He knows what he wants.
I like that.
It’s making this easier, and God’s honest truth, I’d like to take a whole century to plan this wedding. But we’re on a strict deadline.
Originally, we planned to marry in a couple years. No rush. And then everything changed when Jane and Thatcher got engaged. I didn’t want my best friend to push back her wedding, just so I can marry Farrow first. She hates the idea of stealing my spotlight, and even if I protested a thousand times over, I know Jane. She’d wait decades for me. That’s just who she is.
I don’t want her to wait, so Farrow and I decided to move up our wedding date to this year, this winter.
Farrow points to a dark green. “Yes or no?”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“This is your wedding too.” He wants me to have an input.
I nod, but my gaze drifts to the chalkboard wall. Where around two-hundred scrawled names are stacked in columns, almost reaching the ceiling.
My stomach knots. “What the invitations go in are actually less stressful than who they’re going to.” Our guest list has been steadily growing. I have a large family.
Farrow has friends from undergrad and medical school. More friends than me.
“Do you think your father will come?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He spins the Sharpie between his fingers, but his gaze is on the name: Edward Keene. “But probably more as a professional courtesy.”
I wish his father could love him as deeply as a father should love a son.
We’re quiet, the only sound coming from Gotham gnawing on kibble, and my teeth grind as I zero in on another name.
Samantha Calloway
My blue-blooded, socialite grandmother, who’s been worse than a thorn to me and Jane recently.
“What’s wrong?” Farrow asks me.
“Empedocles.” I bring up the Greek philosopher again. “He said, ‘There are some forces in nature called Love and Hate. The force of Love causes elements to be attracted to each other and to be built up into some particular form or person, and the force of Hate causes the decomposition of things.’ And when I think about my grandmother, I think of Hate.” I shake my head a couple times. “I’m worried that her hatred will ruin our wedding.”
His brows spike. “We don’t have to invite her. Fuck, I don’t even want her there.”
“Neither do I, but she’s my mom’s mother. Plus, leaving her off the list but inviting my grandfather—her husband—it’s not going to blow over well. And she sent us that fucking card.” It said, I look forward to your nuptials.
He leans back. “It was lazy and trite. My nephew could’ve been more sincere, and I’ve barely talked to him.” He picks himself off the floor and approaches the black-painted wall. No hesitation, he smudges her name away with the side of his fist. Farrow glances back at me. “Okay?”
I nod, breathing stronger. “It feels right.”
Farrow doesn’t return to the floor. He rests his shoulders on the wall, and he looks…is he nervous? Farrow drags his gaze for half a second before planting his brown eyes on me. “I don’t want to stress you out.”
I’m just confused—and the more he towers above, the more I hate being below. So I stand up. “Did something happen?” My shoulders square.
“No.” He almost smiles. “This isn’t one of your doomsdays.” He pauses. “At least not to me. I’m not completely sure what you’ll think.”
“Just tell me, man.”
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 marrying you, 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 to three 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 world outside 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 careful not to 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.
My lip rises.
I “heart” his photo, and I scroll onto a pic of Oscar Oliveira outside Buckingham Palace. The caption: today #SFO #KitsuwonSecurities
He was in London last week. Leave it to the most tactical bodyguard to use social media to throw off fans and paparazzi about his client’s location.
I “heart” his pic too and keep scrolling.