Page 140 of Headstrong Like Us
He grins. “Always trying to beat me. Never succeeding.”
I open my mouth, partially distracted by how Farrow twirls the screwdriver between his fingers—and then Ripley lets out a big yawn andfullydistracts us both.
Farrow’s smile expands to repulsively attractive levels. “The little man has spoken. You’re boring him to sleep, wolf scout.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, did we forget how he literally thinks the world has been set on flames while you hold him?”
“No, we remember that.” With the screwdriver, he motions from me to the six-month-old baby. “And we can acknowledge your effect on him.”
“Boring him to sleep? Got it.” I nod. “And while we’re at it, maybe we should recall the day we introduced him to solid food.” Cheerios, to be exact. “I’m pretty sure he spit the cereal back up atyou,not me.”
I meant to make a point, but we’re both smiling.
It was a good memory.
“He was laughing,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. Like I left out important details.
“At you.”
He tips his head back and forth, considering for a half second. “Maybe. But I’d rather him laugh than cry.”
Yeah, me too.
Ripley lets out a breathy snore, and I kiss his forehead and gently rest him back in the crib. Tucking the pirate skull printed blankets around him.
We talked about giving him a comic-book themed room. But Ripley doesn’t gravitate towards Batman action figures or the Spider-Man plushies. Sometimes Wolverine, but he’s more obsessed with the damn parrot with the eye-patch.
He chose this.
And I haven’t told Farrow, but I love that the whole pirate theme reminds me of him and his sparrow and skull tattoos.
I return to Farrow, who’s still sitting on the hardwood, and I extend my hand. His brown eyes ping to my palm, then up to my face. “Come on, man,” I say. “Don’t make me ask.”
He leans back on his elbows, amusement spreading across his lips. “Now I definitely want you to ask.”
I growl under my breath, still talking softly with Ripley asleep. “Fine, asshole. Come to bed with me.”
“When you say it like that…” He takes my hand, but most of his weight is on his legs when he stands. I don’t do much to help, and I think that’s just Farrow being stubborn like me.
Quietly, he snatches the baby monitor, and I flick off the lights. Arkham barely stirs out of a puppy slumber, so he stays behind. Ripley’s room is the closest to ours. Just a short walk down the hallway.
A calico cat prances behind Farrow’s feet.
“What the fuck.” Farrow stares down at the cat.
Walrus must’ve somehow escaped Thatcher & Jane’s bedroom, and he seems pleased with himself. Tail high in the air and not skittish in the least, he’s practically already acclimated to the house.
I slip into our bedroom, and Farrow nudges the cat back with his foot. “You’re not coming in, you little bastard. Go find your mom and dad.”
He shuts the door on Walrus.
Our new room is triple the size of the townhouse’s attic. Big enough to do deadlifts, burpees, and sprints. Not that we need to work out in this space. We have a home gym. Cardboard boxes are stacked against the brick walls, and the disassembled black bedframe leans against the bathroom door.
Something lies on the ground that we haven’t had in a while.
A queen-sized mattress.
Charcoal gray sheets and a lightweight knit blanket are thrown on for tonight.
