Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

He’s a cute tiny thing. Like major levels of cuteness. He has light-brown wispy hair on a mostly baldhead, rosy chubby cheeks against pale skin, and he’s warm in a gray koala-hooded onesie.

Farrow lifts the hood, and the little animal ears stick up.

He unleashes a piercing cry.

I cringe. “Christ, man.” That one blew out an eardrum. He’s not hungry or in need of a diaper change. We’ve already checked every damn thing. He’s just adjusting.

Farrow cups the back of the baby’s head. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers to him.

At first, we thought Farrow’s plethora of tattoos freaked out the kid. But my parents tried to hold him and they were met with the same glass-shattering scream.

“Maybe something in here can help.” I hike over the air mattress and dig through the mountain of boxes and shopping bags: perks of being the heir to Hale Co.—a literal baby product company.

This little guy has been in our lives for less than 48-hours, and my family already went overboard.

I swear my dad gave us every item in stock. And my Aunt Rose brought over the whole new Calloway Couture Babies summer collection.

So currently, this kid has more clothes than me and Farrow combined.

My family is a supportive force. They even helped baby-proof the whole house in record time.

But at first, I honestly didn’t know how my parents would take the news of Farrow being a guardian to a four-month-old. And thus, me helping him care for this baby. This isn’t something I thought I’d ever spring on them.

Especially while we’re living here. But they’ve been understanding about the whole thing.

There was only one small hiccup.

The baby is attached to the Donnelly family. Most are in prison for meth-related crimes. But my dad and uncles are still concerned that the Donnellys might extort or take advantage of Farrow and me.

You should’ve seen my dad call Uncle Connor for an “emergency” meeting with the lawyers. Jesus, he acted like DEFCON 1 passed us by and we were already in apocalyptic territories.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to be prepared for the worst, more than anyone. But I think they’re overreacting like any concerned parent would.

They want to protect us.

The only person who puts me on edge is Sean Donnelly (Paul’s dad). He’s out of prison. What gives me peace of mind: Farrow has been in contact with him over the years, and I trust that if my fiancé knows something, he’ll tell me.

I rummage through a stuffed animal-filled shopping bag. “Here.” I toss Farrow a giraffe, and the baby already swats the toy away.

He screams harder.

Farrow raises his brows at him. “You’re a little hellion, aren’t you?” His mouth curves up, despite the baby nailing our eardrums.

I start to smile again, but my lips downfall. With another shopping bag in hand, I stand up. “Farrow.”

He rotates more to me, concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”

I just say it. “We can’t keep calling him the baby.”

His mom never filled out the name on the birth certificate. She still hasn’t tried to retrieve him, no one can find her, and likely, she left the baby at the hospital on purpose.

The social worker said his name was our choice.

It’s a massive deal.

Naming a kid.

“Yeah, I know.” Farrow stares harder at the little guy against his chest. “If it were up to Maximoff,” he says to the baby, “your name would be Batman. So you should be crying in his arms.”

I’m nearing a smile.

Farrow could take it personally that the baby hasn’t immediately warmed up to him, but instead he sees this as a challenge. Getting the kid to love him.

Apparently, on Farrow’s quest to win him over, he’s throwing me under the bus.

“Joke’s on you,” I tell Farrow. “Batman is a cool name.”

Farrow is grinning at me, a heartbeat away from calling me a dork.

I growl out my irritation. “Fuck off.” I do not care about cursing in front of children. Not when I grew up with an uncle who said fuck every other word.

The baby’s nose starts running. Tears mixed with snot. Farrow picks up a hand-cloth off the nightstand and wipes his face. “I do have an idea of what we could call him.” He smiles. “It’s not Batman or Robin or any of your DC crushes, so don’t get too excited.”

“I’m devastated,” I say, sarcasm thick. I extract more stuffed animals from the bag. “But truth, it’s probably a good thing we don’t name him after Batman. My dad would do the whole ‘I refuse to call your son Batman’ thing and just refer to him as Bat….or Man. Jesus.” I cringe and throw the empty bag on my twin bed.

“Yeah, we’re not doing that.” Farrow eyes my handful of stuffed animals. “Try the bear.”

I come over and hoist the furry brown bear. The baby reaches for the toy. Success.