Page 6 of Headstrong Like Us
Farrow gives me a look. You know the one. You’ve seen it on hundreds of paparazzi photos, practically tabloidcenterfolds. His eyebrows rise, and his smile slowly expands in an irritating, teasing wave. No matter what anyone tells you, here’s the truth…
He’s looking at me like he’sobsessedwith me.
Yeah. That’s what I’m going with.
We’re sitting on the orange rug in my childhood bedroom, a binder opened on the ground between us.
“Farrow—”
He places a tattooed hand on the page. “Would you like me to count to four out loud, wolf scout?”
My mouth falls. “You can count that high?”
He lets out a laugh, almost rolling his eyes but they never really leave me. His growing smile sends my heart in a high-speed crash against my ribcage. “You want to be smarter than me so badly.” He gives me a once-over.
“You don’t even know who Empedocles is,” I combat.
“He’s definitely a Greek philosopher in your ear.” He wipes some white chalk off his palms, eyeing the black-painted walls.X-Menchalk drawings are half-erased and smudged to make room for Farrow’s handwriting.
He’s right. Empedocles is in my ear. Along with a lot of other philosophers, to-do lists, and concerns, but I try to employ Farrow’s easygoing attitude andrelaxthis early-spring afternoon.
I extend my arm over his muscular shoulder, and my eyes fall to his lips.
He’s smiling knowingly, lovingly. “You want me to kiss you?”
“No,Iwant to kissyou—”
He closes the short distance, his large hand on my sharp jawline, and I move in with abrupt, hot force at the same time. Our lips crush together, and his chest melds against my chest. I clutch the back of his head, my pulse thrumming.
I’m going to marry the love of my life.
One day.
Someday.
Soon.
He smiles against my mouth while we kiss and play around for the lead. He tries to hook my leg with his ankle, but I careen my weight on him and wrestle for a better grip of his bicep.
And then I suddenly tear away—our lips breaking apart. “Fuck,” I swear as something wet laps my calf.
Slobber runs down my shin.
Farrow laughs while my family’s old Basset Hound jumps on my lap and barks in a carefree, overly joyous way like he did not just ruin one hell of a kiss.
“Hey, Gotham.” I scratch behind his floppy ears, and I glance at Farrow. “Sorry, man.”
His smile slowly turns to a frown. “Why are you apologizing? It’s not like I’m dog-averse.”
At first, I thought every time he playedfetchwith Gotham, it was so the dog would run away. But the more he’s around the Basset Hound, the more I realize he’s been training him to actuallycome backwhen he throws a ball. Because Gotham hasn’t always been great at fetch. Farrow will even reward him with treats or encouraging pets.
“I know you like dogs.” I tense. “It’s just…a lot. And bya lot, I mean all of this.” I gesture around my childhood bedroom. To the racks of comics, the family dog, and the twinbed with a goddamn Spider-Man comforter.
We haven’t even bought a queen-sized one. Some nights, we blow up an air mattress. Other nights, we squeeze together on the bed underneath Peter Parker sheets—sheets that I had as ateenager.Out of everything, buying a new mattress just hasn’t been a high priority.
For either of us.
But living back in my childhood house is weird.
