Page 16 of Tangled Like Us
It’s becoming shamefully easier to say,I am not worthy to be a Cobalt.
Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself.
My mom is brilliant and beautiful.
And so I am. Just in my own way.
“It comes down to this. Jane Cobalt is nothing more than a conceited heiress to a billion-dollar fortune,” Jackie tells the listeners. “She continues to be a disappo—”
Thatcher turns the radio off. “Fucking horseshit—sorry,” he apologies quickly to me, his muscles flexed and jaw tensed.
“Are you apologizing for swearing or for cutting off the radio?” I wonder, eyeing the road.
“The radio, but if swearing offended you—”
“It doesn’t offend me,” I say quickly. I want him to feel comfortable being himself with me.
Thatcher holds my gaze for an extra beat and then checks his watch. “You have three minutes.”
I scoot closer to the wheel. “We’re on the right street,” I say aloud, and I circle the block a few times just to find an open space. “Parking is horrendous.”
“Up ahead,” Thatcher says. “It’s too small of a space. Jump the curb and park half on the sidewalk.”
I don’t ask if I’m allowed. I’ve already spottedfourcars parked on the sidewalks here.
Zeroing in on the tight space between a hybrid and a Jeep, I reverse to parallel-park, and then I maneuver my Beetle up the curb in a diagonal. The car bounces, and I squeeze in tight. Front tire perches on the sidewalk, and my back bumper is nowhere near incoming traffic.
Looks good to me.
I park and move more quickly.
Two minutes remaining.
Thatcher and I both open our doors. Just as I gather my purse and my keys, I shuffle out of the Beetle—no, my ballet flat slips off and plummets to the pavement.
I hurry and shut the door, stepping barefoot on loose chunks of gravel. Crouching to retrieve my shoe. “Come here, shoe.” I peer under the Beetle. “Please,pleasedon’t betray me.”
Thatcher has already rounded my car. I sense his towering presence behind me.
Beeeeep!!
My head swerves to the road, and between Thatcher’s legs, I spot a few cars honking at the Toyota which blocks traffic, unable to find a parking spot. A cameraman jumps out of the passenger seat, and the Toyota drives away.
“Jane, look here!” the cameraman shouts.
“I’m a little busy,” I mutter and tune out paparazzi. I just now locate the sequined ballet flat behind the tire.
I snatch the shoe. And then I teeter to a stance and try to brush gravel off my foot. I wobble and instinctively reach for something to balance myself.
I grab on to Thatcher.
His muscular waist, specifically.
I look up at him while I slip on my shoe, and his hand hovers perilously close to my wide hips. He stares down at me, but his hard brown eyes never descend lower than my chin.
Shoe securely on, I set my foot on the ground, and I release my grip off Thatcher. “…thank you.” I pat his firm chest, not just once, butthrice.
