Page 78 of Alphas Like Us
If my choice to cancel the auction nights wasn’t already cemented, now it’s marbleized, staple-gunned and set to stone. “It’s never happening.” I’m about to rip up the business card, but I only have one damn hand. So I crumple it in myfist.
13
MAXIMOFF HALE
Thingsthat royally suck with a brokencollarbone:
Wearing aseatbelt.
Buttoning mypants.
Taking ashower.
Topping in missionary—it’s noteasy.
Walking at a speed faster than a slow, unbearable pace. (See on every page:trying to keep up with Farrow RedfordKeene.)
Typing on a computer—I look like a goddamndinosaur.
Riding in acar.
That last one I’m feeling tenfold. Every small bump in the road jostles my shoulder and pain drills through my collar like a million serrated needles poking and cuttingflesh.
Ibreathe.
I try to breathe. Whenever Farrow is behind the wheel, he avoids potholes and the badly paved streets while also driving slowly.Cautiously. More than ever. So it’s nothim.
The blame rests solely on my collarbone that won’t heal at lightning speed like I hoped. It’s why I’m practically thanking the heavens and skies when we finally reach my parent’shouse.
My old Basset Hound greets Farrow and me in thefoyer.
“Gotham,” I smile and bend down like a stiff board. Just to scratch his floppyears.
He slobbers on me, and as he tries to anchor his paws on my shoulders, Farrow chucks a tennis ball—don’t ask, I don’t know where he found that—but Gotham is more interested in me. Licking mycheek.
“He loves me,” I tell Farrow, patting my Basset Hound’s torso and keeping his four paws on theground.
“I’m not surprised,” Farrow says as he glances at family photos hung on the foyerwall.
I stand up, rigid. “Because I’m easilylovable.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Because dogs loveeveryone.”
I blink slowly while his smile grows, and I don’t have the chance to reply. Voices in the kitchen pull our attention. We leave the foyer and pass through my living room. Superhero figurines line a couple bookshelves, andX-Mensingle-issue comics are framed above a comfortable sectionalcouch.
Once we enter the spacious kitchen, we spot my dad and uncle. Both immediately stop what they’re doing, their heads veering towards Farrow and me. Uncle Ryke has a hand on a blender, and the machine grinds to ahalt.
My dad abandons a volume ofLove and Rocketsby Jaime and Gilbert Hernandezthat he’d been reading at the islandbar.
Silence falls, both of them sweeping me in once-overs like they’re checking and establishing my mortality. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since surgery, and they hardly pay attention to Farrow who leaves my side and tugs open thefridge.
He may as well be wearing an invisibilitycloak.
I cut the tension by saying, “Two stops to death and straight on ‘til morning.” It’s a play on aPeter Panquote that I know my dad willget.
Hedoes.
He glares at me and says, “Not even a goodjoke.”
