Page 103 of Headstrong Like Us
Farrow gives me a look like I’ve lost sense of reality. “You can’t carry him. You’rehurt.”
“I’m fine,” I say again. “He needs to know that I’mfine.” Or else he won’t stop choking on his own tears.
“MAXIMOFF! FARROW! WE LOOOOVE YOU!”
“MARROW!” I hear our ship name.
“THATCHER JANE THATCHER JANE!” Chanting begins.
I move closer to unclip Ripley from the carrier, and Farrow puts his hand on my jaw. “I can’t tell how badly you’re hurt yet.”
“It’s not broken.”I don’t think.
Our eyes lock in a tense beat. He knows that I can carry Ripley, even with a torn, shredded muscle or a hundred broken bones. But Farrow is looking out for my health, my body.
For me.
I think he’s about to tell me to step back. He touches my shoulder one more time to assess the injury, and I grit down, the spot enflamed and angry.
Farrow ends up unbuckling the carrier from his body.He’s letting me hold him.And this is one of the infinite reasons why I love him.
We make quick work, having done this plenty of times. But this exchange might just be the first time in public. Cellphones aim at us, recording every second. Even the crowds have quieted down, some louder fans telling the others tohushso that they can hear us.
We’re not talking anymore though.
In another quick minute, I have the carrier strapped on, and Farrow buckles Ripley into it, his little fingers gripping onto me for dear life. But as soon as the weight of the baby sinks down, I involuntarily cringe.
Farrow notices.
His eyes flitting to my collarbone. He gives me a hard look. If it weren’t for the hundred-plus cameras aimed at us, I’m sure he’d call mestubbornright now. Or maybestrong-willed.
I kiss the top of Ripley’s soft head. He calms, and fans audibly swoon in a collective,awwww.
Janie has already hiked over the other side of the kiosk. Standing behind Thatcher and clutching his hand with both of hers—she seems relaxed again.
“Farrow,” Thatcher calls. “Ready to push out?”
Farrow nods and then turns to me. “I’m staying on your right.” He motions to my fucked-up shoulder.
He plans to protect that side more than any other. Keep people from worsening my injury. He’s good at his job. Maybe that’s why the walk back to the car doesn’t feel as daunting anymore. Not with him here.
It’s just normal.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
I rest backon the sofa, feet on the floor, and an icepack melts on my sore shoulder. Pitch-black in my parent’s living room late tonight, the only glow comes from our cellphones and the television (paused on Farrow’s favorite movie).
Farrow sprawls out, his head on my thigh, and I feel his muscles flex, tensing. He rubs his thumb back and forth over a hoop lip piercing, his eyes fixed on a phone screen.
He lets out an aggravated breath. “Whoeverthe fuckis blowing up the comments under my photos needs to find some shit they like, because it’s definitely not me.”
I tear the phone out of his hand.
“Maximoff.” He doesn’t sit up. Due to the conked-out baby on his chest—one of the few times Ripley has fallen asleep on Farrow.
The image is so priceless that I’ve engrained every last detail for millenniums to come.
