Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I nod a few times. Unable to break his gaze. Ensnared. “Must be why you’re sweating right now,” I tell him.
He grimaces, two seconds from a real smile, but his eyes snap shut abruptly. Pain slamming into him somewhere. I almost wince just watching him. I’m used to seeing people in discomfort at a hospital, but it’s definitely different when it’s someone close to me.
I massage the back of his neck, my fingers skating upward and threading his thick hair. I’m about to pull my leg off his, but he leans more of his weight into my side, like a physical plea for me to stay.
Maximoff.
I keep our legs laced.
His eyes slowly open with a sharp breath, and he’s looking at Luna. She’s looking at him, concern welled up in her amber gaze.
He tries to marbleize his features. Tries to be her strong unshakable big brother. These parts of him are so intrinsically Maximoff Hale that I wouldn’t want him to change. He loves people so overwhelmingly, and he cares. Shit, he cares more than anyone, and when people need him to be their everything, he is always there.
But it only makes me want to be there for him.
Every time. Every day.
Twice as hard. Ten times as much.
“Maximoff,” I breathe, capturing his focus. I lightly shake the sports drink at my boyfriend, what I planned to do from the moment I uncapped the plastic bottle. “I’ll share with you.” And only you.
His eyes fall to my mouth, and then he quickly snatches the drink. I notice how he doesn’t attempt to talk.
“Moffy,” Charlie calls. Our heads turn.
And I reluctantly split my attention between Maximoff and eleven other people. A few pillows prop Charlie’s broken leg, and Donnelly leans over his cast, black Sharpie in hand. He’s sketching the Philly cityscape, and to be honest, I’m surprised that Charlie is letting him. His cast has been blank.
“Yeah?” Maximoff asks, voice tight.
I survey the attic in one sweep, the room loud with chatter.
All eleven people lounge on sleeping bags, but since they’re elevated on the air mattresses, everyone is basically eye-level with us.
The three girls sit beneath the curtained window. Sulli braids Luna’s hair while Jane talks breezily and sips a beer.
Near the dresser, Beckett is telling the Oliveira brothers about New York clubs, Donnelly listening in as he draws, and next to the girls, Jack is showing Akara a photo or video on his camera. That doesn’t shock me. Jack and Akara have been more civil since the FanCon.
Thatcher is the only one observing and not in a group, his back up against the door. And no, I don’t care.
Charlie slips on dark sunglasses. “You look like shit, Moffy. If you’d just—”
“I’m not taking a Vicodin,” Maximoff combats and then winces. An icepack slides down his shoulder—I fix it for him since the sports drink occupies his hand.
Jane says something to her brother in French, and he raises one hand in surrender. Conversations pop up around the room, and I hear the tail end of Oscar talking about the worst flavor of Doritos.
I tune everyone out and hone in on Maximoff.
He’s pinching his eyes, and he readjusts himself, starting to slide back off the headboard.
Shit.
He’s not upset about Charlie nagging him.
He’s physically hurting. More.
And more.
He’s even willing to lie flat and advertise his pain. Before the ice packs slip, I remove them from his body. His shoulders sink onto the soft mattress, and his head finds the pillow. Eyes closing.
I stroke his hair out of his face.
He shifts his head on my thigh. And he tries to roll more towards me but can’t with his bandaged shoulder—his left hand quakes, distressed tears wet the corners of his eyes.
That’s it.
I have to do something.
Spreading my legs, I pull Maximoff carefully between them, and I reach for the ice packs, placing one lightly on his chest, one below the red sling on his abdomen.
I already know it’s not enough to extinguish his discomfort. With his head on my lap, I wipe the wet corners of his eyes with my thumb.
More conversations ignite in the attic, some about the We Are Calloway docuseries and others about the auction. They’re all good about not drawing attention to Maximoff.
The fact that he’s this vulnerable, head on my lap, in front of them is the clearest sign that he’s not doing well.
Maximoff drops his shaking left hand from his face. And he grips my bent knee in a vice, combating that post-op pain. His cheekbones sharpen when he clenches his teeth—and he tries to bury his face into my thigh again.
Fuck, I have to do more. I have to. And I’ve been hesitating on one option because I don’t know how he’ll react.
I love safeguarding the good in Maximoff while also being the one to loosen his tight laces. It sounds contradictory, but to me, good isn’t straight-edged. Good is compassion and love for all people, for humanity. Good is a selfless kindness so unadulterated it stings your eyes.