Hurt for me.
This is going to hurt?
Farrow extends his arm around my waist.
I breathe in, prepared for the heavy weight to fall.
“Moffy, she seemed really…upset.” Jane winces. “Before she even tried to open the door. And I don’t know why she’d be searching for my dad instead of my mom—her sister, you know. Has everything been okay here?”
No.
I want to pull at the collar of my crewneck. The shirt feels a thousand sizes too small. Suffocating me. Heat blankets my build in a homemade furnace. But I’m upright and rigid.
Farrow’s arm is the only comforting thing attached to my body right now.
I’ve tried not to keep anything from Jane. I’m not going to start today. So I tell her and Thatcher everything I know—which isn’t much.
“It’s probably just about Luna and the tabloids. I bet my mom wants your dad to help with headlines and lawyers.” Uncle Connor has always been good at handling media fallouts.
Jane hugs me. “We’ll keep an eye out if we see anything else.”
I hug her back, and when we part, Farrow’s hand falls into mine. We go into the kitchen, and he stops me from hiking upstairs like nothing happened.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, his hand encasing my jaw. It calms me. His touch, his eyes, his love. “My parents are strong.” I have total belief in them.
He nods, seeing this. “Whatever happens, I’m here.”
I cup his neck and kiss him.
What I hope: that there isn’t anything else that Jane will see or that we’ll see, that whatever is happening will just blow over. Like yesterday’s news.
10
FARROW KEENE
With the invitations mailed out two weeks ago, we don’t need the chalkboard guest list anymore. But Maximoff erases the names off his black bedroom wall, just to write a new list:
Philosophy quote
Forest (woods)
Hufflepuff
Family birthdays
X-Men
Batman?
Swimming (water)
I’m leaning on his dresser, and my smile is really fucking killing me. Maximoff’s 8 p.m. zigzagging thoughts and ideas are amusing as fuck.
He pauses to evaluate, his gaze flitting to me. I’m guessing he wants my opinion but doesn’t want to award me the satisfaction of asking for it.
Okay.
I sidle next to him. Stuffing my hands in my slacks, I angle my head and whisper close to his ear, “What’s with the question mark after Batman?”
His eyes dance over my cheeks and mouth. He wants me to kiss him.
My lip quirks, not giving in that easily.
Maximoff makes a point of looking at me directly. “You were your high school’s valedictorian, and you don’t even know what a question mark means?”
I let out a short laugh. “Always a precious smartass.” I straighten up; at six-three I’m only an inch taller, a fact I’d normally use to irritate him—but I’m too interested in wherever the hell he’s headed. “I just don’t understand the question mark in this context.”
“I’d rather not murder my dad,” he explains and gestures to the chalk word. “Because if I suddenly have a DC-related tattoo, there’ll be a fucking homicide. Hence, the indecision.”
See, thirty minutes ago Maximoff suddenly went from talking about the TV show The Flash to blow jobs to Plato’s Republic, and somehow we landed on tattoos.
Specifically, he told me, “I’m going to get a tattoo.”
I almost swallowed my gum. I didn’t predict that to ever come out of his mouth. He’s been content with having no ink. No piercings.
Not even out of sibling camaraderie.
Maximoff’s confidence of knowing what he wants and doesn’t want on his body has always been extremely attractive.
After the shock wore off, I spit out my gum, and I asked him what he wanted tattooed. Partly, I wonder if he’s just entertaining the idea.
That’s when he started doing the predictable Wolf Scout thing. And he wrote out this list.
“Okay, so no Batman tattoo.” I look him over, feeling like I’m missing something here. He doesn’t seem that uncertain.
In fact, he was really fucking confident when he said he was getting a tattoo in the first place.
“Have you thought about this before?” I wonder.
He rolls the chalk between his fingers. “Somewhat.”
“Somewhat?” I repeat, not believing him. “You’ve definitely processed this already.”
He doesn’t deny.
My mouth parts. “You know what you want, don’t you?”
Maximoff waits too long before shaking his head with force. Red creeps up his neck, and I laugh. Yeah, this shit has to be good. Or else he wouldn’t be drawing it out.
“You didn’t list your tattoo idea yet, have you?” My face hurts. “What is it?”
He glares at the ceiling like I’m hitting a nerve.
I keep going. “Is it a teabag?” I try not to laugh, just in case it’s actually a teabag.
He grimaces. “I don’t know what I want yet.” He’s not that convincing, but he rotates towards my chest. His tough eyes melt over the inked wings on my neck. “Maybe I need some inspiration, asshole.”
I soak in his strong-willed demeanor. Like no matter what anyone says or does, he’ll never be pushed down. Shit, he’s drop-dead-fucking-beautiful and seriously hot, but it’s just way too fun to tease the fuck out of him.