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)
He smacks the thing right out of my hand.
Never mind.
Now that I’m closer, he outstretches his tiny fingers towards me. Pleading to be in my clutch. His sparkling crystal-blue eyes are oceanic pools that call out and summon me.
I try to resist. “You’re okay,” I tell him. “Farrow has you.”
He’s bawling.
Farrow narrows his eyes on him. “Just you wait, little man. I’m going to make you love me.”
It’s weird hearing those words out loud.
For one, everyone is drawn to Farrow. He’s the kind of guy who’s so effortlessly cool that people either want to be his best friend or they’re jealous of his mere existence. He might be selective about friendships and put people at arm’s length, but that just adds to his allure.
For another, I’ve never seen Farrow actively work that hard for someone’s affections other than my own, and he’d tell you he didn’t have to do much.
Even though he’s without a doubt more obsessed with me.
Farrow sways and whispers in the baby’s ear. Tears slowing to a trickle. “About his name.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I have a suggestion.”
“You do?”
He drops his voice to a hushed octave for the baby’s sake. “I don’t have many memories of my mom. He might not either.”
I nod, stepping closer while Farrow is quiet.
“I figure there’s a way we can honor her.” He tilts his head. “Ripley?”
Ripley.
His mom’s surname.
That’s not what barrels through me. Farrow is deadly aware that we have this kid because Tina Ripley bailed on him. She was in the hospital after a meth overdose. Most people would be furious at her. Villainize her.
Farrow Keene wants to honor her.
And yeah, that squeezes the organ behind my ribcage. It sears my eyes with a kind of love that keeps pummeling me.
Because my parents are addicts, and I understand, well and good, that addiction is a disease. It’s not a fucking choice—and this baby’s mom isn’t a villain for what she did. She just wasn’t ready to be a mom, and she wasn’t as lucky as my parents, who had money and resources and a support system in place.
“I love it.” My words come out in a choke. “Sorry.” I shake my head and swerve away from him. Quickly, Farrow seizes my wrist to stop me, cradling the baby to his body with one hand.
“You don’t need to be sorry, wolf scout.” He reaches up and wipes at the corner of my wet eye. “I love it, too.”
I swallow hard and look at the baby. He scrunches his nose and face and coos at me. “Ripley,” I say into a smile. “It fits him.”
He calms down, but not even a minute later, he’s blubbering all over again.
Farrow nods to my hand. “The panda.”
I raise the stuffed panda, and Ripley lets out a terrified screech. “Alright, alright.” I throw it across the room. “It’s gone.”
Ripley quiets for point-two seconds.
Farrow searches my face. “We haven’t talked about Ripley’s family history.”
My grip tightens on the last stuffed animal in my hand. “There’s not much to talk about. The doctors said he’s a healthy baby.”
Still, we have no idea how many drugs he was exposed to as an infant. Or even if his mom did meth while she was pregnant.
Farrow pats the baby’s back. “There’s actually a lot to talk about—what the fuck is that?” He cuts himself off, distracted by the last animal in my fist.
I wave the parrot with an eye-patch. “I think Oscar bought it for him.” I heard through the family group chat grapevine that bodyguards were adding gifts to the baby supply haul.
Farrow rolls his eyes. “Oliveira.”
I near the baby again. “What about this?” I display the parrot to Ripley. His little fingers latch onto the yellow fur, and he snuggles the animal to his chest. He sniffles, and his tears just…stop.
Farrow goes still.
I do too.
And then Ripley’s bottom lip starts quivering.
“No, no,” I say strongly. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
He sobs softly, but it’s not a full-blown wail anymore.
“I’m going to take this win,” Farrow says and places the baby down in the crib. Turning back to me, he brushes a hand through his bleach-white hair. “You never made a choice about whether you’d want to use your sperm, if we had kids in the future. Because of your family history.”
He’s going right there, isn’t he?
His eyes exhume me and my eyes unearth him—and if he were anyone else, I’d shut down. I might be rigid in this moment, but I want to be vulnerable with him as much as possible, as often as possible.
Even when it’s hard.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I’m starting to feel clarity on the situation. Having Ripley here is putting things into perspective.
His brows pinch, trying to get a good read on me. “You have to be feeling something about this situation. Because Ripley’s family is just as riddled with addicts as yours. Probably worse.”