Page 10 of Headstrong Like Us
He touches the titanium ring on his finger, the one he’ll eventually slip on mine. “I dreamed of a winter wedding. The snow, the cold. That was one of the things I dreamed up at thirteen—when I didn’t know who I’d marry.” His eyes redden. “But I’m marryingyou, and the way you exist in the sun is the purest shit in the world.”
My chest rises.
“I want to marry you in the summer, wolf scout.”
I draw closer, our eyes all over each other. “Marry me in the summer then.”
He’s already standing off the wall. We pull one another closer in a strong embrace, chest-to-chest, the hug deeper than anything I’ve ever felt with anyone.
His body rises with each breath, with mine.
He stares into me. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” My brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He has an uneasy smile. “Fuck, you haven’t even realized…” He takes a beat. “We’re going from eight months to plan this shit tothree or four.”
I cringe.
Farrow sees. “We don’t have to—”
“We’re going to,” I say firmly. “I want to.” I even make a decision. “July.”
A smile spreads across his mouth. “July?”
“Yeah, that good with you?”
He kisses me. “Definitely.”
Three months away.
Nothing can go wrong. I’m not as calm as Farrow about the imperfections of this wedding. If someone or something tries to cause a catastrophic apocalypse, I will climb to Mt. Olympus itself and wring the necks of every god up there.
Nothing can go wrong.
2
FARROW KEENE
The worldoutside Maximoff’s bedroom window is quiet this early morning. No honking cars, city traffic, or aggressive paparazzi like the Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse delivered at the crack of fucking dawn. But the gated Philly neighborhood comes with its own issues.
I’m sinking.
On a slow-leaking air mattress. And honestly, I don’t really care. It has its perks, like waking up and realizing I’m pushed to the deflating center with the strong-willed sleeping beauty. Maximoff has rolled into me, his carved bicep across my toned abs and his calf hooked around my leg. A geeky yellow-blue Wolverine sheet is kicked down and sprawls along our waists.
Any sudden movements and he’ll stir. I’m carefulnotto wake him.
Maximoff needs more sleep ever since shit storm after shit storm has blown in, and I’d give him my sleep, my energy if I could. The best I can do is be very gentle and try not to sit up.
My left arm is tucked under his broad shoulders, and I’m not moving out from under him. I just raise my phone above my face and do some daily security tasks. Like checking social media for any recent media fallouts.
None.
Other than trending news about a pop singer fainting at a sold-out stadium concert—and she’s not a part of the famous families, so my interest is bottom-rung low.
I pop open Instagram and scroll my feed with my thumb.
Landing on a familiar face. Donnelly posted a mirror selfie, showing off the Wawa logo tattoo on his shoulder blade. I click into his profile, the bio just a string of emojis. But that blue-eyed shameless motherfucker has 4.6 million followers.
