Page 148 of Headstrong Like Us
Our eyes meet again.
He lowers his voice. “Scottie could do anything with him. Move to another state, file-restraining orders against us, extort us—who the fuck knows. He has all the power once he’s out, and it could be like Ripley doesn’t even exist anymore. And I know you’re going to tell me,you can’t dwell on thatandjustfocus on the good now and the present moment with him—”
“I’m not,” I cut him off, this conversation burning holes in my body.
His brows scrunch. “What?”
“I’m not telling you to block out the future, wolf scout. You’re right, I don’t do this—I don’t dwell on shit I can’t control, but I haven’t been able to stop lately. And I don’t care that I can’t because even through the fucking pain, I’d rather envision a future where he exists with us.”
Maximoff inhales. “I want that future too.” His eyes redden. “I’ve fallen in love with our son, and I don’t know if I can lose him in five days. Five years. Five centuries. Especially knowing Scottie could be aharmto his fucking life. We have to protect him.”
“We’re going to protect our family,” I say easily. “There’s not a reality, or one of your alternate realities, where we wouldn’t.”
“Universes,” he corrects.
I smile. “Whatever.” I splash some water at his waist, the air lighter.
I’ve always been shit at preventing storms. Better at handling a crisis once it comes. But I don’t just want to mitigate the loss and hurt once it’s arrived. Not with this.
I might need his survival gear. A life raft and flare, and I’m sure he’ll pack ten extra. That’s just what Wolf Scouts do.
While Ripley lets go of the ledge and tries to float (Maximoff helping), I scroll through my phone and put on a playlist.
Ripley starts to sob as “Far Behind” by Candlebox blasts from the speakers.
Come on.
I give Maximoff a look. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He has a smug smile. “Sorry, man, but a baby even recognizes how awful your music taste is.”
“Laugh now, but this might be the song for our first dance.”
“No.” He winces. “Christ, just pour gasoline in my veins and light me on fire.”
I scroll through the playlist. “That would kill you and I’m not marrying a corpse—”
He tries to steal my phone.
I hold the cell above his head and press a song with my thumb. Ripley blubbers in confusion, not sure how he feels about this one. “When you’re older,” I tell him, “you’re going tolove90s rock and then together we can give your papa a lot of shit.”
“You’ll need the backup.” Maximoff smiles. “Your come-backs could use an assist.”
I roll my eyes. He’s on fucking fire today, and he grabs my wrist to lower the phone. Just to see the song and artist. “You like this one?” I ask him.
“I hate it,” he says seriously. “What kind of band is namedButthole Surfers?”
I laugh. “The cool band that’s named Butthole Surfers.”
“Thank you, next,” Maximoff says dryly.
I cringe. “I can’t believe I know you quoted an Ariana Grande song.” That music is not my favorite. I play another song off the list: “Steal My Sunshine” by LEN.
Maximoff hoists our baby boy out of the pool and sets his bottom on the stone beside me. I tuck him close, and Ripley grabs hold of my fingers, interested in the many silver rings.
I smile and watch his curiosity.
Maximoff climbs out of the pool. Water dripping down, and I glance back while he drags the jumper closer. When Ripley grows bored of my rings, Maximoff places him in the jumper, and to protect his fair skin, I find his diaper bag and put on his sun hat.
