Page 100 of Alphas Like Us
I pop another bubble. “That’s it. I’ll stay in touch for work.” I lower my boot off thebarstool.
“Good. I’ll be available.” He pours a glass of water for himself, and he feels the need to tell Maximoff, “First-year doctors are filled with fear and doubt, and rarely do med interns run towards codes. But my son alwaysdid.”
I didn’t run towards codes thinking I’d bolster the family name. I ran towards them because I was confident I could handle the pressure. And I wanted to help. That’sit.
Maximoff curves his left arm around my shoulder. “You should be proud of your son,” he says so entirely that I can feelhispride for me. For so much more than just thischoice.
My eyes are only onhim.
“I am proud now,” my father tells Maximoff. “But not these pastyears—”
“Of course not,” Isay.
He sighs. “Farrow, you don’t understand.Youare gifted. More than me, more than your grandfather. You can’t waste talent likethat—”
“Why don’t you tell Maximoff the story about how I came out to you?” I ask to make a point that I’ve never madebefore.
My father chooses this moment to take a sip of water. He clears his throat and glances at Maximoff with the shake of his head. “There’s not a lot tosay.”
“Because you don’t remember.” I stand more upright. “It’s okay.” I hold out a genial hand. “It’s not a bad story. Shit, I actually like it.” I touch my chest. “You asked me about my crush. We talked for a few minutes, and things were easy. They always were, but eventually you’d forget about that boy. You’d forget we evenspoke.”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “That was yearsago.”
“Name one memory that doesn’t involvemedicine.”
He lets out a deeper sigh. “Farrow…” He’s thinking. My life is entangled with medicine, but there are plenty of memories he couldchoose.
My first high school dance—he let me take his Bentley to pick up mydate.
My mall excursion at twelve-years-old where I got my nose pierced—he signed the parental consentforms.
My second grade chorus recital—he made me blueberry pancakes as agood luck, do wellthing.
He exists in memories that are void of medicine, but he has trouble coming up with one. He just never placed value on any of them. While he raised me, he looked through one lens and never widened the scope. I know how this ends before it even does. I tell him it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We exchange a few more words aboutmedicine.
And then I leave withMaximoff.
I’m not clairvoyant, butthatI canpredict.
17
MAXIMOFF HALE
“FARROW! Boxers or briefs?!”
Gotta love paparazzi. Asking the good questions. And bygood, I meantrivial. Kind of funny if not predictable, but prettytrivial.
You should know that I’m not annoyed, but I’m more than cautious. This is one of the first times Farrow and I have walked hand-in-hand on a sidewalk in Center City together. He’s used to being the silent bodyguardcompanion.
Not theboyfriendto acelebrity.
Theclick, click, clickof cameras that follow our trek to dinner—this is my normal. I have almost no recollection of walking without paparazzi inPhilly.
And it’s all immortalized on videos they sold to tabloids. You’ve seen when I was a toddler, my dad threatened paparazzi who pushed too close to my mom while I was in her protective arms. Then I’d grow up and be the one holding my sister’s hand. Yelling at paparazzi tostay back, she’s only akid.
Now I’m twenty-two, and if I could conceptualize a public first date scenario, it would’ve looked pretty close to this reality. Eight or nine paparazzi crowding Farrow and me. Cameras flashing in blinding succession and illuminating our features in the pitch blacknight.
His unwavering, assured stride that matches mine. His aviators that block the exploding light, and his hand that squeezes my hand with each incoming question. As though to tell me,I’m okay, wolfscout.
