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)
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 day 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.
My kids won’t have a mom, and they’re not worse off because of that. They have the pride of having two devoted fathers, who’ll love them unconditionally, care for them, dote on them and protect the hell out of them.
There’ll be nearby female influences, but no mom.
Just me and my husband, and that’s more than enough.
I squint at the harsh sunlight. “Your mom is texting you for clothing advice?” I lower my aviators to my eyes. “You should go home more often, Oliveira, so she can see that your wardrobe is mostly just workout gear and college tees.”
He grins. “Yeah, and your rebel ass owns a hundred black V-necks.”
My lip upturns. “I’m not the one playing Fashion Barbie.”
Oscar laughs, the noise fading away with a gust of wind. He watches me fold Ripley’s extra stroller, which we’re bringing along. “If you had the opportunity to adopt him, would you?”
The question sucks oxygen from my body.
We hired a private investigator to find Ripley’s birth mom. Still MIA, and on top of that, Scottie is like a malignant tumor and there is too much red tape to surgically remove him right now.
Oscar is right. I want this. But more importantly, I want him. The baby that hates me. The one that wails unless he gets a dumb parrot or wolf scout’s attention.
He’s shit on me. Laughed at me. And finds Maximoff to be the most precious human in the world. It’s perfect.
The entire thing.
And fuck, I really love him.
But he has a parent out there, and if she’s clean and ready to take on the responsibility of raising her son, then the most loving thing Maximoff and I can do is place this little boy with his birth mother.
My ribs tighten.
I’m not saying it won’t hurt.