I swear my dad gave us every item in stock. And my Aunt Rose brought over the whole new Calloway Couture Babies summer collection.
So currently, this kid has more clothes than me and Farrow combined.
My family is a supportive force. They even helped baby-proof the whole house in record time.
But at first, I honestly didn’t know how my parents would take the news of Farrow being a guardian to a four-month-old. And thus, me helping him care for this baby. This isn’t something I thought I’d ever spring on them.
Especially while we’re living here. But they’ve been understanding about the whole thing.
There was only one small hiccup.
The baby is attached to the Donnelly family. Most are in prison for meth-related crimes. But my dad and uncles are still concerned that the Donnellys might extort or take advantage of Farrow and me.
You should’ve seen my dad call Uncle Connor for an “emergency” meeting with the lawyers. Jesus, he acted like DEFCON 1 passed us by and we were already in apocalyptic territories.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to be prepared for the worst, more than anyone. But I think they’re overreacting like any concerned parent would.
They want to protect us.
The only person who puts me on edge is Sean Donnelly (Paul’s dad). He’s out of prison. What gives me peace of mind: Farrow has been in contact with him over the years, and I trust that if my fiancé knows something, he’ll tell me.
I rummage through a stuffed animal-filled shopping bag. “Here.” I toss Farrow a giraffe, and the baby already swats the toy away.
He screams harder.
Farrow raises his brows at him. “You’re a little hellion, aren’t you?” His mouth curves up, despite the baby nailing our eardrums.
I start to smile again, but my lips downfall. With another shopping bag in hand, I stand up. “Farrow.”
He rotates more to me, concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”
I just say it. “We can’t keep calling him the baby.”
His mom never filled out the name on the birth certificate. She still hasn’t tried to retrieve him, no one can find her, and likely, she left the baby at the hospital on purpose.
The social worker said his name was our choice.
It’s a massive deal.
Naming a kid.
“Yeah, I know.” Farrow stares harder at the little guy against his chest. “If it were up to Maximoff,” he says to the baby, “your name would be Batman. So you should be crying in his arms.”
I’m nearing a smile.
Farrow could take it personally that the baby hasn’t immediately warmed up to him, but instead he sees this as a challenge. Getting the kid to love him.
Apparently, on Farrow’s quest to win him over, he’s throwing me under the bus.
“Joke’s on you,” I tell Farrow. “Batman is a cool name.”
Farrow is grinning at me, a heartbeat away from calling me a dork.
I growl out my irritation. “Fuck off.” I do not care about cursing in front of children. Not when I grew up with an uncle who said fuck every other word.
The baby’s nose starts running. Tears mixed with snot. Farrow picks up a hand-cloth off the nightstand and wipes his face. “I do have an idea of what we could call him.” He smiles. “It’s not Batman or Robin or any of your DC crushes, so don’t get too excited.”
“I’m devastated,” I say, sarcasm thick. I extract more stuffed animals from the bag. “But truth, it’s probably a good thing we don’t name him after Batman. My dad would do the whole ‘I refuse to call your son Batman’ thing and just refer to him as Bat….or Man. Jesus.” I cringe and throw the empty bag on my twin bed.
“Yeah, we’re not doing that.” Farrow eyes my handful of stuffed animals. “Try the bear.”
I come over and hoist the furry brown bear. The baby reaches for the toy. Success.
He smacks the thing right out of my hand.
Never mind.
Now that I’m closer, he outstretches his tiny fingers towards me. Pleading to be in my clutch. His sparkling crystal-blue eyes are oceanic pools that call out and summon me.
I try to resist. “You’re okay,” I tell him. “Farrow has you.”
He’s bawling.
Farrow narrows his eyes on him. “Just you wait, little man. I’m going to make you love me.”
It’s weird hearing those words out loud.
For one, everyone is drawn to Farrow. He’s the kind of guy who’s so effortlessly cool that people either want to be his best friend or they’re jealous of his mere existence. He might be selective about friendships and put people at arm’s length, but that just adds to his allure.
For another, I’ve never seen Farrow actively work that hard for someone’s affections other than my own, and he’d tell you he didn’t have to do much.
Even though he’s without a doubt more obsessed with me.
Farrow sways and whispers in the baby’s ear. Tears slowing to a trickle. “About his name.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I have a suggestion.”
“You do?”
He drops his voice to a hushed octave for the baby’s sake. “I don’t have many memories of my mom. He might not either.”
I nod, stepping closer while Farrow is quiet.
“I figure there’s a way we can honor her.” He tilts his head. “Ripley?”
Ripley.
His mom’s surname.
That’s not what barrels through me. Farrow is deadly aware that we have this kid because Tina Ripley bailed on him. She was in the hospital after a meth overdose. Most people would be furious at her. Villainize her.
Farrow Keene wants to honor her.
And yeah, that squeezes the organ behind my ribcage. It sears my eyes with a kind of love that keeps pummeling me.
Because my parents are addicts, and I understand, well and good, that addiction is a disease. It’s not a fucking choice—and this baby’s mom isn’t a villain for what she did. She just wasn’t ready to be a mom, and she wasn’t as lucky as my parents, who had money and resources and a support system in place.
“I love it.” My words come out in a choke. “Sorry.” I shake my head and swerve away from him. Quickly, Farrow seizes my wrist to stop me, cradling the baby to his body with one hand.
“You don’t need to be sorry, wolf scout.” He reaches up and wipes at the corner of my wet eye. “I love it, too.”
I swallow hard and look at the baby. He scrunches his nose and face and coos at me. “Ripley,” I say into a smile. “It fits him.”
He calms down, but not even a minute later, he’s blubbering all over again.
Farrow nods to my hand. “The panda.”
I raise the stuffed panda, and Ripley lets out a terrified screech. “Alright, alright.” I throw it across the room. “It’s gone.”
Ripley quiets for point-two seconds.
Farrow searches my face. “We haven’t talked about Ripley’s family history.”
My grip tightens on the last stuffed animal in my hand. “There’s not much to talk about. The doctors said he’s a healthy baby.”
Still, we have no idea how many drugs he was exposed to as an infant. Or even if his mom did meth while she was pregnant.
Farrow pats the baby’s back. “There’s actually a lot to talk about—what the fuck is that?” He cuts himself off, distracted by the last animal in my fist.
I wave the parrot with an eye-patch. “I think Oscar bought it for him.” I heard through the family group chat grapevine that bodyguards were adding gifts to the baby supply haul.
Farrow rolls his eyes. “Oliveira.”
I near the baby again. “What about this?” I display the parrot to Ripley. His little fingers latch onto the yellow fur, and he snuggles the animal to his chest. He sniffles, and his tears just…stop.
Farrow goes still.
I do too.
And then Ripley’s bottom lip starts quivering.
“No, no,” I say strongl
y. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
He sobs softly, but it’s not a full-blown wail anymore.
“I’m going to take this win,” Farrow says and places the baby down in the crib. Turning back to me, he brushes a hand through his bleach-white hair. “You never made a choice about whether you’d want to use your sperm, if we had kids in the future. Because of your family history.”
He’s going right there, isn’t he?
His eyes exhume me and my eyes unearth him—and if he were anyone else, I’d shut down. I might be rigid in this moment, but I want to be vulnerable with him as much as possible, as often as possible.
Even when it’s hard.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I’m starting to feel clarity on the situation. Having Ripley here is putting things into perspective.
His brows pinch, trying to get a good read on me. “You have to be feeling something about this situation. Because Ripley’s family is just as riddled with addicts as yours. Probably worse.”
I take a tight breath and stomp a foot on the deflating mattress, air leaking out. “Yeah, I’m feeling something.”
Farrow looks me up and down. “Want to share?”
“I’m scared,” I say and then frown. “And I just think about my mom and dad. How they must have felt having me. Every year, raising me, if they wondered whether this was it, you know? Is this the day our son gets hooked?” I stand straight, holding his gaze. “The thing about fear is that I want to face it. Head-on. Defeat all those monsters…” I nod several times. “My parents taught me that. And I’m thinking that maybe this is what’s supposed to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Farrow searches my eyes.
“My mom and dad raised me to fight the demons that they weren’t raised to fight. I’m strong because of my parents, and maybe that’s the point. They broke the cycle, and now I’m here to fight for him.”
14
MAXIMOFF HALE
I have two colossal regrets this morning.
1. Waking up before Farrow.
2. Opening our most recent stack of RSVPs.
I pour out a mug of Earl Grey in the kitchen sink, the tea cold and my stomach too cramped to drink the rest.
Maybe the steam from a hot shower will erase my memory. Unlikely. Still, with a baby monitor in one hand and the RSVPs in the other, I head upstairs.
No one is awake at 6 a.m. No one in my immediate family is an early-riser. Except for me. You know that. You’ve seen me go to crack-of-dawn swim meets with the Meadows family.
Being less like a Hale and more like a Meadows—it doesn’t mean I love my sisters and brother and mom and dad any less.
It’s okay if you don’t believe me.
I don’t need to convince you anymore.
Quietly, I slip into my room. Where’s Farrow? My aggravating bodyguard is MIA (and no, we’re not going to mention how he’s also my doctor).
I check the small crib next to the bed. Safe and fast asleep, Ripley hugs the fuzzy pirate parrot, and soft breaths puff between his pink lips. One week into Farrow’s guardianship and all is well so far.
I find myself lingering. Watching the baby sleep for a beat longer than I mean to.
And then I hear the sound of a faucet, my bathroom door cracked open. Too tensely, I saunter inside.
Found him.
“Morning,” I tell Farrow and set the baby monitor on the sink counter.
Farrow pauses midway brushing his teeth, toothbrush still in his mouth. His black drawstring pants ride low on his waist, inked sparrows at his hipbones. And he’s assessing me too damn much. “Something happened?”
I grab my toothbrush. “Why do you say that?”
“Wild guess.” He spits into the sink basin. “You have that ‘I can handle anything’ face.”
“It’s my best looking face, huh?” I use his toothpaste.
His lip quirks while he rinses his mouth. “It’s definitely something.” His smile fades, noticing the stack of ripped-open RSVPs that I placed beside the baby monitor.
I scrub my teeth with the sudsy bristles.
He rubs a towel across his mouth, then reaches for an RSVP.
I intervene. My firm hand on his chest. Toothbrush in my mouth, I tell him, “This could ruin your day—or your life—so if you’d rather wait, you should wait, Farrow.” With everything going on, he might want to pull the later card and raincheck a bucket load of bad news.
He considers this for less than a second. “Just hand me the ones you think will tank my day.”
I bite on my toothbrush and sift through the stack. Picking out a couple, I shove the bad news in his chest.
His brows ratchet up. “Only two?”
“Yeah.” I spit out toothpaste in the sink and rinse my mouth.
He glances at the baby monitor and pries the RSVP out of the torn envelope. Skimming the words. “My stepsister isn’t coming to the wedding.” His eyes lift to mine. “I expected that.”
They haven’t been as amicable ever since Farrow was doxxed and his stepsister’s home address was leaked. She blamed him for her sudden lack of privacy and the media harassment.
I wish I could’ve fixed that for him.
“I just thought maybe she’d come around since you invited her.” I dry my mouth with my bicep. “You know, use her stepbrother’s wedding as an olive branch.”
Farrow smiles at me, the rising smile that says I’m so pure, and I don’t see how. Not until he tells me, “Your faith in humanity is showing.”
I guess I just really want his family to love him. Love that doesn’t hesitate or take a second-thought.
It shouldn’t be that hard.
He unfurls the second RSVP. And his face slowly falls in confusion. “This doesn’t make sense.” He flashes the card with the check-marked box: cannot attend.
No explanation written.
But the name is clear.
Dr. Edward Nathaniel Keene.
Farrow’s father isn’t coming to our wedding.
I want to hug Farrow, but he looks fucking baffled. “You think he checked the wrong box?” I question.
“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.”
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