I think it’s more complicated than that. “Janie.”
“Moffy,” she replies. “I’m with Aunt Lily here, take a deep breath.”
My mom nods vigorously. “Oxygen is good for you.”
I groan and click into a new website. “Alright, say I do find the perfect ring…” I glance at my mom while she cups a Wolverine mug and takes small sips of coffee. “How am I going to actually get it?”
This is the part that’s been stumping me.
“I don’t want to order it online,” I tell them. “And there’s no possibility of me entering a jewelry store without the press or security finding out.”
Jane perks up. “We could ask a jeweler to come to the house and bring a wide selection.”
“What if the jeweler says something to the media?” I ask. “What if he breaks his NDA or what if paparazzi catch him coming into the neighborhood and they start speculating?”
Normally I wouldn’t care about any of this. Normally I’d move forward without pause and be like, this is my life. But I want this to be secret.
Jane puts her chin to her knuckles. “Hmm.”
My mom turns to me. “Would you be upset if someone else went for you?” she asks. I see tenderness and sympathy behind her green eyes. Because she knows in order to keep this a secret, I need to jump through extra hoops.
Jane chimes in, “And that person can pick out extra rings, so you’ll be able choose which you like best.”
That’s starting to make the most sense. But I just don’t know who I could send. “Janie,” I start.
She shakes her head. “I’d be just as easily spotted as you. Our family is out, and sending a bodyguard is out.” Anyone in security might tell Farrow. I’m not taking that risk.
“I don’t trust your assistant,” I tell my mom before she offers.
“That’s fine,” she replies, drumming her mug in thought. “Um…let me think. You scroll.” She waves me back to the computer.
Jane asks about gemstones, but I don’t see Farrow preferring a diamond or black sapphire. I think he’d want simple and sleek.
“I’ve got it.” My mom whips to me. “Your Uncle Garrison. He’ll easily be able to go to a jeweler’s without media attention. I’ll make him swear not to tell a soul. He won’t. He loves you too much.”
Yeah.
Yeah. That could work. You know very little about Garrison Abbey and his wife Willow Hale. They’ve managed to dodge the media here and there for the last two decades. No one stands outside their Philly loft unless paparazzi catch a more famous family member entering the building.
They don’t have bodyguards or daily magazine spreads about them. A few times a year, they pop up in an article. Sometimes more if they’re hanging with us, but no one will follow him. No one will care that he’s at a jewelry store.
This could work. I’m hanging onto that hope.
27
MAXIMOFF HALE
“He’s late. Membership revoked,” Kinney declares. She ties her bowling shoes at our circular booth, dyed black hair cascading over her bony shoulders.
Both Oscar and Farrow asked me why Kinney is so intensely fixated on the Rainbow Brigade club. They’re all used to Blasé Kinney. Not Drill Sergeant Kinney who’d put a wooden stake through your heart if you fucked with her plans.
I think my sister wants to feel more included with the older crew. Especially those of us who can go to gay bars and events. She’s been left out a lot. During a Pride Festival, I went to an 18+ club and she was kind of bummed.
As her older brother, I want this first-ever Rainbow Brigade meet-up to go smoothly. That meant renting out the entire venue for the night.
The upscale boutique bowling alley has ten lanes, gourmet snacks that can be ordered at the bar, and burgundy leather booths that are more hipster than family-style. Rainbow streamers cascade from the ceiling for Pride Month, and love is love coasters sit underneath our drinks.
I knew Kinney would be less-than-thrilled that Farrow got held up at work. But he’s only fifteen minutes late—and she’s already going for the jugular.
“You can’t kick him out for being late,” I say seriously. “He’s at the hospital.” It’s not like Farrow is intentionally skipping this. He wishes he could be here right now, and if she wants to give someone a hard time, I’d much rather she take out her frustration on me than him.
“Fine. Probation period,” Kinney says, yanking at her shoelace with extra force.
Oscar Oliveira stacks artisanal cheese on a cracker and eats it in one bite. He licks honey off his thumb and says, “Redford will love that.”
I notice the popped buttons on Oscar’s navy button-down reveal a script tattoo along his collarbone. Inked on his golden-brown skin are two Latin phrases: astra inclinant, sed non obligant and non ducor, duco.
I can admit that I’m not well-versed in Latin without reference help. Like the internet. I just won’t admit that to Farrow.
“Did Donnelly ink those?” I ask Oscar and motion to his collar.
“No no no,” Oscar shakes his head. “Guy has talent, but he’s not putting a needle to my flesh.” Before I ask what the tattoos mean, he motions to the top line. “The stars incline us, they do not bind us.” Bottom line, he tells me, “The motto of São Paulo: I am not led, I lead.” He picks up his buzzing phone, frowns at a message and flashes me the screen.
Ask Maximoff for updates. I’m texting him. I don’t have time to text both of you. – Farrow
My boyfriend has been allergic to group chats. Pretty much ever since he’s seen how many incessantly ping my phone. But that text makes me think about Farrow and his relationship with Oscar and even Donnelly. Those two guys knew Farrow when he was with some of his exes.
Like Rowin.
I’m not about to torture myself and fish for giant details about his past relationships. But I am curious about some things only Oscar can share. “Is Farrow always like that with boyfriends?”
Oscar leans back against the leather booth. Grinning and also crossing his arms, curly pieces of his brown hair sweep his forehead. “You mean does Redford always choose the boyfriend over the friend?”
I nod, confident in this question. “Yeah.”
“Depends on the boyfriend,” he says, “but Hale, you’ve been chosen first 100% of the time, which is record-breaking.”
I should be happy about that, but a nagging thought pricks me. “I’ve put some family before him at times.”
Oscar angles forward and grabs a peppercorn cracker from a tray. “And he has to love that about you, or else he would’ve only chosen you 45% of the time.”
I nod to him before I bend down and tie my bowling shoe. “You like him better single? Then he’d pick his friends 100% of the time.”
“No, that’s not how he operates when he’s single. He’ll go all lone wolf on us, and sometimes, he’ll be harder to get ahold of. Personally, I like him in a relationship—just not with that poor bastard.”
I finish knotting my shoe and look up. “Rowin?” I ask.
Oscar pours beer from a pitcher and nods. “They fought all the time. Personality clash.” He wipes a trickle of beer off the pint glass. “I saw the red flags from the start. Redford, however, is a stubborn ass. But we love him.”
I start to smile. Yeah, we do, but my lips fall again. Realizing he hasn’t messaged in a while. Even though he told Oscar he’d text me. “I don’t have any updates for you, man,” I tell him.
Oscar looks just as concerned as me, t
aking a swig of foamy beer before he says, “He might be on his bike.”
I check the weather reports. Just to ensure it’s not raining.
Partly cloudy…
“Excuse me.” One of the bowling alley managers suddenly approaches. Eyes on me. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she seems nervous. Her gaze pings to the camera that Jack Highland holds near our lane. In order to work today, Cassie had to sign a waiver to be filmed. So she knows potentially everything she says could be on We Are Calloway.
She takes a tighter breath, focus returning to me. “Could you tell the member of your party that we don’t allow walking on the lanes?”
Fuck.
I haven’t been paying attention to Tom.
Quickly, I swing my head towards the ten empty bowling lanes. Sure enough, at Lane 1, the furthest from us, my cousin wears a pair of skull and crossbones socks (no shoes) and takes a running start before sliding down it. He skids to his knees and slams into the bowling pins. A few knock over and clatter.
Jack films it.
“Tom!” I yell. “Get over here!”
He lifts his head, longer pieces of his ash-brown hair falling into his eyes.
You know Tom Carraway Cobalt as the eighteen-year-old lead singer of The Carraways. Tom’s band only just moved practices from the basement to concert venues, but they sell out every time. You’ve fallen in love with his irreverent charm, mischievousness, and the fact that he’s a daredevil on and off stage.
I know him as my little cousin who will be the first to fall into chaos. Who chooses to run towards danger instead of away, and who calls me up every Saturday to talk about that guy in the back of the class he has a crush on. He means more to me than any words can describe.
Fair Warning: if you fuck with him, we will both fuck with you.