Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“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.