Headstrong Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  He exhales a tense breath and takes the water in a tight fist.

  “You haven’t wanted to be on top in a while,” I say matter-of-factly. “Where’s the problem?”

  Tears well up, but he fights that emotion. He shakes his head. “What if it’s a year or two years or five or a goddamn century, and I never top again?”

  I skip over the quip I could make and stay serious. “Then you’re more of a strict bottom, and I’ll enjoy fucking you until I die.”

  He breathes like he’s running a backbreaking marathon. “You make it sound so damn simple.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s not to me.” His face contorts, his eyes on mine. “My mom is a sex addict, and I’ll never know if that makes me one. What if the more I give up control, the more I’m actually heading there and spiraling, and I’m too lost to see it?”

  I’m concerned he’ll never let himself relax again if this is his mentality. “Maximoff, it’s a good thing that you feel comfortable enough to let go and partake in healthy shit that makes you feel good. And I’m looking out for you, every fucking day. Every time we’re in bed.”

  He inhales strongly. “I just…I hate that there’s fear in sex. The better it makes me feel while I let go, the more scared I get.” He winces, and it’s like a jackhammer to my ribcage.

  I near him, and his eyes plead, come closer.

  I cup the back of his head. “You don’t have to count.” My voice is a whisper. “You don’t need to obsess over this.”

  A single tear rolls down his cheek. “I’m trying…” He swallows. “I’m trying to believe that.”

  His biggest problem isn’t actually being a sex addict, I’ve been realizing. It’s the fear that one day he could become one. And this didn’t use to be an issue. I remember the day I asked him if he was worried about becoming a sex addict. His answer was a definitive, resolute no.

  Things changed.

  He’s now with me. And he’s become comfortable enough to drop walls and be completely vulnerable, but with that vulnerability lies new fears.

  If I have to spend each night reassuring him, I gladly will. These talks are something I’ve come to expect, and I care too much about Maximoff to let this shit fester.

  “Better?” I ask.

  Kitchen lights suddenly flip on, and we squint in the brightened room.

  “Moffy?”

  Shit.

  I glance backwards at sharp-edged, amber eyes that cut between me and his son. Loren Hale just entered a tense moment that he’s not going to understand.

  Maximoff rubs the tear streak off his face and unscrews his water bottle.

  “Are you alright?” Lo asks him.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” He swigs his water tensely, acting like nothing’s wrong. He’s shut down.

  I grip the edge of the island counter.

  Lo punctures me with a glare. “What happened?”

  What I can’t say: don’t worry, Lo, your son is extremely paranoid of becoming a sex addict like his mom, and he needed reassurance that he’s okay.

  Not only do I not love advertising our sex life to his parents, but his dad knowing just how deeply their addictions affect Maximoff will make him feel like shit.

  “Stress,” I say vaguely.

  Lo eyes his son again. “With the wedding?”

  Maximoff swigs more water. “There’s just a lot going on, Dad.” He recaps the bottle. “We’re handling it.”

  His dad is just wearing sweatpants, tired lines across his forehead.

  I ask, “Did we wake you up?”

  “Lily heard some noise, and I came down to make sure Kinney wasn’t trying to communicate with the dead. She has school tomorrow.” He flashes a tight smile. “Didn’t expect to see my son crying—”

  “Dad—”

  “You can cry, bud.” He tries to soften his tone. “You know that?”

  Maximoff looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. I place a hand on the back of his neck. He practically leans into my palm.

  “I know, Dad,” Maximoff says. “But I promise, I’m fine.”

  Lo hones in on me comforting Maximoff, and he seems to stare faraway, then he nods. “Alright.” He heads towards the fridge, and I can’t mistake the look he slips me.

  It’s a thank you.

  For taking care of his son.

  It only concerns me because he looks like shit. Exhausted, tensed, and I remember the footage in the docuseries where Lo saw our love and felt a lack of responsibility towards his son.

  If Maximoff doesn’t need his dad anymore, then why not go grab a drink?

  “How are you doing, Lo?” I ask.

  He inspects a leftover container of ground beef and cheese. “Better than yesterday. Or so my new therapist tells me.”

  I go cold. “New therapist?”

  Maximoff tries to conceal his dread by blinking. A hell of a lot.

  Lo sniffs the leftover beef. “How old is this?” He throws the container on the counter and hunts for other food. “Yeah, my therapist retired, and he recommended some guy that he helped mentor. Kaden Simmons—I think he’s around your age, Farrow.”

  I comb a hand through my hair. I feel sick.

  Maximoff is now trying to comfort me, his strong hand on my taut shoulder. It took everything in me not to confront that fucker at Hale Co.—I let him drift away.

  For Maximoff, I’m sure this is just mortifying at worst. His old hookup is his dad’s therapist.

  For me, this is a fucking nightmare. Kaden hurt him when he should’ve cared about Maximoff enough to go slow and be safe. It was Maximoff’s first time. And Kaden didn’t give a shit.

  I actually fucking hate him—to the point where I want to get in his face.

  Fuck, if he tries to speak to Maximoff, I might lose it. Easy solution: I tell Lo that Kaden slept with his son. He’d fire him.

  That bastard will never be in our stratosphere.

  But I’m biting my tongue.

  Lo isn’t in a good place, and I care about his health like Maximoff does. Only bad will come from me exploding a bomb at his feet and ripping away a tool he’s using to get better. Maximoff won’t want that either.

  “You like your new therapist then?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  He pops open another leftover container. “So far, so good.”

  11

  FARROW KEENE

  Bursts of light strike my groggy, half-lidded eyes. Wrenching me awake. After the intense sex, emotional conversation, and “Kaden is Lo’s therapist” gut-punch realization, I feel like we just blew up the air mattress and fell asleep.

  But I adjust fast. Used to kicking my ass awake for my job: medicine and security. I turned my phone on silent so the vibration wouldn’t disturb Maximoff, but the screen lights up from texts.

  His cheek rests against the crook of my neck, my arm curled around his shoulders. The air mattress already deflated to where we’re tucked against one another in the sunken middle.

  Carefully, slowly, so I don’t wake him, I reach over to the orange rug, about to shut off my phone.

  But I catch sight of the texts, and it jolts me.

  Fucking hell.

  I bow upright with abrupt force, stirring Maximoff.

  My worry explodes like a fucking barrel of dynamite as I click into the string of messages that have been blasting off for the past ten minutes. All from Donnelly.

  I’m outside your door.

  Please open up

  I can’t knock

  I don’t wanna wake anyone else

  FARROW

  Fuck. Please open up

  This is serious

  Like real fucking serious

  I need you

  Please

  I’m already climbing off the mattress, wobbling a little to gain footing on the floor.

  “Farrow.” Maximoff stands, and I reach the door, hand on the knob, and as soon as I open it, my stomach drops.

  My friend is sitting on the ground in the
hallway, phone hanging limply in his hand. Elbows resting on his bent knees where his jeans are worn and ripped. Donnelly’s eyes are bloodshot, but I can’t discern if he’s been crying or if he’s just angry.

  Right now, faint irritation lies behind glassy blue eyes. “I’ve been texting you,” Donnelly whispers as he stands.

  “I’m here.” I put a hand on his back, pushing him into the room. Gently, I shut the door and twist the lock. Maximoff pulls a T-shirt on over his head. His tough forest-greens dart between us, but he stops on Donnelly.

  “Aren’t you on Xander’s night-duty?” Concern tenses his muscles. “Is he alone?”

  “Nah.” Donnelly runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that. I called Thatch first. He’s in your brother’s room.”

  Maximoff nods, but he’s still prepared for this to swing in a bad direction. And having him present during any shit storm is helpful. As his family would say, he’s Captain America.

  Donnelly spins to me. Eyes still raw. He opens his mouth and shuts it.

  I wonder if he’s thinking what I am.

  He got ahold of Thatcher Moretti long before I answered. Hurt piles up against me, and whatever’s going on, I just need to be here for him.

  I am now.

  Before I can say anything else, Donnelly chokes out, “I’m in deep shit, man.” He puts both of his hands, palms-down, on top of his head. Distress rings in every inch of him. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  I hold out a hand. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Maximoff moving into gear. He zips from his desk to his bed, collecting things and throwing them in a backpack.

  Internally, I’m smiling, my love for Maximoff mounting in a time where I really need to feel that good thing.

  I focus on Donnelly. “Start from the top.”

  He hooks a thumb underneath his rubber band bracelets, nervously fidgeting with them. “I got a call from Philly General.”

  I frown. “Why is the hospital calling you?” My veins ice over.

  “The doctor said there’s a girl, and she’s…uh…she’s sayin’ that I have a kid. And the details are kinda foggy, you know. Because I think I blacked out.”

  My stomach is in literal fucking knots. I can’t move. Could this even be true?

  “When’s the last time you’ve had unprotected sex?” I flinch at my voice. Shit, my tone sounds way less like a friend and more like a doctor.

  He smears a hand down his face. “I…can’t remember. There were some drinks involved the last couple times.”

  “How old is the kid?” Maximoff asks, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The name of the woman?” I wonder.

  “I don’t know.” Tears build in Donnelly’s eyes and his Philly lilt comes out stronger. “I told you, man, I fuckin’ blacked out. I dunno shit. All I know is that there’s a girl in a hospital claiming I have a kid.” He shifts his weight. “Farrow, I can barely take care of myself. I’m not ready to be anyone’s dad.”

  “Good thing, because you’re not anyone’s parent right now,” I say casually. Calmly. He feeds off my energy and takes a breath. “What you are,” I add, “is a guy who got a phone call. That’s it. And you need to relax because you’re forgetting an important part of this.”

  “What?”

  “You have 4.6 million followers on Instagram, Donnelly.” I raise my brows. “There are a lot people who would claim you’re the father just for clout or money.”

  Donnelly snorts at the word money. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Farrow’s right,” Maximoff says. “There’s a good chance this isn’t even legitimate.”

  I grab car keys on the desk. “And there’s only one way to find out.”

  The Emergency Department isn’t too packed tonight, and the doctor who called Donnelly recognizes me from when I worked at Philly General. Plus, he knows my father.

  It’s an easier process than it could’ve been, and only a few minutes pass before we’re ushered into an empty room. When a nurse arrives, she leads Donnelly away for blood work.

  They need to run a paternity test, so it’s just a waiting game now.

  I lounge on the patient bed and flip through a Healthy Living magazine. Maximoff hasn’t taken a seat since we arrived. Arms crossed, back straight, he stands near the wall where the otoscope is hung. I’m going to be really honest here: he’s currently staring at me like I’ve rocketed to Mars alone, without him.

  “Speak your mind, wolf scout.” I lick my finger and turn another page.

  “I know you’re programmed to a Calm-Under-Pressure default setting in every type of Mortal Kombat scenario, but it feels like we’re reaching the final boss. The hardest level. We should be getting more information about the mom and this baby. And we know nothing right now.”

  I glance up from the magazine. “See, there’s this thing called HIPAA. We’re just two random guys, and the hospital staff treats minors like precious gold. You’re not getting any information. Don’t go banging at that cage because it’s going to leave you more frustrated than you are now.”

  Maximoff lets out a giant sigh. “There has to be something we can do.” He hates waiting. It’s like being stuck in an agonizing limbo, unable to solve a crisis. Unable to help.

  “We can’t do anything until the results come back.” I pat the spot beside the bed, enough space for him. “Sit and wait with me.”

  Maximoff stares at the bed with this faraway, glazed look. Absentmindedly, he whispers, “I can’t sit.”

  It’s been a long night. With everything and now this distress call. Maximoff was right when he told his dad that we can handle it.

  We can handle a lot of shit together, for a lot of people, but it’ll always be important to check in with each other. Above all else.

  I slap the magazine closed and sit more upright. “Something else eating at you?”

  He grinds down on his teeth and uncrosses his arms. Then crosses them again. He ends up nodding, but he says, “What are you thinking?”

  He wants me to go first again. Whatever’s on his mind must be hammering at him in a bad way.

  I bend my knee and lean a forearm on it casually. “Nothing serious.”

  “Even better.” Maximoff walks around to the counter. Jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors lining the clean surface. He rests against the cupboard, but somehow, he makes it look like the most rigid stance imaginable. He nods me on to talk.

  “Okay,” I say. “So I’m just sitting here thinking, fuck, I’m glad I’m gay.”

  Maximoff exhales deeper. “Because you’ve never had to worry about accidentally getting a girl pregnant.”

  “Never a worry,” I say into a slow nod and then look him up and down. “You stressed a lot about it.” It’s not a question.

  He’s had to check and ensure girls never stole his used condoms. Consequences of fame.

  “I don’t have to stress about it anymore.” A soft smile pulls at his lips. Another reminder that we’re in this for life together. Happiness flits briefly from his mouth to his eyes before he nods, ready to unleash the imprisoned thought. “I just keep thinking about my dad.”

  “About Kaden?” An acidic taste drips down my mouth.

  “Yeah. That.” He tries to soften his gaze. “You said having Rowin around was a fucking mistake.”

  “It was.” I run my thumb over my lip piercing.

  He outstretches an arm. “Kaden is equivalent to Rowin. He works for my family. He’s slept with one of us, and I’m struggling with the idea of him being around you.”

  I tilt my head back and forth. “That’s funny because I’m struggling with the idea of him being around you.”

  Maximoff lets out a pained laugh. “This is a fucking catch-22.” He braces himself against the counter, reaching back with two hands. Gripping the edge tight. “This is the worst time to pull someone away from my dad who’s actively helping him.”
>
  I’ve never considered putting anyone else above Maximoff. I choose him 100% of the time. But recently I keep finding myself having to place his family before his well-being. First, when med calls take me from his security detail and now this shit with his old hookup.

  I want to choose Maximoff now.

  “Even knowing you’re strong enough,” I tell him, “you shouldn’t have to be around bad memories just because you can weather them.”

  “Maybe.” He cracks a knuckle. “I think we’d both rather ride this out for a while. Just until my dad is on his feet. Then we can tell him there’s a conflict of interest with Kaden. Right now, he can’t lose his therapist. He just can’t.”

  I know.

  But his belief that his parents will pull through in a few weeks (or less) is stronger than mine. Something is going on with them, and I just can’t see this turning around that fast.

  “Okay,” I nod, knowing there’s no perfect solution. I just hope I’m not making the same mistake.

  We don’t have much longer to contemplate this. Donnelly slips into the hospital room. Gauze is taped near the crease of his elbow where they drew blood.

  No one else follows behind him, which just means there’s more waiting.

  “Did they tell you anything?” Maximoff asks.

  “Only that they’re fast-tracking the lab work. Should take around 24-hours. Nurse Jen said we can leave, and they’d call us when they have the results.” He looks to me. “Does that mean somethin’?”

  “Maybe…”

  Usually DNA tests take at least a couple days. It could mean that the mom died, and social services is trying to find a blood relative as fast as possible. But I don’t want to unearth that possibility, and I don’t know much about the system to offer an accurate guess.

  Anyway, we have other issues now. We have to leave and return to the hospital without being spotted by paparazzi. We lost the trail on our way here, so no cameramen currently camp outside Philly General. So maybe we’ll be able to do it again.