Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

I take a tight breath and stomp a foot on the deflating mattress, air leaking out. “Yeah, I’m feeling something.”

Farrow looks me up and down. “Want to share?”

“I’m scared,” I say and then frown. “And I just think about my mom and dad. How they must have felt having me. Every year, raising me, if they wondered whether this was it, you know? Is this the day our son gets hooked?” I stand straight, holding his gaze. “The thing about fear is that I want to face it. Head-on. Defeat all those monsters…” I nod several times. “My parents taught me that. And I’m thinking that maybe this is what’s supposed to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Farrow searches my eyes.

“My mom and dad raised me to fight the demons that they weren’t raised to fight. I’m strong because of my parents, and maybe that’s the point. They broke the cycle, and now I’m here to fight for him.”

14

MAXIMOFF HALE

I have two colossal regrets this morning.

1. Waking up before Farrow.

2. Opening our most recent stack of RSVPs.

I pour out a mug of Earl Grey in the kitchen sink, the tea cold and my stomach too cramped to drink the rest.

Maybe the steam from a hot shower will erase my memory. Unlikely. Still, with a baby monitor in one hand and the RSVPs in the other, I head upstairs.

No one is awake at 6 a.m. No one in my immediate family is an early-riser. Except for me. You know that. You’ve seen me go to crack-of-dawn swim meets with the Meadows family.

Being less like a Hale and more like a Meadows—it doesn’t mean I love my sisters and brother and mom and dad any less.

It’s okay if you don’t believe me.

I don’t need to convince you anymore.

Quietly, I slip into my room. Where’s Farrow? My aggravating bodyguard is MIA (and no, we’re not going to mention how he’s also my doctor).

I check the small crib next to the bed. Safe and fast asleep, Ripley hugs the fuzzy pirate parrot, and soft breaths puff between his pink lips. One week into Farrow’s guardianship and all is well so far.

I find myself lingering. Watching the baby sleep for a beat longer than I mean to.

And then I hear the sound of a faucet, my bathroom door cracked open. Too tensely, I saunter inside.

Found him.

“Morning,” I tell Farrow and set the baby monitor on the sink counter.

Farrow pauses midway brushing his teeth, toothbrush still in his mouth. His black drawstring pants ride low on his waist, inked sparrows at his hipbones. And he’s assessing me too damn much. “Something happened?”

I grab my toothbrush. “Why do you say that?”

“Wild guess.” He spits into the sink basin. “You have that ‘I can handle anything’ face.”

“It’s my best looking face, huh?” I use his toothpaste.

His lip quirks while he rinses his mouth. “It’s definitely something.” His smile fades, noticing the stack of ripped-open RSVPs that I placed beside the baby monitor.

I scrub my teeth with the sudsy bristles.

He rubs a towel across his mouth, then reaches for an RSVP.

I intervene. My firm hand on his chest. Toothbrush in my mouth, I tell him, “This could ruin your day—or your life—so if you’d rather wait, you should wait, Farrow.” With everything going on, he might want to pull the later card and raincheck a bucket load of bad news.

He considers this for less than a second. “Just hand me the ones you think will tank my day.”

I bite on my toothbrush and sift through the stack. Picking out a couple, I shove the bad news in his chest.

His brows ratchet up. “Only two?”

“Yeah.” I spit out toothpaste in the sink and rinse my mouth.

He glances at the baby monitor and pries the RSVP out of the torn envelope. Skimming the words. “My stepsister isn’t coming to the wedding.” His eyes lift to mine. “I expected that.”

They haven’t been as amicable ever since Farrow was doxxed and his stepsister’s home address was leaked. She blamed him for her sudden lack of privacy and the media harassment.

I wish I could’ve fixed that for him.

“I just thought maybe she’d come around since you invited her.” I dry my mouth with my bicep. “You know, use her stepbrother’s wedding as an olive branch.”

Farrow smiles at me, the rising smile that says I’m so pure, and I don’t see how. Not until he tells me, “Your faith in humanity is showing.”

I guess I just really want his family to love him. Love that doesn’t hesitate or take a second-thought.

It shouldn’t be that hard.

He unfurls the second RSVP. And his face slowly falls in confusion. “This doesn’t make sense.” He flashes the card with the check-marked box: cannot attend.

No explanation written.

But the name is clear.

Dr. Edward Nathaniel Keene.

Farrow’s father isn’t coming to our wedding.

I want to hug Farrow, but he looks fucking baffled. “You think he checked the wrong box?” I question.