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One with me.
“Happiness,” I nod to Orion, who tries to circle around me again. I watch my hyper puppy and try to smile. “You think he’ll reject me again?”
It hurt the first time, even if I didn’t intend to ask him on a date.
Now, I am.
“I’ll pose it as a friendship thing,” I declare. “He’ll know exactly where I stand up front.” I can’t see Donnelly saying no to a friendship outing, but my history with the Wawa invite doesn’t bode well for me.
Still, I don’t know who else I would choose for the triple date.
He’s my first choice.
“Papa!” I hear a fierce baby wail from my nephew, and I rush out of my bedroom. “Pah-pah!”
Orion chases after my heels. Is Farrow hurt? He’s Papa to Ripley—at least, he has been for a while now. Probably because Farrow used to say papa the most, and Moffy said dad when talking about each other. Ripley must’ve associated papa with Farrow and dad with Moffy, and now it’s stuck. My brother and brother-in-law can’t change that, and I think they’re both perfectly happy that their son chose their fatherly titles in the end.
Closing in on the kitchen, I skid to a stop. Ripley sobs in his high-chair, flour dusting his baby cheeks. It looks like he dropped a ball of dough but it’s already back on his tray. Half the kitchen counter is caked with flour and dough, and Farrow is trying to sweep broken glass from the floor, along with thorny flower stems and pink roses.
A vase must’ve fallen.
Farrow dumps glass into the trash bin.
“Rip,” Moffy tries to soothe. “You’re okay. Your papa is okay.”
Ripley cries at the flour on his hands. Kids will cry at anything and nothing at all.
“You know what this is, right?” Moffy asks in his usual tough but warm tone. “What is it called?” He touches the powdery substance on the tray.
“Fower,” he cries and hiccups.
“Yep, it’s just flour.”
“Flour can’t hurt you, little man,” Farrow tells their son. “Look, your dad has the same affliction.”
Moffy rotates to his husband, just as Farrow blows flour off his palm and at Moffy’s face. White powder coats his hair and an unamused expression.
I laugh, and Ripley hears, head swinging back to me. Our smiles match before he giggles loudly.
“Thank you for that affliction,” Maximoff tells Farrow flatly, but the love my brother wields for Farrow is so clear within his green eyes, even in his sarcasm.
Farrow is smiling wide. “Anytime, wolf scout.” He thumbs the flour on Moffy’s jaw. “You have a little something.”
“So do you.” He presses his hand in the flour on the counter, and Farrow lets him smear the flour down his black V-neck.
Ripley plays in the flour instead of fearing it, and they’re laughing.
This is why I don’t want to leave. Two of my favorite people and my nephew—I’d miss this happy moment. Though, I know I’m just a witness, not a participant. Not yet anyway.
“Luna,” Moffy sees me and smiles.
While Eliot and Tom are supernovas, in threat of burning too bright at any moment, any time—my older brother is the eternal star inside my universe.
He is everlasting.
I smile back, just as Thatcher enters the kitchen with a heavy-duty trash bag, and I have trouble spotting Jane behind her towering husband.
“Watch the glass, honey,” he tells her.
I think she’s having difficulty not helping.
“Who broke the vase?” I wonder.
“Farrow,” Moffy says too quickly.
Farrow stares at him with rising brows. “Maybe you shouldn’t try to lie if you’re terrible at it.”
“I’m not lying, man.”
Farrow slings his head to me with casualness. “True story: your brother got a little too excited and smacked Thatcher’s sympathy flowers off the counter, which I tried to catch—”
“I tried to catch them too,” Maximoff tells me like this is an important detail.
Farrow cocks his head at Moffy like he’s a precious bean.
“I believe Farrow,” I say, taking his side. Partially because it riles my brother and pushes him closer to Farrow. He glares at his husband. His husband laughs.
Nerves suddenly swarm me again. Will Farrow be okay with me asking Donnelly on a friendship date? Will my brother?
I have no earthly idea, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.
“Uh-oh,” Ripley says, seeing Orion before I do. My dog attempts to steal a pepperoni off the round breakfast table. Pizza toppings like banana peppers, mushrooms, and cheese are already placed in bowls.
“Orion, bad boy.” I try to catch him, but he bounces out of my hands and eats the pepperoni.
One pepperoni down.
My face heats red, especially as Arkham—Farrow and Moffy’s Newfie—just dutifully lies beside Ripley’s high-chair.
I realize that Orion’s bad manners are a reflection of my parenting skills, and it’s not looking great for me.
Another knock on the failure list.
Jane slips to the left of Thatcher, a hand on her round belly. “Luna—”
