“No, he checked the box he wanted to check.” Farrow slaps the invite on the counter, then disappears in my bedroom, returning in a second flat with his cellphone. “He rarely ever ditches a colleague’s birthday, funeral, or wedding, and I work with him now—”
“You’re his son,” I retort, anger lancing me. “That should be the hard stop, the don’t pass Go, the take a plane to Capri and see your child get married.”
“I think you’re mixing Monopoly and the Game of Life together.” He scrolls on his phone.
“Same thing.”
He almost smiles. “Not really.” He calls his father and puts it on speaker.
“Farrow?” Dr. Keene answers, his voice warm.
“You’re on speakerphone,” Farrow says. “I’m with Maximoff.”
“Hi, Maximoff. You’ve been well?”
“Yeah.” My voice is stricter than I intend. I’m just pissed right now. More pissed than Farrow ever will be about this.
“I heard about the baby. It’s a really good thing what you two are doing for that child.” Dr. Keene only knows about Ripley because he’s in the circle of trust.
The world is still clueless.
“He’s a good baby,” is all I say, feeling protective. And strangely, I don’t feel like shredding my heart to his father. I’m starting to feel like maybe this is how Farrow felt his whole life.
Farrow jumps in. “We just got your RSVP, and I was wondering why you can’t attend.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He’s quick to answer himself. “I swore I did at Birdsboro Quarry, the last time we were there.”
“You didn’t.” Farrow glares at the phone. “I would’ve remembered. You know I would’ve.”
“I must’ve…I must’ve forgotten, I’m sorry.” Dr. Keene sounds sincere. “I’ll be in San Diego on July 9th. For a medical symposium. I’m leading a few panels. I can’t miss it.”
I see red. And I can’t hold back. “He’s your only son. Christ, you were a single parent and you raised your only son.” I control myself enough to not yell. I don’t want to wake Ripley. “And you’re going to miss his wedding for some medical conference?”
Farrow is staring so deep into me, with admiration and love, that my heart skips a beat.
Dr. Keene clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But Farrow understands. And Rachel will be at the wedding.”
Farrow didn’t even know Rachel, his stepmom, until his senior year of high school.
“Okay,” Farrow says, “thanks for letting me know.”
“I wish I did sooner,” Dr. Keene says softly. “Take care, both of you.” When they hang up, I don’t look away from Farrow.
He seems fine, but I don’t know…
“Do you really understand?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I do.” He leans against the sink. “I’m second to medicine. That’s how it’s always been, Maximoff, and I can’t wish for a different father because that means I care. And I don’t want to care about that fucker. I don’t want to hate him or love him or miss him. I want him to be nothing so when he does shit like this, I feel nothing.” His jaw tics, pain in his face.
I come forward immediately, and our arms wrap around each other. Chest to chest, I hold him tighter while he clutches the back of my head. His pulse hammers hard against me, and our breaths sync in a deep rhythm.
He pulls me even closer, and we stay like this for a while.
Melded together. Breathing.
“I love you,” I tell him. “And my family loves you.”
Farrow leans back slowly, his jaw skimming against my jaw. His eyes are red and welled up. “You have me beat, wolf scout. Because my father won’t ever love you the way that your family loves me.” His voice almost fractures. “Shit.”
“It’s okay.” A knot is in my throat, his hurt knifing my gut. “He would’ve been a major buzz-kill at the wedding anyway.”
Farrow lets out a tight laugh. “I still work with him.”
Fuck.
“I can try to—”
“No.” Farrow shakes his head. “I don’t want to spend energy on him. He’s nothing, Maximoff. You and your family are something.”
I nod. “Alright.”
I’m accepting what Farrow has already accepted. I can’t change Dr. Keene. I can’t make him value his son the way he should.
But I can love Farrow for eternity. Love him with zero hesitation. Love him with no second-thought or condition.
“Shower?” Farrow tips his head.
I nod and kiss him, stealing one, before we pull away.
We check the baby monitor. All good. And then we shed our drawstring pants. Our eyes tracking each other, hungry for carnal flesh, and Farrow begins to smile. “Who’s making the first move?”
“Me.” I step out of the clothing—and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My course of action perishes.
Boom, I forget to jump my fiancé’s bones.
Because my brain is doing a double-take, side-step, and back-flip at the sight of my new tattoo. Black script is inked across my bicep. It still jars me that I have a tattoo.