Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

My breath snags, caught on the words: Consent to Adopt. “I don’t understand.” I flip another page.

Maximoff’s jaw falls slowly. “Is that Scottie’s signature?”

I see the scribbled penmanship over the dotted line.

“Yeah,” Donnelly nods. “The way the lawyers put it, he voluntarily terminated his parental rights over to the adults intending to adopt…which is you two.”

It slams into me. An overpowering feeling surges and I can’t speak for a second. Maximoff shakes his head stiffly in disbelief.

“How?” I choke out to Donnelly.

“I visited Scottie a lot in prison since the guardianship.” He shrugs. “You know he never let you see him ‘cause my dad always talked you up and made you seem too smart. He wasn’t scared of me like that. After a while, he agreed to let you two adopt Ripley.”

My eyes are on fire. I so fucking badly want to ask, what the fuck did you do to make this happen? And I know he’ll remind me that he’s alright.

So I nod, gratitude pouring out of my eyes.

He nods back, a smile rising, and we hug each other and hold on for a beat. A tear rolls down my jaw, and I whisper, “Whatever you did…you know I’m here.”

“I’ll be alright.” Donnelly sniffs as we part, and he rubs the corners of his eyes. He’s grinning though.

“Thank you,” Maximoff says so deeply that his sincerity actually causes Donnelly to take a staggered breath.

“Glad I could do something,” Donnelly says into another grin and watches Ripley babble to himself. “He’s gonna have the best life with you two.”

Maximoff says the unbelievable words, “We’re adopting Ripley.”

I almost laugh into a fucking smile and then into tears. Looking at Maximoff, he smiles into that same shortened breath. What the hell, I’ve rarely felt this rushing elation, relief, and pure happiness all at once, and to share the same intense emotion with my husband is euphoric and flying me to the bright blue mountain sky.

Maximoff curves his strong arm around my shoulders, and I cup the back of his head. And we look to Ripley and his baby-toothed smile.

“He’s our son,” Maximoff says aloud.

“And that’s never changing,” I tell him.

Our eyes crash together, feeling the permanence. What we’ve hoped and desired and would’ve fought years for.

It’s met us suddenly, quietly, and powerfully.

We’re smiling and breathing. Existing together in this enormous world, and everything stills in a moment, in a second, at complete balance and harmony with him and me and our beautiful son.

And this is it. This is our life. Absent of nothing and full of love, of that great, overwhelming something.

49

MAXIMOFF HALE

I hike one of my favorite mountain trails with Farrow. Still on our honeymoon week. Summer wind breezes through the fir and maple trees, sunlight beating on the grassy slope, and I’ve done this hike near the lake house a gazillion times. More, even. And every damn time Farrow joins me, I’m highly distracted.

Only today is different.

Pieces of his jet-black hair caress his lashes, before he pushes the strands back—but it’s not just the hair. Or how he keeps my lengthy stride.

Step for step up the incline.

Straps are buckled across his chest, across mine too. But my backpack is just a normal backpack. A baby is seated in Farrow’s backpack-carrier contraption, and Ripley loves every second. He laughs as he bounces with the movement as we hike.

I have trouble tearing my gaze away from Farrow and our son and the puppy that suddenly hops further ahead and out of sight.

Farrow whistles and our dog runs back to us.

I think a lot.

I think about how today is my twenty-fourth birthday.

I think about how I fear a life where I don’t grow old, more than I fear getting older. And more than anything, I want to grow old with him.

With my husband.

And our son.

I think about them.

I have a family. I have a family when I didn’t even think I’d fall in love. And we’re all together on a simple, beautiful day.

My pulse is on an exultant ascent, bliss pouring through my veins as we reach the clearing on the ridge. We meet expansive views of the mountain range and bright blue July sky.

A hawk slices through the air. “You see that bird, Rip?” I point.

He gapes up at the world.

You know Ripley Keene Hale as the seven-month-old baby to me and Farrow, my bodyguard-turned-husband. You’ve seen Ripley become attached to a yellow pirate parrot and be a little trooper in front of the media, and you love when all three of us are together. You’ve created Tumblr pages and fan accounts dedicated to our family.

I know him as my son. He cries when both of his dads leave the room. He hates vegetables but loves most fruit, especially applesauce. When he’s sad, he likes when I rock him to sleep in my arms, and he acts like Farrow isn’t his favorite—but I know he loves him, like epic kind of love.