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’s a baby, not an electrical appliance.”
“Looks the same to me.”
My lip wants to rise, but Donnelly squints at the ground, then the wall. “Been meaning to tell you somethin’…”
“Yeah, me too.” While Ripley sobs, I dip my head to him and whisper a deep, calming, “Shhh,” and his cries soften a little bit. To Donnelly, I say, “You first.”
He steals a furtive glance at the living room. Like he’s checking for any famous ones eavesdropping.
And then he steps closer. “The police report about the fire—it coulda been arson.”
“It was electrical,” I say under my breath. “It’s a closed case.” As of last week.
Donnelly drops his voice too. “I don’t believe that, man. I’ve been thinking…and I think my dad started the fire.”
Oh my God. “No, he’s not that stupid, Donnelly.”
“He got out of prison before the house burned. He could’ve torched it.”
I shake my head, but it’s extremely easy to empathize with his rationale. Back during the FanCon, I thought my father was capable of posting death threats towards Maximoff Hale. My boyfriend.
I created a monster in my head, and Edward Keene has done far less heinous shit to me than Sean has done to his son. So I understand how Donnelly could jump there, because I’d fucking leap there too.
If it weren’t for the phone calls over the years.
“He didn’t burn down the house,” I assure my friend. “Think of all the times he’s called you, and what has he wanted?”
“You’re the one who talks to him.”
I roll my eyes.
Yeah, Donnelly would pass me the phone whenever Sean rang him from prison. He knew his dad would pressure him like fucking hell, and I could easily tell Sean to back the fuck off.
I say, “Man, you know what he asks for.”
Donnelly nods, eyes on mine.
We don’t speak the heavy unspoken shit. How Sean used to pressure him to turn tricks for drugs and smuggle them into the prison. He would also badger him for money. Then Donnelly became “famous” and in reach of three extremely famous families.
And I’m not always one-hundred percent sure about Sean’s angle, but it’s clear that he wants access and connections to wealth and privilege. My theory: who better to hook on drugs than the young, rich, reckless, and bored?
“Burning down the townhouse is nowhere near his agenda,” I tell him flat-out.
“Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re probably right.” He watches me try to soothe Ripley as I rub his back in circles.
I give Donnelly a sweep. “Are you okay with this entire thing?”
A smirk edges across his mouth. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one with the baby.”
I heard from Quinn that Donnelly was sleepwalking last night. And I know he doesn’t sleep-walk that often. “I just hope you don’t feel guilty about this situation. It was my decision, and shit, I’m happy how this turned out.” I flash a playful smile at Ripley.
He stares at me with utter bemusement. Like I’m some alien, and he’s waiting for his wolf scout to bring him to Earth.
What he doesn’t realize yet: Maximoff is the one living on another planet.
But sure, if Ripley wants to rocket to Mars and grow a potato farm, Maximoff will be the first pilot to volunteer. And this little man would have to chin up because I’d be right there with them.
Donnelly grins. “You’re happy?”
I lift my gaze with a smile and nod.
“Deadass?” He asks if I’m serious.
“Yeah.” But I try not to look too far past tomorrow. Further down the road are questions I can’t answer and the type of uncertainty that’s not fun to walk.
How long until Ripley’s birth dad is released from prison? How long until Scottie takes the baby? How long until his mom shows up and decides she wants her son again?
One week?
One month?
A year or two years?
In the meantime, Maximoff and I agreed that this kid needs parents. We’re not his best friends. We’re not cool uncles.
We have to be fathers.
And I’ll love him, even if he leaves tomorrow.
“You got somethin’ for me then?” Donnelly wonders.
I said I did at the start of this conversation. And I reach into my back pocket, and I pass him a Philly Aquatic Center business card.
Flipping it, Donnelly reads the question scribbled on the back.
He stares at the words for a long quiet beat. Not much silences Paul Donnelly.
“Shocked?” I smile.
Donnelly glances up. “Just thinking how nuts you are. You took in a white trash baby and now you want white trash as your best man.”
He never says white trash like he’s ashamed. He’s unashamed about almost everything. He just says it like it’s a fact. A statement. So I don’t need to assuage his feelings that aren’t hurt. But make no mistake: I’ve cold-cocked fuckers for calling him white trash as a dig.
The corner of my mouth hikes. “Is that a yes?”