I kiss the top of Ripley’s soft head. He calms, and fans audibly swoon in a collective, awwww.
Janie has already hiked over the other side of the kiosk. Standing behind Thatcher and clutching his hand with both of hers—she seems relaxed again.
“Farrow,” Thatcher calls. “Ready to push out?”
Farrow nods and then turns to me. “I’m staying on your right.” He motions to my fucked-up shoulder.
He plans to protect that side more than any other. Keep people from worsening my injury. He’s good at his job. Maybe that’s why the walk back to the car doesn’t feel as daunting anymore. Not with him here.
It’s just normal.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
I rest back on the sofa, feet on the floor, and an icepack melts on my sore shoulder. Pitch-black in my parent’s living room late tonight, the only glow comes from our cellphones and the television (paused on Farrow’s favorite movie).
Farrow sprawls out, his head on my thigh, and I feel his muscles flex, tensing. He rubs his thumb back and forth over a hoop lip piercing, his eyes fixed on a phone screen.
He lets out an aggravated breath. “Whoever the fuck is blowing up the comments under my photos needs to find some shit they like, because it’s definitely not me.”
I tear the phone out of his hand.
“Maximoff.” He doesn’t sit up. Due to the conked-out baby on his chest—one of the few times Ripley has fallen asleep on Farrow.
The image is so priceless that I’ve engrained every last detail for millenniums to come.
Cozy warm in yellow Wolverine PJs, Ripley’s little body rises with each soft breath. And his tiny fingers curl around the collar of Farrow’s black V-neck. He’s content.
Happy. Drooling.
And blissfully unaware of anonymous trolls annoying his dad. Only a handful of things can dig under Farrow’s skin, and I know what scraped his nerves raw tonight.
“Let me block them, man.” I work through blocking about thirty or forty Instagram users who’ve decided to unleash their feelings about Farrow and me on Farrow’s personal social media.
YOU are the problem! Get out of Maximoff’s life RIGHT NOW! We hate you!
MAXIMOFF WOULD NEVER GET A TATTOO! LET ALONE UR HORRIBLE NAME!
U forced him to get a tattoo and branded him u sick piece of shit
I hope u die, ur hurting Maximoff
If you loved him, youd LEAVE HIM. Dont marry Maximoff, you fucking asshole
Blocked.
Blocked.
Blocked.
I hate that they’re attacking Farrow over a tattoo—that I chose, that I wanted, that I fucking love. It knots a pain in my chest.
You’re hurting him.
It’s killing me.
Please stop.
Please.
“I can do an Instagram Live,” I tell Farrow, anything to make him feel better.
His lip almost rises. “There’s no point. You’ve already talked about the tattoo publicly. No matter what I do or you do, these pricks will continue to believe I’m a plague to your world and you deserve another guy or girl.”
“I don’t want anyone else but you, Farrow,” I say strongly.
He soaks in my firm confidence.
I hold his gaze. “If you need me to scream off every mountain peak and yell until my lungs bleed that I love you, that you’re mine, that everyone can shut the fuck up and let us be—I’d do that.” I know he’d do it for me.
His smile flits in and out, too overwhelmed. “Damn.” His eyes redden, and he reaches up, clasping my jaw, and I dip my head down. Our lips crush together, aching and loving.
But too short, too brief.
I pull back, needing to block more users.
Farrow threads his fingers through his bleach-white hair. “I’m trying not to give a shit about them. It’s just grating.” He rolls his eyes at himself.
I think he’s more pissed that he’s letting them affect his mood.
He’s so fucking comfortable being who he is, and so whenever anyone digs at him personally, he cracks a smile and lets it roll off easily. But this is about his intentions towards me, his love for me.
“I knew people would have a reaction to the tattoo,” I tell him, “but I didn’t think it’d be this intense. I think I just forgot how the world perceives me.” I block another user, and Farrow is watching and listening as I say, “I’m forever ten or twelve-years-old in some of their heads. Stuck with whatever opinion I made in an interview or the docuseries at that age, and I’m not allowed to change or decide I want something different. If I do, then I’m no longer me. And now, anytime I act out of that norm, it’s not my fault—it’s yours, because you’ve ruined me.”
That hurt.
Christ, I wish I didn’t say that out loud.
Firmly, with zero doubt, I quickly add, “You didn’t ruin me.”
Farrow begins to smile. “I know, wolf scout.” But his lips descend fast. He’s on edge about something. He even glances away from me.
It strains my muscles. Nervous sweat builds, and my brows cinch. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes return to mine.
And I swear a fucking eon passes before Farrow actually speaks. No lie, I’m sitting here waiting and waiting.
And waiting.
He sweeps my impatient features. “I’m just wondering if you regret the tattoo.”
“No.” I exhale a heavy breath. “I would’ve regretted not getting it. Aren’t you the one who said tattoos are for yourself, no one else?”
The corner of his mouth hikes. “That’s not exactly word-for-word what I told you, but close enough.” His smile stretches. “Give me the phone.”
I return his cell, thinking he’ll just power the thing off.
Instead, he opens the camera app.
Farrow lifts his shoulders and head, without moving his chest too much. I’m super-glued to his self-confident, swift movements. He rolls my gray T-shirt sleeve to my shoulder, careful of the ice, and reveals the tattoo on my bicep.
In one second-flat, he playfully bites my bicep next to his inked name, raises a middle finger, and snaps a picture. Four taps on his screen, and he posts the photo to his Instagram.
The caption is just the middle finger emoji.
I let out a laugh, stunned. Farrow didn’t even pause to think. He just did what felt right in the moment, and he constantly reminds me that life is better lived not obsessing.
“You can save it as your phone’s lock-screen later,” he teases.
“I’m good.” My voice is resolute. “The pic has way too much of this one guy I can’t stand in it.”
Farrow looks me over with a rising smile. “Always a precious smartass.” He places a gentle hand on Ripley’s tummy, and carefully, he sits up without moving our baby too much. He cradles him, still asleep, and whispers, “I’m putting him in his crib.”
I nod, and we split apart.
Farrow goes upstairs. I go to the kitchen. Grabbing a new icepack from the freezer.
Back together on the sofa a few minutes later, Farrow places the baby monitor on the coffee table, and I click play on the remote.
We’re close, his thigh against my thigh. Warmth spreads through me, and Farrow grips the hem of my tee. “I’m going to check your muscle.”
I could make a sarcastic comment, but I’m trying to watch the movie. Unlike Farrow, I’ve never seen Call Me By Your Name before.
I grip the icepack and assist in pulling the shirt over my head. According to my doctor, I tore a muscle. And by my doctor, I mean my fiancé. Yay me.
On the bright side, plenty of days have passed since the mall disaster, and my shoulder only semi-throbs now. It’s healing and should be fully functioning for our bachelor parties next week.
Now I’m bare-chested, and Farrow lightly presses on my muscle. “Swelling has gone down.”
I nod dazedly; the film is on a quiet part where Elio is alone.
Farrow situates
the icepack on my shoulder.
I slide further back on the sofa. Leaning into his chest, our shoulders nearly parallel, and his arm is around my waist. More comfortable, and a second or two later, I feel Farrow eyeing me.
“What?” I glance over at him, light and shadows from the TV dancing over our faces.
“You’re really into this movie.” He smiles at me, then focuses on the television. “It’s cute.”
Heat bathes my neck, and I turn my head forward. Trying to maintain concentration on the film. I want to tell Farrow that he’s looking at the wrong guy. I’m scorching hot, not cute. But the movie does draw me in.
A ton.
We’re quiet, just watching a love story between two guys, and the only time my eyes dart to Farrow is when Elio pries out the pit of a peach. Confusion knots my brows, and Farrow chews a piece of gum, completely at ease and unflinching.
And I’m watching further and further, as Oliver comes in and sits on the bed, teasing Elio over the peach, wrestling with more than limbs. Vulnerability, fear, love—and something…something about the whole scene just fucking pummels me.
I start crying.
Not silent tears or one wet streak. I’m bawling involuntary tears, more than I ever have, and they come from a place I don’t understand. Because I’m not angry. Hot-blooded frustration is usually a current that sweeps away my tears or accompanies them, but I’m the furthest thing from rage.
Farrow bows forward to try and see my face, his hand consoling me, warm on my ribs, and his arm is still around my back.
To break this seal inside me takes actual conscious force, and yet, one film scene just struck a hammer to my emotions like I’m made of glass.
He hears me cry. “Maximoff?”
“I can’t,” I choke—I can’t stop crying. I’m embarrassed, and I start to pull away from him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Farrow breathes, his voice deep and reassuring. He strengthens his grip around my waist, and I want to ease back into him.
I cover my face with an iron hand, and my face twists, crying. At the same time that Farrow draws me back, I turn into his chest.
And I shudder against him, a sob spilling out of me. He cups the back of my neck, his fingers rising into my hair. “It’s okay,” Farrow whispers against my ear.
I shake my head.
Hot from embarrassment, and my eyes burn with incessant tears. I’m grasping onto his thigh with one palm, and I’ve yet to pry my other hand off my wet, splotchy face. Not until I force myself to wipe my running nose with my fist.
Farrow sees my struggle. He starts pulling off his black shirt. That action takes me back. So far back. To when he threw his shirt off a yacht for me, so I could staunch a nosebleed.
“No, don’t do that,” I cry, unable to fight the emotion that cascades down my jaw and soaks us both. And what he’s doing is just puncturing another dam, more tears.
I’m never going to stop crying.
There is no pent-up emotion to scream out. Everything flows from me like a rushing waterfall, and I can’t end it.
His strong hand encases my cheek, my jaw. “Just let go, okay?” His eyes are welled up. “You don’t need to be titanium.”
I feel like all I’m doing is letting go, but I understand what Farrow means in the next beat. I’m fighting his embrace, to let him hold me.
Scared that if I do, I’ll keep unraveling and bawling, and maybe that’s the point. Unravel. Cry like I’ve never cried before, because somewhere deep I wanted to and needed to—and he’s right there.
Right there.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck. Farrow pulls me against his body and holds me while I hold onto him, like I’m the wobbling buoy and he’s on a ship anchoring me.
I cry and cry. “Fuck,” I sob, drenching his shirt with snot and tears. “I don’t know why I’m…it just came out and…”
He strokes my head, my back. “You’re okay.” He sounds choked.
I lean back and see the tear tracks slipping down his jaw. He’s feeling what I’m feeling. We look into each other, and the intimacy of this moment settles in my body. Feather-light.
Deep breaths.
Silent tears stream.
His lip rises in this soft, loving smile, and he whispers, “Was it the movie or something else?”
I think for a second. “The movie.” I blink, my eyes wet and raw, and I pinch them. “And I don’t know why…” My chin quakes. Fuck.
Farrow shrugs, wiping at his own eyes. “It’s art. Art has the power to move people in different ways.” He lifts his brows. “You were moved, wolf scout.”
My face feels beet-red, and tears continue to leak out of the corners. But our eyes stay fastened.
He fists his shirt, about to pull the fabric off again, but he stops.
This time, I tug the tee off over his head. Leaving us both bare-chested. When I try to hand him the shirt, he pushes it back into my hands.
“Keep it.”
I wipe my nose with the black fabric.
He sweeps my features, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is there a reason why you didn’t want me to give you that before?”
I heat up again. “I was thinking about when you threw me the shirt off the yacht.” I’ve brought up this day in our history before, but I ask, “Do you remember that?”
His lip starts to rise, a know-it-all smile. “I remember everything. Definitely more than you.”
I let out an irritated breath, and I realize he paused the film. And my icepack fell to the floor. My eyes meet his. “Then you must remember how I returned the shirt to you.”
Farrow blinks, rifling through his mind for that moment. “At the…Movie on the Green, for Kinney’s 10th birthday. I was there as your mom’s bodyguard.”
I nod strongly. “Yeah.”
He smiles. “I was surprised you didn’t just hold onto the shirt, tear it up in little pieces and paste it in your diary next to all the hearts around my name.”
“I wish I had,” I say seriously, even though he was joking.
That proclamation heavies the air. He searches me for clarification.
I keep going. “I was so damn stubborn. I still am, I know that—but God, I wish I’d just held onto something of yours that meant something to me. Instead, I let it go out of…morality. Because it was wrong to have your clothing in my possession.”
Farrow reaches down and clasps my calf. He brings my foot up to the sofa. “Is that what this is about?” His fingers skim the leather holster attached to my shin, and he slips out the tactical knife that he gifted me in Greece.
I just nod at first, the words piling on too quickly in my brain. It takes me a minute to release them in order. “I hate that I lost things in the fire that remind me of you. I know it’s material possessions. I know it shouldn’t fucking matter in the long-run, but I spent my whole life just moving forward and moving forward, and for once, I want to preserve the good things from the past.”
He carries deep understanding. “I was sad about losing our things in the fire, and I know why it’d be harder for you. But our memories are preserved. They won’t burn.”
Another unrestrained tear skates off my jaw. “What if I wanted to make more memories? What if I want to preserve the good of the past for the future. For our kids?” I nod to the knife. “So that isn’t just an idea but a tangible, real thing that they can see.”
His eyes well up again. Farrow swallows hard and nods a couple times. “I’m not a three-month philosophy major like you.”
I groan. He could’ve just said “philosophy major” and not mentioned my short timespan in college.
He smiles again, loving to annoy me. “Look, I don’t want to say that how you think is wrong. Because it’s not.”
“But,” I say, feeling a but coming on.
He tilts his head. “But…I love you, Maximoff. That’s it. If you need to wear the knife and bracelet I gave you for years for sentimental preservation, then okay. And maybe one d
ay you’ll let me wear them half the time.”
I begin to smile through my tears. “Maybe.”
22
FARROW KEENE
“Baby’s first trip is also your bachelor party,” Oscar says, walking up the Hale driveway. “I’d say it’s on brand.” He drove one of the security SUVs here and parked on the curb.
These past couple months, I’ve run into Oscar a handful of times. Not long enough to talk more than five minutes. Which is why I asked him to stop by after he dropped Charlie off at the Cobalt Estate.
The trunk is popped to a black, red-striped Audi, the car belonging to me and Maximoff. I’m currently fighting with a couple duffel bags, a suitcase, portable crib, collapsible stroller, and a few other things that Ripley needs for the trip.
He still has more shit than Maximoff and me combined. And the car isn’t exactly cutting it with trunk space.
I adjust the suitcase and it slides in easier. “On brand how?” I turn to Oscar.
He crouches down to the stroller where Ripley rattles a toy. Glancing up to me, he says, “You’ve always wanted this. A husband and a kid, and now they’re happening almost simultaneously.” He makes a silly face at the baby, and Ripley cries almost instantly.
It’s not personal.
Oscar knows it too because he just rises to his feet like nothing happened. He wafts his Yale T-shirt, hot under the scorching sun in June. “You know who’s excited about the Famous Fiancé becoming your Famous Husband?”
I guess based on the look he gives. “Sônia?” His mom.
“Bingo. She keeps texting me pics of her outfits for the ceremony, and I told her it doesn’t matter which white dress she wears. And then she pulled the Farrow has no mom on me and said, it matters.”
I really like Sônia, and she means well and cares about me. But the older I’m getting, the more the “Farrow has no mom” sentiment is starting to grate on me a little bit.
Because it’s always implied that I need one.
Headstrong Like Us Page 21
