Page 60 of Headstrong Like Us
Anyway, we have other issues now. We have to leaveandreturn to the hospital without being spotted by paparazzi. We lost the trail on our way here, so no cameramen currently camp outside Philly General. So maybe we’ll be able to do it again.
I’m counting on it.
We don’t drive back to the Hale House. Instead, I make a detour to Donnelly’s apartment. The two-bedroom that he shares with Akara, Quinn, and Banks. None of the other guys are here, and I don’t ask who decorated the living room because black and white hand drawn posters are taped to the walls. A black leather couch, leather bean bag, and simple chrome table accent the space.
Donnelly slumps on the floor and leans back against the bean bag, while Maximoff and I take the couch.
Now we wait.
The next hours are excruciating. We keep SFO updated on comms and try to distract ourselves. Maximoff flips through channels on the TV, landing on aHarry Pottermarathon. Donnelly crafts a paper fortuneteller—which is like a homemade magic eight ball—and tries to read my future.
No one sleeps. Not even as exhaustion beckons us like a siren calling out to sailors. We’re more inclined to sail this ship straight into a storm.
Morning comes and goes. Quinn, Akara, and Banks stop by to take showers, change, and leave. Quick entrances and exits. Without sleep, Donnelly can’t take his shift on Xander’s detail, so he has to give it up to Banks.
By the time night rolls around, I’m wired from Ripped Fuel, and Maximoff looks like hell.
“Sleep,” I tell him. “I’ll wake you, if we get the call.”
He shakes his head, neck tensed. Eyes glued to the TV. The eighth and finalHarry Pottermovie plays on the screen.
And then Donnelly’s phone vibrates on the floor, near his foot. Maximoff and I swing our heads towards the noise.
Donnelly glances at the screen and then answers. “Yeah?” His eyes find me. “Okay. Yeah….yeah. Thanks.” He hangs up.
“What is it?” I ask.
He’s gone pale. “They want me to come back.” He’s not an idiot. He knows, if the test came back negative, they would have told him over the phone.
Maximoff’s already on his feet. “Let’s go.”
* * *
We’re usheredinto an office in the hospital, but no one sits down. The doctor who met with us last night is here again, but this time he’s accompanied by a petite white woman with auburn hair. She holds a clipboard tight to her chest.
Maximoff and I stand side-by-side. His fingers brush against mine, and I take his hand. Donnelly leans against a bookshelf, a few steps back from us. I think he might be hoping this can all go away if he disappears in the shadows.
“This is Amanda Sheffield,” Dr. Turner introduces. “She’s the social worker here tonight.”
She rotates to Donnelly. “You must be Paul. Could we have a minute alone with you?”
Blood drains from Donnelly’s face, and he glances at me. “They have to stay. Farrow is my legal counsel.”
My brows spike. “Man—”
“Legaladvisor.”
“Better.”
Dr. Turner looks between us and concedes. “We have the results from your lab work.” He hands me the paper, probably figuring I’m the only other person in the room who can read it. I scan the data quickly, while he continues. “The paternity test came back negative.”
“Holy shit,”Donnelly says into a relieved exhale, burying his face into his hands.
My brows are knotted as I keep reading the paper. “Donnelly,” I whisper.
He lifts his head, frowning.
Dr. Turner clears his throat. “The DNA test did show that you share around 12% DNA with the child. Do you have any siblings?”
