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)
“Street hecklers are my kryptonite,” I admit, then I gesture to his chest. “Grating, unsolicited commentary about our relationship is going to be yours.”
Farrow is close to shaking his head, but he stops himself and looks up at the pantry ceiling. Cringing slightly. Eyes reddening. He rubs his mouth a couple times. We’ve been around each other every waking minute for almost a whole year.
I know him.
I fucking know Farrow like he knows me. He will tell you that he has no best friends. He has two that he treats like brothers. He will say that he’s an open book. But it’s a book he only allows his boyfriend to open. His casualness reads to some like indifference. Yet, he lives to save people.
He’s independent and self-reliant, but he seeks out companionship and love.
If he says you’re “good people”—he’ll surround himself around you, and you’ll be glad. Because he’s the kind of man who puts his whole soul into what he loves, and if he loves you, goddamn.
So when his eyes fall back to mine, I say, “I know you. You can barely stand Beckett prying in our relationship. You think you can stomach the entire world?”
Farrow touches his obsidian earring, contemplating for a millisecond. “You think you can stomach it?” he asks me. “It’s not like you’ve had a public relationship before me. I’m your first—hopefully your last. You’ve never experienced this shit either.”
Hopefully your last.
I hang onto those three words. Unblinking at him.
Farrow is trying to read my expression at an alarming rate. Is he nervous? I think…
I think he’s nervous.
It makes me ten billion times more nervous.
My pulse accelerates, heart beating out of my chest, and Farrow’s breath quickens like he’s running the same marathon. He sets my phone on a shelf.
“Are you still high?” I ask.
“No.” Farrow keeps sweeping my face for my reaction. “Not at all.”
“Same.” I’m completely lucid, mentally shutting out any pain, because I can’t get over those three words.
Hopefully your last.
He wants to be my last, and he’s not just saying this on the side of a road, thinking I’m about to die. He’s saying this when we’re about to face the roughest storm together.
Farrow combs both hands through his bleach-white hair, his chest elevating. “Maximoff…”
“Am I your forever guy?” I just ask.
His eyes are bloodshot, so much emotion slamming into him, then me, and he says, “I don’t want to scare you off—”
“You’re not scaring me,” I shake my head repeatedly, my pulse on a sky-scraping ascent.
He drums a shelf with his fingertips, prolonging whatever you want to call this moment. When he does speak, each word comes out like fifty tons of brick that he’s wrenching forward. “I’m afraid that if I say anything else, I’m going to fucking lose you…we can do this another day—”
“Why the fuck would you lose me?” I cut him off, brows furrowed.
He leans his weight back. “We’re really doing this right now,” he realizes.
“Yeah, unless you’d like me to overthink for the next millennium.”
His mouth stretches. “I wouldn’t take that long, wolf scout.” But the fleeting smile completely disappears as he processes what he needs to say.
His gaze slowly rises to meet mine. “See, you’re twenty-two and I’m only your first—and there is better than me out there. Shit, even Oscar is waiting for you to realize it, and I’ve dumped my fair share of guys. For the first fucking time, I’m the one terrified…” He stops himself short, eyeing me hard. “You look petrified.”
I clear my throat. “This is me looking nervous,” I tell him, my brows cinched and eyes a bit wide. I’m actually scared to lose him in this whole conversation.
Maybe that’s why we prefer joking around than having serious talks. It always takes us a while to reach the center, but we usually find a way.
His smile starts widening to new profound levels. “I’ve seen you nervous plenty of times. That’s not it.”
“Not plenty of times,” I retort. “Sometimes, a few times…no times. Less than you.”
Farrow laughs, and then as the sound quiets, our eyes melt against each other.
“There’s no one better than you,” I tell him, assured about this. “And I get why you haven’t brought this up before.” I nod to myself a few more times, and I stop there.
Farrow waves me onwards.
I feign confusion. “Isn’t it your turn? Pretty sure it’s your turn.”
He rolls his eyes, but they land on me as he says, “So you must know you’re brick-walled when it comes to future shit, particularly our future.”
I nod strongly. “Highly aware.” I think about how to say this perfectly, but I don’t think there’s a perfect way. “I always thought I’d never be in a relationship….for as much as I overanalyze my life, I never let myself imagine a boyfriend, let alone something more…”
Farrow props his elbows on the shelf behind him. “I figured, but you realize you’ve had me for a while. Fuck, anytime I mentioned marriage, even jokingly, you looked ready to piss your pants.”