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)
“I know you like dogs.” I tense. “It’s just…a lot. And by a lot, I mean all of this.” I gesture around my childhood bedroom. To the racks of comics, the family dog, and the twin bed with a goddamn Spider-Man comforter.
We haven’t even bought a queen-sized one. Some nights, we blow up an air mattress. Other nights, we squeeze together on the bed underneath Peter Parker sheets—sheets that I had as a teenager. Out of everything, buying a new mattress just hasn’t been a high priority.
For either of us.
But living back in my childhood house is weird.
Living back here with Farrow is like descending into the movie Labyrinth and I’m just waiting for David Bowie to pop out. Surreal. Bizarre.
The Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse burned down less than two weeks ago. Still no news on the cause: electrical or arson.
The why doesn’t matter as much to me. We’re all alive. Everyone is okay, and I have the means to start over. But finding extra time between Farrow’s security meetings, his med calls, my job as a youth swim instructor, and wedding planning is harder.
We’ve only bought a few new pairs of clothes and keep tossing them in the wash.
I don’t want to task assistants to personal shop for me. They have better things to do than pick out jeans and tees and boxer-briefs.
“Overwhelmed?” Farrow asks, running a hand through his bleach-white hair. His ash-brown roots are growing in a lot. To where he’d usually dye the strands weeks ago.
“Not exactly.” My face heats. I shake my head.
I’m picturing the look on my sixteen-year-old face if he knew about this—someone, quick, invent time travel. Just so I can tell my teenage-self about the future where I’m temporarily living in my childhood home with my childhood crush. Who’s now my fiancé.
Maybe it’s good that time travel doesn’t exist.
I think I’d die.
“Maximoff.” Farrow waves his hand at my face.
Jesus. I blink a few times.
He looks me over. “Where’d you go, space cadet?” Despite his casualness, he seems concerned.
I lick my lips. “I’m just not fully adjusted to being back here with you.” I gesture to him. “Living under my parent’s roof, all of my siblings in rooms next door. I feel younger, and I’m twenty-three.” Gotham crawls off my lap to sniff a dog bone.
Farrow leans back on his palms. He’s grinning.
I rub my reddened neck. “Thank you for your sympathy. It was totally refreshing and so unlike you.”
He tries to smother his smile for me. “You keep flashing to your teenage years—”
“No,” I deny.
His rough voice is too attractive. “Sixteen-year-old Maximoff with a hard-on for me—”
“I never even thought about you.” That hurt. “Just kidding. I thought about pushing you out of my bedroom window.”
His brows ratchet up. “After I crawled up there to rock your world.”
He’s too good at this, but I’m better. “I don’t remember you rocking anything.” I make a face. “Was that you?”
His lip quirks. “Always a smartass.” Farrow watches me stand up.
This living situation is temporary, but Farrow’s place in my life is permanent. That’s what breathes air into my lungs.
He’s okay with staying here for however-the-fuck long. “As long as we’re together,” he told me with ease. I didn’t think he’d care. Farrow has always been low maintenance where room and board is concerned.
Gotham barks, and I find an extra bag of kibble on my wooden dresser, a bowl already next to his round Batman-logo bed.
“You’re still doing Xander’s chores?” Farrow asks, his usual amusement receding with more concern.
“This is the last time.”
Farrow nods slowly, disbelieving.
I don’t really believe myself either. It’s easy for my little brother to slack on his chores at home when I’m here to pick them up. And I don’t mind taking out the trash, feeding the dog, or vacuuming the living room. It feels right to pull my weight around the house when I’m living here too.
After filling Gotham’s bowl, I zip up the bag of kibble.
Farrow reaches for the binder and flips a page.
“Wait, man. We didn’t make a decision on the envelopes.”
The binder under his hand is thick and made by my best friend, who also happens to be planning this wedding. Jane nicknamed it the This or That binder. Basically, she listed two options for a bunch of wedding shit, and we’re supposed to pick this or that.
I’m highly aware that she narrowed it down to two options just for me. So my neurotic brain doesn’t go into a full-on tailspin at the sight of twenty different table settings.
But Farrow—he doesn’t overthink this stuff. His instinct is to go with his gut, and I’m not even sure I have a gut reaction that doesn’t involve second-guessing myself.
Calmly, coolly, like he’s lounging on the deck of a yacht, Farrow flips back to the original page. “See, we did make a decision. You said you liked the envelopes with the swirls.”