Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
My eyes fall to Ripley, the little guy against my chest.
My son.
The responsibility I feel for him is immeasurable, and I’ve tried all my life to take that responsibility off my parents. To unburden them.
I hope when I grow old and my son grows old, he still turns to me. That he never feels like I won’t or can’t help him, and I feel like I’ve made a mistake somewhere with my own dad.
In trying to not be a burden to my parents, I think I’ve led my dad to believe that I don’t need him. And that Farrow is the only one I really need—the only one who can reach me.
And I hear my dad’s words in the back of my head, thank God. Because when I fuck up again, Moffy will have Farrow.
I can’t keep acting like I can carry everything. Like I don’t need his help. Even with Farrow, I still need my parents. I’ve just been so goddamn afraid to burden them.
“I’m not going to be why you relapse,” I repeat his words.
“That’s what I said.”
“So I can tell you something?”
“I’d hope you could tell me anything,” he breathes, pain wrenching those words.
I glance at Farrow, and his brown eyes carry light and strength. Calmness washes over me. Flows through me, and I breathe stronger.
I face my dad. “I need you. Not just right now, not just yesterday—but long after this week, after I’m married. In ten years. Twenty. When you’re an old man, I’m still going to need you.”
“Moffy—”
“You’re my dad,” I say, choked. “And I don’t want my kids to grow up with you as a memory like I have of my grandfather. I need you here—and I promise that I’ll tell you shit from now on, if you promise you won’t ever see me as someone you can push away. Because I might have other people, but no one in the whole universe—in every fucking universe—could ever replace you from my life.”
He pinches his eyes, already tearing up. “Goddammit…” He takes a minute, inhaling a sharp breath. “I didn’t…” He shakes his head and drops his hand. Looking up at me, I can see the unsaid words.
He didn’t know I felt that way.
My eyes burn. “I’m sorry.” I should’ve told him sooner.
“No.” He rubs away a tear off his cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry about, bud.” He glances down at the yawning baby on my chest and touches his tiny, soft fingers. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that from you. But I…” He swallows hard. “It means a lot.” He meets my gaze. “I promise I’m always going to be here for you, and for you.” He eyes Farrow.
His mouth curves in a warm smile. “Thanks, Lo.”
My dad clears his throat, then smiles a half-smile at Ripley. “Maybe you two might need to hear this.” His eyes flit to us. “You’re both great fathers. The kind that kids grow up and gush about.” He feigns surprise. “A lot like me.”
We laugh.
His smile softens. “Just know that, you’re both the great ones. No matter what happens or how many kids you have or don’t have.”
I nod, a sudden pain in my chest. “Yeah.”
Farrow clasps a hand on my shoulder. I can practically feel his breath stagger for a beat.
My dad backs up and suddenly heads to the exit.
What? “Where are you going?” I ask loudly.
“To go fire a wet mop.” He saunters out, confidence in every footstep.
42
FARROW KEENE
1 day until the wedding
“Back up!” I yell like a threat, shooting brief, scathing glares at the aggressive sea of cameramen. Media shove and push to be closer to the parked car. Where we’re being dropped off outside a fine-dining restaurant for our rehearsal dinner.
I’m standing on the road, right against the compact navy-blue car, and I block paparazzi from Maximoff. He opens the rear door and bends over to unbuckle Ripley from the car seat.
I thrive in unruly, strange chaos. And all of SFO might be off-duty tonight, but I know I can protect my groom and our son without a radio or team behind me.
If I had any doubt, I wouldn’t put them in this situation.
Extra security is currently fighting through these idiots who ram each other and act like Maximoff and I are a main headliner at Coachella.
Maximoff yells something back at me. His voice buried beneath shrill questions, “look heres!” and the sound of clicking camera flashes.
“What?!” I shout at him, dipping my head slightly towards the opened door. I keep an eye on the shoving masses.
“You still have the earplugs?” Maximoff asks. “I gave them to you this morning.”
I dig into my pocket, and I notice Ripley cupping his hands over his ears. He’s not crying or in distress. Just glancing expectantly between me and Maximoff like, what’s happening next? Trusting us wherever we go, wherever we take him.