Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Free,” I finish.
He nods. “Like my identity is mine. Not an extension of you or my dad.”
I understand the shackles of our parent’s past, but I had no idea I’d been shackling Charlie. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I knew you’d care, but I also knew it wouldn’t change anything.”
“Right,” I mutter. I’m just supposed to…deal. I’m not sure the hurt will disappear that easily, but the truth is better than the unknown. I can finally see the kind of terrain I’m standing on. In case you were wondering, the ground is littered with rocks.
I just wish they were the kind we could shave down or move together.
“I think about something a lot,” I tell him. “How our dads are best friends. Our moms are sisters. In some cosmic way, I think you and I were fated to be rivals or friends.” I lick my dry lips. “I guess friends isn’t in the fucking cards for us, huh?” And I have to accept this.
“Non, il te suffit de m’attendre,” Charlie says in a perfect French lilt. No, you just need to wait for me.
“De quelle manière?” I breathe. In what way?
“To be strong enough to be near you and not hate everything about you and me.”
I’m fucking terrible at waiting around. Doing nothing. He knows this. You know this. But for Charlie, I’d try. If he needs me to be patient, I’ll do that a million times over.
I nod strongly. “Okay.”
We seem to breathe at the same time, and I try to relax and adjust the air conditioner.
Charlie reaches forward and steals my philosophy book. He slings his legs sideways across the seat and flips through the pages. When our gazes briefly meet, he says, “Merci pour le matériel de lecture.” Thanks for the reading material.
41
FARROW KEENE
After Maximoff left the two-hour board meeting, he told me, “I’ll explain at Lucky’s Diner.”
What I assume: it can’t be outright bad news. Or else he would’ve popped a blood vessel in the car. He’s been clinging to some fragment of hope.
And I’m clinging onto something else entirely.
I’ve spent the majority of the morning hawkeyed on hands and pockets. Making a mental account of every person we’ve crossed or encountered.
Shit, I see the headstone photo clearly in each passing second.
Died: April 4th.
Today.
“Is this peak Farrow Keene hyper-vigilance?” Maximoff asks across from me, both of us seated in a vinyl booth towards the back. He slides me a plastic menu and lowers his voice. “You haven’t even checked me out today.”
My lips want to rise, and I fix my earpiece, radio volume high. “Wolf scout, who said I ever check you out?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t imagine you staring at my fucking ass yesterday.”
I whistle. “Pretty sure you’ve fantasized about my ass before you even saw it.”
Maximoff blinks slowly. “And now my brain has short-circuited, thank you.” His sarcasm is thick, almost pulling my mouth upward. “And thanks for the ass digression.”
“You’re welcome.” I pick up the menu, but I don’t even skim the words yet.
I just canvas the bustling Philly diner: fifty paparazzi and twenty-something teens peer through the glass window, 3/5 of customers in booths and barstools crane their necks to watch the celebrity and his bodyguard, about 1/3 of those snap pictures and record videos.
Harmless.
“Order up!” a cook calls, and waitresses zip around tables, trays hoisted high. Bacon and maple syrup smells permeate. An atmosphere I typically love.
But today isn’t a typical day. The stalker is a Philly resident.
Likelihood of them being close = too high for comfort.
I focus back on Maximoff.
He jots a note on a napkin, but he shields the words with his hand.
I eye him a little bit more. His dark brown hair is windblown, his cheekbones sharp, shoulders squared, and his gray Winter Solider T-shirt hugs the ridges of his muscles.
“Wanted me at the meeting with you?” I tease and motion to his shirt choice.
Maximoff frowns, then glances at the shirt. “Jesus Christ.” He glares at the ceiling, then his forest-greens drop to mine. “It was unintentional.”
“I think you mean subconscious.” I dump out the sugar packets and reorder them in the container.
Very quietly, he contemplates, “Subconsciously I’m in love with you?” He pauses. “Sounds about right.”
“And consciously,” I add.
“No. Just subconscious.” His voice is firm.
I roll my eyes, and my small smile falls flat. Because our waitress approaches. Maximoff hasn’t even ordered yet, but the tiny brunette carries a mug of hot tea.
“Glad to see you back in town,” Ava says, usually the one who serves us when we’re at Lucky’s. She places the hot tea on a paper coaster.
“Thanks,” Maximoff says sincerely. “Happy to be back.”
I order a coffee, and we’re still deciding on food when she leaves. Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers that fiddle with the sugar packets.
I shouldn’t be smiling, not right now. But being in his company, all I want to do is grin ear-to-ear.