“Farrow,” Thatcher calls. “Ready to push out?”
Farrow nods and then turns to me. “I’m staying on your right.” He motions to my fucked-up shoulder.
He plans to protect that side more than any other. Keep people from worsening my injury. He’s good at his job. Maybe that’s why the walk back to the car doesn’t feel as daunting anymore. Not with him here.
It’s just normal.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
I rest back on the sofa, feet on the floor, and an icepack melts on my sore shoulder. Pitch-black in my parent’s living room late tonight, the only glow comes from our cellphones and the television (paused on Farrow’s favorite movie).
Farrow sprawls out, his head on my thigh, and I feel his muscles flex, tensing. He rubs his thumb back and forth over a hoop lip piercing, his eyes fixed on a phone screen.
He lets out an aggravated breath. “Whoever the fuck is blowing up the comments under my photos needs to find some shit they like, because it’s definitely not me.”
I tear the phone out of his hand.
“Maximoff.” He doesn’t sit up. Due to the conked-out baby on his chest—one of the few times Ripley has fallen asleep on Farrow.
The image is so priceless that I’ve engrained every last detail for millenniums to come.
Cozy warm in yellow Wolverine PJs, Ripley’s little body rises with each soft breath. And his tiny fingers curl around the collar of Farrow’s black V-neck. He’s content.
Happy. Drooling.
And blissfully unaware of anonymous trolls annoying his dad. Only a handful of things can dig under Farrow’s skin, and I know what scraped his nerves raw tonight.
“Let me block them, man.” I work through blocking about thirty or forty Instagram users who’ve decided to unleash their feelings about Farrow and me on Farrow’s personal social media.
YOU are the problem! Get out of Maximoff’s life RIGHT NOW! We hate you!
MAXIMOFF WOULD NEVER GET A TATTOO! LET ALONE UR HORRIBLE NAME!
U forced him to get a tattoo and branded him u sick piece of shit
I hope u die, ur hurting Maximoff
If you loved him, youd LEAVE HIM. Dont marry Maximoff, you fucking asshole
Blocked.
Blocked.
Blocked.
I hate that they’re attacking Farrow over a tattoo—that I chose, that I wanted, that I fucking love. It knots a pain in my chest.
You’re hurting him.
It’s killing me.
Please stop.
Please.
“I can do an Instagram Live,” I tell Farrow, anything to make him feel better.
His lip almost rises. “There’s no point. You’ve already talked about the tattoo publicly. No matter what I do or you do, these pricks will continue to believe I’m a plague to your world and you deserve another guy or girl.”
“I don’t want anyone else but you, Farrow,” I say strongly.
He soaks in my firm confidence.
I hold his gaze. “If you need me to scream off every mountain peak and yell until my lungs bleed that I love you, that you’re mine, that everyone can shut the fuck up and let us be—I’d do that.” I know he’d do it for me.
His smile flits in and out, too overwhelmed. “Damn.” His eyes redden, and he reaches up, clasping my jaw, and I dip my head down. Our lips crush together, aching and loving.
But too short, too brief.
I pull back, needing to block more users.
Farrow threads his fingers through his bleach-white hair. “I’m trying not to give a shit about them. It’s just grating.” He rolls his eyes at himself.
I think he’s more pissed that he’s letting them affect his mood.
He’s so fucking comfortable being who he is, and so whenever anyone digs at him personally, he cracks a smile and lets it roll off easily. But this is about his intentions towards me, his love for me.
“I knew people would have a reaction to the tattoo,” I tell him, “but I didn’t think it’d be this intense. I think I just forgot how the world perceives me.” I block another user, and Farrow is watching and listening as I say, “I’m forever ten or twelve-years-old in some of their heads. Stuck with whatever opinion I made in an interview or the docuseries at that age, and I’m not allowed to change or decide I want something different. If I do, then I’m no longer me. And now, anytime I act out of that norm, it’s not my fault—it’s yours, because you’ve ruined me.”
That hurt.
Christ, I wish I didn’t say that out loud.
Firmly, with zero doubt, I quickly add, “You didn’t ruin me.”
Farrow begins to smile. “I know, wolf scout.” But his lips descend fast. He’s on edge about something. He even glances away from me.
It strains my muscles. Nervous sweat builds, and my brows cinch. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes return to mine.
And I swear a fucking eon passes before Farrow actually speaks. No lie, I’m sitting here waiting and waiting.
And waiting.
He sweeps my impatient features. “I’m just wondering if you regret the tattoo.”