Page 141 of Alphas Like Us
“Fucking Christ.” I rub my mouth, distressed. Everything is wrong abouttoday.
Charlie halts at the curb. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I swindle you into thinking I’d choose the moral choice? People make stupid decisions, and I’m not you. I don’t bear responsibility for other people’s choices. How do you even live with that? How are you not dying fromthat?”
So many emotions slam atme.
So much has changed. So much is in flux. I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. Right from wrong anymore. It’s like I have paths and choices and I keep running down the darkestone.
I’m not even sure if what we did here today wasright.
And I just want to shutdown.
To go numb. Really, I want to call him. To talk to Farrow. Because when my universe feels like it’s spiraling and trying to drag me under, he has this ability to make me feel lighter thanair.
And thenI remember his text about beingunavailable.
I can’t call him. I won’t fucking disturb him atwork.
So I just walk forward, shoulders locked. And I carry thisweight.
24
FARROW KEENE
Missing Jane’s23rdbirthday party is par for the course by now. My schedule at Philly General doesn’t allow for sick days or personal hours. Add in the overtime charting and other bullshit—and I’m sufficiently MIA more than Ilike.
It’s not my favoritething.
Not evenclose.
Working inside a hospital wields a certain kind of discomfort for me—suffocating, aggravating, choked—and I didn’t forget its existence but it’s amplified this time around. For too manyreasons.
Like missing the quietest, purest moments. My recent 22-hour shift means that I didn’t go to sleep with Maximoff. I didn’t see him wake up, and I couldn’t rake my fingers through his hair. Couldn’t see him struggle into his jeans and glare in my direction before he flips meoff.
Hell, I wasn’t even there to laugh or smile or help. And there’ll be other moments to make up for those. Sure. But I sense what I’m losing because I’ve had those powerful minutes, those unbearably beautiful secondsbefore.
I’m trying my best not to keep tally of what could’ve been with Maximoff. Because then it starts feeling likeregret.And I can honestly say that I don’t know how to deal with that emotion other than changecourse.
I can’t changethis.
I just have to remind myself that the goal isn’t to work at a hospital. That’s not what I’mchasing.
I’m running after the concierge position. To be a doctor to these famous families so I’m not an outlier but involved. Andneeded.
Unfortunately, the path tothatideal job is this residency at PhillyGeneral.
Threeyears.
Just three fucking years,and then I’m out and working for the Hales, Meadows, and Cobaltsagain.
I climb stairs to the rooftop of Superheroes & Scones, motorcycle helmet tucked beneath myarm.
It’s still June 10th. I may’ve missed Jane’s birthday party at the Cobalt Estate, but I’m on time to make the tail end of her birthday tradition. Typically it’s just her and Maximoff (plus their bodyguards) but Jane extended an invite tome.
I swing open the metal door to the roof, and before I come face-to-face with the eccentric putt-putt course—made with milk bottles, garden gnomes, antique gas station signs—I hear a phrase that I really,reallydo not want to fuckinghear.
“Is it Rowin?” Janeasks.
Rowin.
