Alphas Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  Farrow watches.

  “It was just a little kid’s fear,” I tell him, “but I still remember going to restaurants where my aunts and uncles would have alcohol. There’d be a beer beside my dad’s water, and I’d worry all night that he’d accidentally drink out of the wrong glass.”

  “How’d you get over it?” Farrow asks, and he lets me slip his silver rings off his fingers and collect them in my callused palm.

  “My mom,” I tell him. “I told her why I was scared, and she said that my dad’s liver was made of vibranium.” Off his confusion, I add, “The same indestructible steel that Captain America’s shield is made of. She said that it’d take more than a single drink to destroy him.”

  He breaks into a smile, lightness in his eyes. “That sounds like your mom.”

  I nod, and I recognize that I just veered off the study track again. But while the wheels are off, I think about the hospital. His residency. One more time.

  One last time.

  I need to say this so I can just leave it alone. “I get that you can’t tell me anything about your patients,” I say to him. “HIPPA and all of that, but I’m still here if there’s anything you want to share. Stuff about your coworkers or what fucking cafeteria food you had for lunch. But if you want me to drop it, I’ll drop it.”

  “Drop it,” he says, too quickly. Really goddamn quickly. And he’s serious. He’s not joking or fucking with me.

  It hurts. God, I wish it wouldn’t. “Alright,” I nod, more tense, and I try to unthaw my frozen body and examine another flashcard. I close my hand around the rings I slipped off his fingers.

  Farrow rubs his eyes, and then he swings his legs off my lap. Standing up, he takes his half-bitten apple and nears the mini-fridge underneath a Thor: God of Thunder poster.

  This was the inverse of what I wanted to happen. Taking a breath, I focus on the flashcard. “What do you give a kid with chronic daily headaches?” I ask.

  He squats to the mini-fridge. “A tuna sandwich.”

  “What?” My brows furrow.

  He glances back at me. “You asked what cafeteria food I had for lunch.” Our eyes dive to the bottoms of each other’s gaze. “A tuna sandwich. The day before that was chicken salad, and both were extremely fucking mediocre. The food is nothing special.” He takes a beat. “I’m sorry that I’ve been distant about work—I know that I am. Fuck, I hate that I am, but I just can’t talk about it yet.”

  Yet.

  So that wasn’t all of it. I nod a few times.

  His chest rises in a tight inhale. “I’m trying to protect you, wolf scout. Trust me.”

  I stop myself from asking, from what?

  Because I remember that I’ve protected him from remorse, guilt, regret every time I withhold what he’s missed. I don’t rehash all the bullshit each heckler yells at the townhouse. Or how security has had trouble securing my bedroom window, even after the drone. I won’t tell him how the other day I asked Bruno, my new bodyguard, “Is something wrong?” and he stayed quiet.

  With Declan, my bodyguard before Farrow, I was used to that silent treatment and lack of info. With Farrow, he gave me everything.

  Everything.

  He showed me what better looked and felt like, and now there’s this strange emptiness that Farrow once filled.

  I don’t tell him any of that.

  Because I’m not going to hurt him, and I realize now that there must be something similar happening on his end.

  He’s protecting me.

  I nod, more assured. “I get it.”

  Farrow skims my features, easing more, and he reaches into the fridge and grabs a Fizz Life.

  With his silver rings still in my palm, I absentmindedly slip a few onto my fingers.

  “Tricyclics,” Farrow says, sitting right up against my side, on my orange beanbag. Shoulder to shoulder. He hands me the soda, and he bites into his apple. His movements distract my brain, and I shake my head. Fuck.

  “What?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Tricyclics, wolf scout.”

  I must look massively confused. Because I am.

  “The quiz question.” Farrow flicks my notecard.

  Right. I glance at the answer. “Good guess,” I say dryly, the air lightening. We both breathe easier, and I’m happy about that.

  “Not a guess.” He chews his apple, and I hone in on his upturning lips. He notices and asks, “Sure you don’t want me to fuck you all night?”

  Very unsure. “Positive, and you should tease the wall, the carpet, that lampshade over there.” I point to the lamp across the loft. “Because it’d be more likely to give into you.”

  Farrow lets out a long whistle. “He wants me to flirt with inanimate objects.”

  I try really hard not to laugh. Christ, focus. I shuffle through a few more cards, and I notice the silver rings on my fingers. His rings.

  I’ve worn them before today. Just like this, but it dawns on me in this second that his rings fit my fingers perfectly. We’re pretty much the same size. And I’ve never noticed that before.

  I wouldn’t need to steal a ring in order to match his size. I can just buy one that fits me—and I can’t believe I’m thinking about this. But it’s never meant something to me the way it does right now.

  This powerful moment surges through my core. Because I feel ready to do more than just dream or think about forever with him. I’m going to make it happen.

  26

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  “Take some breaths. We’re going to figure this out,” my mom tells me.

  I’m breathing, but I’m too aware and laser-focused on the difficulty level of what I’m about to do. And what I’m about to do is normal.

  So normal. It shouldn’t be this epically complicated.

  Janie offers a cup of hot tea to me as a calm down tactic. I shake my head stiffly, and she places the cup back on the oak desk.

  The three of us are huddled in my parent’s home office, facing a humongous desktop computer. My gangly mom sits close to the screen, the large leather chair making her appear even smaller. Jane and I pushed up two velvet, lilac armchairs to the desk.

  I control the computer’s mouse. Clicking through websites and scrolling along pages of wedding bands. Nothing jumps out at me. I thought it’d be obvious when I started looking, but…nothing.

  “Let’s start with engraving,” my mom suggests. “Yes or no?”

  My pulse speeds, and I narrow my gaze at the screen. Engraving? I think he’d like that, but it’d depend on what words are engraved. “I don’t know…I don’t fucking know.”

  My mom squeezes me in a side-hug. “You don’t need to worry. Farrow will love whatever you pick out because you picked it. I know he will.”

  It’s a calming thought, mostly because it’s coming from my mom. I look over at her. She’s still beaming. Glowing. Her cheeks are red she’s been smiling and tearing up so damn much.

  Like right now, she wipes the corners of her eyes.

  Jane sniffs, misty-eyed too, her retro sunglasses blocking her tears, and my heart feels fucking swollen it’s so full. Thirty minutes ago, I told them both that I planned to ask Farrow to marry me.

  Neither one of them thought I’d ever get married. Before I started a relationship with Farrow, I said I wouldn’t even date someone. I’ve let myself be happy. Really happy, and their happiness for me just overwhelms me tenfold.

  My mom asked why I didn’t wait to tell her and my dad together. He wasn’t in the room. It’s pretty simple. My dad will spill the news to Uncle Connor and Uncle Ryke in a heartbeat, and at that point, it’ll start reaching my cousins, siblings and then security, Farrow’s friends.

  My mom is a certified secret-keeper. One of the damn best, and I trust her and Janie not to tell a soul. Because if I want this proposal to go as planned, Farrow can’t know.

  The media can’t know.

  You can’t know.

  So the only people allowed in on this right now are my mom and Janie.
Done and done. I’ll let my dad, siblings, and the rest of my family in on it the day of the proposal. It’s a well thought-out plan, but I’m not going to lie, there are a few holes.

  Like this fucking ring.

  “Oooh this one is nice.” My mom points at the screen. It’s silver.

  “No silver,” I declare. “He has a million silver rings. It won’t be special enough.”

  “It’ll be special because it’s from you,” Jane reminds me with a sappy smile.

  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.

  He walks casually back to our booth like he didn’t just become a human bowling ball. “Don’t do that again,” I tell him, being a hardass. And then I add, “Bowling alley rules.”