Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“She put a Team Marrow bumper sticker on her car before we left,” Farrow says, scooping eggs onto his fork. I catch sight of his amused smile.
How we started talking about my mom and Team Marrow bumper stickers and her unconditional love of our relationship, I have no idea.
But it turns my mind. “What do you think about our ship name?” I ask him seriously, picking up a glass of orange juice.
Farrow lies more relaxed on his side. I’m sitting upright, but every now and then, he’ll reach out and rub my back or skate his fingers through my hair—and I can’t hide my fucking smile.
He swallows his food and tells me, “I love ‘Marrow’ because you’re obsessed with it.”
I pause before I swig my orange juice, brows furrowing. “Why do you think I’m obsessed with it?” I’m not my mom. I haven’t put bumper stickers on my car, bought Marrow T-shirts, or sent out a billion tweets professing my undying love. So I wonder why he drew that conclusion.
And that conclusion—it’s not wrong.
Farrow glances at the orange rising sun, then to me. “Whenever anyone mentions the name, you stare faraway for a bit, then you start smiling. I figured it meant something to you…” He looks me over like he’d love to know what went on inside my brain in those moments.
I nod. “It does mean something to me.” I sip orange juice, cool citrus sliding down my throat. “Have you skimmed Thoreau’s ‘Walden’?”
“Skimmed?” he repeats with the roll of his eyes. His lips quirk. “No, smartass. I haven’t skimmed that one.”
I cup the cold glass in my hand, and I hold his gaze while I quote, “‘I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.’ I think about that whole passage every time someone says Marrow.”
Farrow looks enamored. “Go on.”
I try to explain in my own words, and I gesture to his chest. “It’s in your bones; it’s what keeps you alive. The foundation of your body. To suck out all the marrow of life…I think about how Thoreau went into the woods and stripped life to the barest necessities. To learn what life is really made of, the feeling of water slipping between fingers, the chilled glass in my hand, the wind that rustles your damn hair. And I think about how I feel these barest things every day with you. To live life at its most essential level so as to fully live.”
Farrow has his hand to his mouth, overwhelmed, his eyes unable to shift off my eyes.
I add, “And Marrow starts with the letter of my name.”
Hand dropping, he smiles unbearably wide. “That’s what you have to tell yourself since my name occupies five of the six letters.”
I flip him off, but I can’t fucking grimace if I tried. I smile into another swig of orange juice—and I think, this is it. I can go to my suitcase inside the villa, go grab the ring.
And then the doorbell buzzes.
Our heads turn, but we can’t see the front entrance from the private patio. We look back at each other, and I say, “It could be the villa’s owner.” But we’re both aware that the owner said she wouldn’t contact us during our stay.
Farrow places his fork back on the wooden slab, and he sits up. “I’ll call the owner and see if it’s her.”
I find his phone beneath a light blue decorative pillow. The screen is lit up with text notifications, and I catch the name before I toss it to him. “Who’s Jordan?”
He shuts his eyes in a bout of annoyance, contempt for Jordan raiding his features. “Fuck this guy.” He exhales an edged breath before telling me, “He was a second-year resident and hated everything about me. He must’ve gotten my number from Shaw.”
“Was this the first time you worked at the hospital or the second?” I ask while he opens the texts.
“Second time.” His nose flares as he skims the texts. This Jordan guy knew where to jab Farrow because it’s a direct hit. He grinds his teeth and combs his hand through his hair. Multiple times. “He sent me screenshots of tweets.”
I wrap my arm across his shoulders, muscles stiffened. Ready for survival. But my stomach is knotting. Before I ask to see, he holds the phone out and shows me the screenshots.
#FarrowKeene you’re a shit doctor.
#FarrowKeene is not board-certified. Can’t even practice in a hospital. I don’t understand why the Hales would still hire him…oh wait…
Come on, people! #FarrowKeene is probably a great doctor. But I still can’t believe the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts would choose someone who’s not board-certified. It’s not like them. #TheyAreBetterThanThat
Not buying this whole “he was a distraction in the hospital” excuse. #FarrowKeene