Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
No, it’s a Marrow baby. A Hale baby.
I’ll fight anyone on this. Jane will, too. But in the end, none of us are gonna lose sleep over those comments. At least, I know Farrow won’t let it get to him. It’s the nature of the fame beast.
“Guess we’re all used to celebrity life now,” I say. “We’re not as phased like MK would be.” I caught Millie Kay looking starstruck at Farrow’s mother-in-law one time. Don’t know if MK blushed more at me catching her or at Lily. The surrogacy agency randomly matched her with Farrow and Maximoff, so now that she has a Hale in her belly, I think it’s cool she idolizes these families.
Luna said it was cosmic.
Didn’t realize it’d become an added pressure for her, though.
“That’s definitely true,” Farrow says with a nod.
“We sure Baby Hale is gonna be a girl? ‘Cause I’ve been sensing boy.”
He smiles. “Man, I don’t care what gender my kid is, as long as they’re healthy.”
I grin. “Best Papa.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs. “That’s a low bar, Donnelly.”
“Nah, that bar is the one I set in the clouds.” It’s why I knew I wasn’t ready to be the guardian to Baby Ripley when he first appeared. Kids need the best, and I wasn’t sure I could give him that.
I sling my arm over his shoulder loosely as we ascend the stairs. Tattoos sprawl along his toned biceps and forearms, ones I inked over the years. His black V-neck tee shows off some of my best work. A half skull on his sternum and swords on his neck. Wouldn’t ink anything ugly on anyone, but Farrow trusted me when I was only seventeen.
He changed my whole life then, too. And he’ll act like he did nothing. Like it’s just what people do, but it’s not. People don’t befriend the guy who sleeps at bus stops and hasn’t showered in two weeks.
People don’t let the same guy follow them to an Ivy League.
He tosses me a pack of cigarettes. “I heard you were out.”
Luna. “She tell you what happened at Penn?”
“Not in that many words. We all saw the videos.” The ones the students had been filming.
I nod. “Yeah, I heard those got out.” I watched a couple on YouTube, pausing on Luna’s face a few times. Hating seeing her that upset. “Cobalts made everything better,” I tell Farrow. “Eliot’s fans were spamming anyone who said anything nasty about him and Luna.”
“It wasn’t just Eliot who made things okay,” Farrow says like I forgot someone.
I didn’t forget myself.
I know I was there.
I just nod, but Cobalts wield power I don’t have. They’re something to aspire to be, but something most of us will never achieve.
Cobalts never die.
I love giving my lion cubs some props. Farrow is just a Cobalt denier, not quick to champion their greatness, because he’s a Hale enthusiast.
Hales.
They’re hard not to love, too, but they’re not at the front of the pack. They’re the runts struggling to keep up, and I’ve been a runt too, sprinting towards the lead. I didn’t imagine I’d ever drift back. Maybe that’s why I always go for law students, Ivy League grads, and women with lofty ambitions. Ones who know better than to actually date me.
Maybe that’s why it’s terrifying to fall for another misfit like me.
Maybe that’s why I know it’s different.
Maybe that’s why it’s right.
I try to let my whirling thoughts go.
Farrow and I step onto the rooftop of a seafood dive bar. On a beautiful afternoon in South Philly. High up, our views stretch to Center City and the Ben Franklin Bridge.
No offense to anyone else’s city, but nothing can beat Philly. And it’s more than just a pretty skyline.
“Boss is getting all fancy and shit,” I say, noticing an overflowing buffet table. The food draws us in. Fried crab, lobster rolls, hush puppies, oysters, and fried grouper fingers are among the mouth-watering spread.
Akara rented out the whole rooftop for the SFO meeting today.
“How is this fancy?” Oscar asks me. He waves a fried grouper finger as evidence and then pops that sucker in his mouth.
“Donnelly thinks Toaster Strudels are fancy,” Farrow says.
“Oh yeah, forgot about that.” Oscar adds another shrimp to a fried seafood pyramid on his plate.
“Toaster Strudels are fancy Pop-Tarts,” I argue. “Change my mind.”
Farrow smiles. “Yeah, no. Not getting into an argument over Pop-Tarts.” He puts a lobster roll on his plate.
I go for the hush puppies and glance over my shoulder. Rooftop has three extra long picnic tables and a bar over in the corner with a bored as hell bartender. No one else from SFO has arrived yet.
It’s September 19th. A day I used to celebrate with Beckett. I try to let that go, too. I can’t look back.
But today is Beckett’s 23rd birthday.
His twin brother Charlie’s birthday.