered, and he saw me shy away from the topic, so he dropped it. I love that about Eliot. He understands loyalty between our families like complex threads sewn together, and he’s unwilling to yank too toughly on a strand between me and Sulli—knowing our loyalty to each other could unravel if he makes me share everything on my mind. A lot of which is backed by feelings, not proof.

Before she leaves, Sulli invites me to hang out with her and Beckett if things with Donnelly end early.

I hope it doesn’t. I just tell her I’ll let her know, then she’s off to shower.

With only one shared bathroom in the townhouse, it really feels like dorm living. It’s college without the hassle of being on campus. The whole roommate experience with Sulli has been a fun chapter in my life, one that I’m not excited to ever close.

Once I change into a pair of comfy cotton shorts (better to display the leg that I want inked), I return to my laptop. Clicking open Fictitious, my favorite fanfic site, I scroll through some popular fandom tags.

Harry Potter, Marvel, The Fourth Degree, Star Wars, Beneath a Strong Sentiment, and Teen Wolf are among the most active and viewed. Writers can post original work too, but the only original fics that gain traction are from writers who first gained popularity with a fanfic.

I click into my most recent fic.

Username: galaxxygirlx

Title: How It Started

I scroll to the bottom of the fic and expand the comments section. There are only two.

LokiCanHaveMyBBs: OH MY GOD! I Love this already!! Please keep going!!





TillieStayzor79: It’s all right. You could use more editing.





TillieStayzor79 isn’t wrong. I just…haven’t figured out how to hire someone to edit my work without exposing my username. Family and security are the only ones who know about my username and that I’m even on Fictitious. For the sake of my mental health, I’d like to keep it that way.

Voices suddenly resonate up the stairs, my door slightly ajar, and I close my laptop and slip onto the second-floor landing.

“How many episodes have I missed?” Beckett asks Sulli from downstairs.

I don’t lean into the stairwell, so they’re not visible, but I hear Sulli’s reply. “Ten.”

“Ten?”

“Yeah, it comes on three times a week.” Oh, they must be talking about Big Brother. It’s Sulli’s favorite show, and CBS is airing a season during the fall this year.

“Shit…I thought I was keeping up.”

“Oh hey, you are. The show outpaces me sometimes, too. Binge-watching is half the fucking fun anyway. I’ll grab the popcorn.”

Donnelly peeks around the corner, coming into view from the narrow stairwell. My heart metaphorically pancakes. Flipping and flopping in a way that I’ve come to recognize as a clear sign I have spotted an attractive specimen on planet Earth.

Unkempt, fluffy chestnut brown hair, eyes the color of blue spinel gems, and the coolness of a person who cares little of what anyone thinks—Paul Donnelly carries nothing on him. At least, he always appears to be saddled with nothing.

“Wondering where you were,” he says with a friendly kind of grin and South Philly lilt. He slips a ballpoint pen behind his ear. Tall and fit with lean muscles, he sports a faded Van Halen tee and black pants.

Tattoos inch up his arm, and his silver earring and septum piercing glint in the light. If he landed on another planet, aliens would most definitely poke and prod him to find the equation for beauty. It is certain.

I make sure not to do the whole “I’m checking you out” look because the last thing he needs is me getting in the way of his job. My dad is already making that difficult. I just want a tattoo. Simple. Easy. Nothing to worry about.

“I’m here.” I wave a hand. “Hey. Hi. Heidi. Ho.”

“Heidi ho back at you, wannabe alien.” Sketchbook tucked beneath his arm, his gaze is always soft like a cloud, and I rest easy against it, my lips rising in return. Donnelly steps onto the second-floor landing. “Where you wanna do this?”

I’m a go with the flow kinda gal. I just nod towards my bedroom. “This way.” I lead Donnelly inside.

He follows casually behind.

The thing I really like about Donnelly is how comfortable he makes everything. Like living is just as easy as breathing, and sometimes I do wonder how it can feel that easy. Because in my head it’s not easy at all.

On instinct, I head towards the desk where orange knitted yarn hangs out of a drawer. I made Donnelly something for the design. As payment, just to show how much this means to me and that I’m serious about this exchange. But I suddenly hesitate to go retrieve the thing.

“You’re really sure you’re okay with this?” I wonder while Donnelly takes a seat on the desk chair.

He leans forward, flipping through his sketchbook. “As sure as I was a week ago.” He pauses, mid-flip. “You changing your mind?”

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. Coming closer, I rest a little against the edge of the desk. “I just heard that my dad kinda threatened you after the star tattoo on my hip. I’m sorry he did that.”