Page 105 of Headstrong Like Us
Christ, I wish I didn’t say that out loud.
Firmly, with zero doubt, I quickly add, “You didn’t ruin me.”
Farrow begins to smile. “I know, wolf scout.” But his lips descend fast. He’s on edge about something. He even glances away from me.
It strains my muscles. Nervous sweat builds, and my brows cinch. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes return to mine.
And I swear a fucking eon passes before Farrow actually speaks. No lie, I’m sitting here waiting and waiting.
And waiting.
He sweeps my impatient features. “I’m just wondering if you regret the tattoo.”
“No.” I exhale a heavy breath. “I would’ve regrettednotgetting it. Aren’t you the one who said tattoos are for yourself, no one else?”
The corner of his mouth hikes. “That’s not exactly word-for-word what I told you, but close enough.” His smile stretches. “Give me the phone.”
I return his cell, thinking he’ll just power the thing off.
Instead, he opens the camera app.
Farrow lifts his shoulders and head, without moving his chest too much. I’m super-glued to his self-confident, swift movements. He rolls my gray T-shirt sleeve to my shoulder, careful of the ice, and reveals the tattoo on my bicep.
In one second-flat, he playfully bites my bicep next to his inked name, raises a middle finger, and snaps a picture. Four taps on his screen, and he posts the photo to his Instagram.
The caption is just the middle finger emoji.
I let out a laugh, stunned. Farrow didn’t even pause to think. He just did what felt right in the moment, and he constantly reminds me that life is better lived not obsessing.
“You can save it as your phone’s lock-screen later,” he teases.
“I’m good.” My voice is resolute. “The pic has way too much of this one guy I can’t stand in it.”
Farrow looks me over with a rising smile. “Always a precious smartass.” He places a gentle hand on Ripley’s tummy, and carefully, he sits up without moving our baby too much. He cradles him, still asleep, and whispers, “I’m putting him in his crib.”
I nod, and we split apart.
Farrow goes upstairs. I go to the kitchen. Grabbing a new icepack from the freezer.
Back together on the sofa a few minutes later, Farrow places the baby monitor on the coffee table, and I clickplayon the remote.
We’re close, his thigh against my thigh. Warmth spreads through me, and Farrow grips the hem of my tee. “I’m going to check your muscle.”
I could make a sarcastic comment, but I’m trying to watch the movie. Unlike Farrow, I’ve never seenCall Me By Your Namebefore.
I grip the icepack and assist in pulling the shirt over my head. According to my doctor, I tore a muscle. And bymy doctor, I meanmy fiancé.Yay me.
On the bright side, plenty of days have passed since the mall disaster, and my shoulder only semi-throbs now. It’s healing and should be fully functioning for our bachelor parties next week.
Now I’m bare-chested, and Farrow lightly presses on my muscle. “Swelling has gone down.”
I nod dazedly; the film is on a quiet part where Elio is alone.
Farrow situates the icepack on my shoulder.
I slide further back on the sofa. Leaning into his chest, our shoulders nearly parallel, and his arm is around my waist. More comfortable, and a second or two later, I feel Farrow eyeing me.
