Still in pajamas, Luna lifts her head up from a mountain of clothes. “Nopity. I got it covered.”
On my way to the garage, I’m plagued by the pestering thought: I need to tell my family…I drank alcohol. You have no clue how hard this is for me.
I really don’t want to meet faces of pity, feeling sorry for me that I accidentally sipped alcohol, or disappointment, or ridicule, thinking I should’ve distinguished the taste (how could I not, right?)
Your pity, disappointment and ridicule—I can handle. My family’s—that’s so much worse. And I haven’t even told Janie yet.
Alcohol feels different than me unintentionally consuming marijuana. Alcohol is the monster under my family’s bed.
Rifling through the garage, I can’t locate a toolbox or drill. Maybe my uncle or dad left them in the backyard shed.
I exit outside, the patio door clattering behind me, and a storm rumbles the summer sky. Gray clouds mask all the blue, the yard darkened, and my Timberland boots squish the dewy grass.
The wooden shed is old and in need of a fresh coat of cherry-red paint. Whoever was here last left the latch hanging. Unlocked, the door swings open with the breeze.
It creaks as I trek inside.
And I’m rummaging through garden shovels and watering cans for point-two seconds before I lift up a deflated pool raft—and I go rigid. Unblinking. My pulse thumps like its stuck in an echo chamber. Banging distantly, outside of my body.
I squat down slowly to this old dog bed, hidden beneath the pink plastic raft.
“Gotham?” I place a hand on my Basset Hound’s belly. Feeling for breath, but his body isn’t rising or falling. “Gotham?” My voice tightens. I just took him for a walk this morning. At 6 a.m.—and he was slow, really slow, but he ate his kibble.
He was okay.
“Gotham? Come on, buddy.” I nudge him, but he’s not moving. He’s gone. I know he’s gone.
I prepared for this. I knew he could die soon, and I thought that knowledge would lessen the grief—but God, something fists my lungs.
I swallow hard, and I think, thank God it was me.
Thank God I found him and not my brother or my sisters. I scoop him gently in my arms, muscles tensing from more than the weight, and I stand up.
Kicking the shed door open, I walk stiffly through wet grass as thunder booms and rain pours. Soaking my green crewneck and my dog in my hands.
I try to be quiet as I enter the house. My boots squeak on the kitchen floor, and I slip into the empty living room. Push back the coffee table with my boot, spread out his favorite dog blanket—I lie him down and carefully wrap him up.
And then I collapse on my ass. Feeling out of breath, and I want to say goodbye to him. And thank him for every good memory, but all I can think about are my siblings.
Their pain, their heartache.
I dig my phone out of my jean’s pocket, and I dial a number.
“Can’t find the tools?” Farrow asks.
“Come downstairs.” I hang up and rake back my wet hair.
In literal seconds, stairs creak, and Farrow descends with our son perched up on his waist. He stops midway, able to see over the sofa and the blanket-mound.
“Is that Gotham?” Farrow asks.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” He knows he’s dead.
I nod a couple times. “I think so.” I pop a few knuckles. “Can you wake up my parents?”
“Sure.” He hesitates. “You need anything, wolf scout?”
I breathe in, and I shake my head. I already have you. “I’m good.”
The rain has stopped and sky has cleared by the time my dad, Uncle Ryke, and I finish burying Gotham in the backyard. We brought him to the vet. Cause of death: old age.
Now my whole family and most of the Cobalts, Meadows, and even Abbeys gather around the fresh mound of dirt.
“He was a good dog.” My mom tears up, and Aunt Daisy hugs her close.
“I still remember the first day Lily brought Ham home,” my dad says to everyone. “It was around Christmas, and you, kids, were obsessed with him, showering him with hugs like he was the Lord and Savior of All Canines.” He laughs. “Jesus, he was such a goof.”
I smile.
My dad is failing to mention that he didn’t want Gotham. My mom surprised everyone, even him, with the dog, and he only said yes because he saw how much we loved him. That’s how the story goes, anyway.
It was fifteen years ago.
I have an arm around Luna’s shoulders. She wipes her splotchy cheeks with her wrist. “I miss him already.”
Kinney sniffs, stifling emotion, and my dad has a hand on my brother’s hung head. He’s sad.
The air tenses in the silence, and for once, Ripley doesn’t win any waterworks award. He fell asleep in my arms, and I passed him to Jane since she bounced on her toes, eager to hold him.
Eliot crouches and tosses some loose dirt on the grave. “‘Good night, dear heart. Good night, good night.’” He quotes Mark Twain.
Farrow has my hand in his, and I let go to crack another knuckle. I feel like I should say what I’m thinking, so I go ahead and speak. “Death is a strange part of life.”
Farrow looks deep into me. He’s met death way more than I have. Not just with his childhood pet: a guinea pig named Scuttlebucket.
He’s seen people die in the hospital. Patients he couldn’t save. His mom passed away when he was just four.
He almost lost me on a fucking highway.
I joke about living forever, and he reminds me that we won’t exceed a hundred. Maybe he thought I’d be more torn up, but I recognize that this is what happens.
I say more. “All things must come to an end, and as much as I wished Gotham could be immortal, life isn’t infinite. But love is, and we loved him.” I take a beat. “And we’ll still love him.”
My dad nods. “Yeah, we will.”
Everyone pipes in with their own affirmations of love, and gradually, we all start walking back towards the house.
Thatcher and Jane stay by our side, and she speaks in a quick rush. “I wasn’t going to mention anything, but with what happened this morning, possibly it’s fate or just the oddest coincidence.”
My brows furrow. “What is?”
She rocks my baby boy in her arms. “Thatcher and I went to the animal shelter, as we normally do, and they just received the cutest litter of Newfoundlands, a litter of four.”
“Newfoundlands?” Kinney perks up, skidding to a halt in front of us. Hands on her hips.
Xander heard too. “Four dogs?” His eyes widen. “Moffy, you know what that means?”
Yeah, I do.
“Wait, back up.” Farrow holds up a hand. “What’s so special about Newfoundlands?”
“Newfoundlands?!” Luna gasps and reroutes to our spot in the wet grass. Literally the rest of my cousins return to us, until we’re in a giant group huddle.
Aunt Rose is watching with pierced yellow-green eyes from the patio. Probably wondering what the hell we’re all doing.
We’re so not normal.
All the teens start talking at once.
“It’s a sign,” Ben says.
Winona nods. “You have to go get them from the shelter.”
“One for each Hale,” Eliot says.
“Again, back up,” Farrow chimes in. But their enthusiasm drowns out everyone, and I can barely pick apart their words anymore.
I cut in, “Quiet, quiet,” and they all settle down and wait for me to talk. I look to Farrow and explain, “Nana, the dog in Peter Pan that’s hired to take care of the Darlings, is said to be a Newfoundland.”
Realization washes over him. “And your family has a thing for Peter Pan.”
He knows, and he’s just referring to my immediate family. The Hales. Which is why the Meadows and Cobalts, and even Vada Abbey are freaking out for me and my siblings.
“And it’s just like Game of Thrones,” Xander proclaims, a million times brighter t
han before. My brother is practically glowing. “The Starks found six direwolves for the six Stark children.”
They all start shouting in glee again.
“We just buried Gotham,” I say over all of them, and the mood dies. Great.
Thankfully Jane resurrects it. “That’s what makes this so apropos, I think.”
“For fucking sure,” Sulli nods.
“Mmmhmm,” Winona and the Cobalts chime in. Super supportive of this path. Maybe they can tell how much it’s cheering up my brother and sisters.
I hate that I’m derailing the Hale camaraderie. But I’m older, more practical. We’re about to move. Jane has a fuck ton of cats, and we’re already having to introduce a baby to her seven felines. Now two puppies?
Not to mention, this isn’t just my choice.
I turn to Farrow. If we agree to this, then that means we become pet owners. We just became fathers.
He’s grinning at me and he lifts his shoulders. “Why not?”
“Newfoundlands can weigh up to two-hundred pounds, man.”
“That’s not a problem,” he says easily. “Are they good with kids?”
“Yes!” everyone shouts.
Jesus.
I’m smiling. “Yeah.”
“Sounds perfect.” He raises his brows up and down in a wave. “Let’s get a dog, wolf scout.”
Today is too surreal.
I think I slipped in the shed. Hit my head. Fell down into Alice’s Wonderland or something. Because it’s midnight and two brown and two black Newfoundland puppies hop playfully around my parent’s living room.
Ripley is somehow awake. And he’s in heaven, giggling and catching onto brown fur as the puppy licks his cheek.
That’s when I know we made the right choice. And I feel a lot like my dad. So I find myself next to him near the kitchen doorway.
He’s been eating a soft shell chicken taco and watching Luna, Xander, and Kinney play with their new puppies.
The two black-furred dogs belong to Luna and Kinney. And then Xander chose a brown-furred puppy, and I took the one that was left, which Ripley keeps holding on to.
“I’m surprised you didn’t even hesitate to say yes this time,” I say to my dad. “Especially since you now have two dogs.”
He swallows a bite of taco. “It’s kind of like after I had you, bud. I did it once, and I knew I could do it three more times.” He smiles more, and I can tell he’s at a better place. “What are you naming him anyway?”
I start laughing.
His amber eyes are like knives. “No. Not Bruce or Wayne, or god-forbid the fucking Batman.” He’s squeezing the life out of his taco. “He doesn’t even have a goddamn power. He goes out and plays dress up at night—”
“You’re killing your taco, Dad.”
He loosens his grip.
I explain to him how we all agreed on naming the puppies after places. He missed this conversation while making dinner, but he knows that Luna and I have male dogs, and Kinney and Xander have females. I tell him, “Kinney has Salem. Xander has Erebor. Luna has Orion. And Farrow and I named ours Arkham, after—”
“Arkham Asylum.”
A location in Gotham City.
I wanted to pay homage to my Basset Hound, in some way, and Farrow came up with the name after flipping through some DC comics.
My dad blinks like his brain short-circuited. He reanimates and licks hot sauce off his thumb. “He’s now Ham Junior. Sorry not sorry.” He flashes a half-smile.
I laugh, and the noise fades as my smile grows. My dad and I watch my son and my soon-to-be husband. Farrow is video-recording Ripley as he hugs onto Arkham.
I want this to last.
I want him forever.
I feel guilty for wishing it, and I almost drop my head. My dad has a hand on my shoulder and softly says, “It’ll be okay, bud.”
29
MAXIMOFF HALE
The six of us—me, Farrow, Jane, Thatcher, Sulli, and Luna—stand at the expansive wall of windows in a spacious, unfurnished living room. And we stare out at the sunny cityscape.
On the 33rd floor, the penthouse is a massive 9,000 square feet in Center City. Six bedrooms. Seven baths. A private elevator entrance, library, game room, and rooftop terrace. It’s extravagant, colossal, and probably obnoxious.
And it’s all ours.
“It doesn’t seem real,” Jane whispers.
Thatcher puts his hands atop her head, protectively. “I didn’t think you two would ever choose this.” He means me and Janie.
I slide an arm around Farrow’s shoulders, and a smile plays at his lips. I’ve heard all about the house-hunting mission with Thatcher.
Even sifted through the apartment listings they visited. And none of them came close to this square footage. An alternate universe exists somewhere, and the six of us are living in just a normal apartment. With normal amenities and rundown appliances.
But I like this reality.
I talked for a long while with Jane. Being filthy rich has always felt different than living like the filthy rich. I’ve avoided staring directly at my wealth because I don’t need much. Don’t want much.
The older I get, the more I’m accepting the fact that I can change. And I am changing.
Even if you want me to stay the same.
I can be happy in a shoebox or a mansion, but I find myself wanting to give them the world. Farrow and our little boy. I’m not going to beat myself up for choosing a penthouse.
I’m just not.
“Be careful, wolf scout,” Farrow whispers, our eyes fastening with a strong jolt of affection. “Your happiness is showing.”
My cheeks hurt from an overpowered smile. I just nod strongly, and I eye his mouth. He leans in; I lean in, and our aggression inside a hot kiss wrenches our chests together.
Fuck.
This could last a while, and by a while, I mean a millennium. Our hands slide and grip, but we manage to step back, ending the embrace in a handful of seconds.
Farrow licks his bottom lip, like he can feel me on them.
“Team Philly,” Sulli says, staring fondly at the Philadelphia skyline.
“We should toast!” Luna exclaims.
Sulli nods. “Fuck yeah, maybe we can find the champagne.”
We all whirl around to the mountain of boxes behind us. Yeah—we just moved in. Some furniture is still being unloaded from vans. Seven cats are locked in Jane and Thatcher’s bedroom as they acclimate, and the two puppies Arkham and Orion chase each other around the hardwood. Skidding into a cardboard box.
“The two of us can do anything,” Luna says, catching Sulli’s wrist and dragging her towards the kitchen. Sulli whistles at Orion to follow, and the black-furred Newfoundland scampers after them.
Omega bodyguards—Akara, Quinn, Banks, and Donnelly—are rooming in two apartments just one floor below the penthouse. Security is probably way more comfortable living here than in the cramped townhouse.
Ripley coos as Luna and Sulli pass his jumper, then returns to chewing on a teething ring. He’s taking the move not that horribly. No screaming fits or epic sobs. In fact, he can bear to be on his own and not have a catalytic meltdown.
But still, no one else but me can really hold him unless he’s conked out asleep beforehand. Otherwise he acts like we’re in the middle of a Crisis on Infinite Earths.
Jane hooks an arm around my elbow, and I smile down at my best friend. Her blue eyes glimmer up at me. “It’s just you and me, old chap. Plus, our future husbands, two alpha chicks, and a hellion baby.” Her eyes water and mine sear. Recognition passing between us.
With the fire, we closed a huge chapter of our lives. The Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse. Living together in our early twenties. It’s in the past, buried under ash.
Now we’re heading somewhere else. Moving forward inevitably means leaving something behind. Whether it’s physical things or just other possibilities. I wonder if everyone goes through this at some point in their lives. This fe
eling.
To be in mourning for a time gone by and hopeful for the time yet to come.
I want to ask Farrow, but when I turn to him and see the affection in his eyes. I think I already know the answer. What he’d say to me.
It’s called being human.
The box weighs a shit ton, but I easily carry the thing through the hallways. Not without my biceps burning.
Brick walls and warm, earth tones make the penthouse feel industrial and inviting over a sleek modern design. It was one of the many reasons I was drawn to it.
I enter a bedroom.
Farrow looks up from the hardwood and rolls his eyes into an edging smile. “You just had to carry in the biggest box.”
I drop the heavy thing beside his feet. An instruction manual splays open on the floor, and Farrow clutches a screwdriver, putting together our son’s changing table.
It feels good finally giving Ripley his own room. His own space.
Arkham is curled asleep against Farrow’s leg. Our puppy looks and acts like a brown teddy bear. Sweet and nurturing.
Ripley makes soft noises like, pick me up, from his sailboat-shaped crib. I go over to him and tell Farrow, “I was doing you a favor, man. You’d have struggled with that one.” I lift Ripley up, and he hugs onto my Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt, settling down in my arms.
Farrow’s brows spike. “You’re forgetting who can bench press more.”
We’re equals on that front.
“That’d be me,” I lie.
He grins. “Always trying to beat me. Never succeeding.”
I open my mouth, partially distracted by how Farrow twirls the screwdriver between his fingers—and then Ripley lets out a big yawn and fully distracts us both.
Farrow’s smile expands to repulsively attractive levels. “The little man has spoken. You’re boring him to sleep, wolf scout.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, did we forget how he literally thinks the world has been set on flames while you hold him?”
“No, we remember that.” With the screwdriver, he motions from me to the six-month-old baby. “And we can acknowledge your effect on him.”
Headstrong Like Us Page 27
