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Remember when I said that thing about understanding the power and bond of a sibling? That’s because I always wanted a brother.
I fell into some luck, and I ended up getting two.
“Mystery Girl?” Farrow asks, seeing my phone.
Illy is a mystery. To them and to me. But Mystery Girl is what they’ve been calling the date I’m bringing on Friday.
It’s Wednesday, so our triple date is looming a lot closer.
“Mysterious something,” I climb up a few steps.
Oscar outstretches his arm to me. “What’s with your cagey ass not spilling more details? I can’t survive off crumbs.”
I suddenly hear Loren Hale in my head.
“I could stand here and tell you how you’re nothing. Nobody. I’ve ripped bigger careers away from wealthier people and dined on their ugly despair. You’re not even a snack I could gnaw on. You’re a goddamn crumb. And you’re not special to me. Don’t ever think you are.”
I blink his voice away, those words staying with me for too long. He said all that to me after I tattooed Luna when he asked me not to.
I rest on the stairwell banister. “All I’ve got are crumbs.”
“A name?” Oscar begs.
“Could be a Daphne, a Jasmine, a Tracey, but she’s not a Barbra or a Betty.”
“That’s not a crumb; that’s air,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. He’s not wrong. I’m doling out nothing because my date should stay a secret.
Oscar stares me down. “You’re killing me here. Legitimately.”
“That’s alright. Dr. Farrow will save you.”
“Dr. Hale,” Farrow corrects.
“Dr. Kale.” I mispronounce and motion him over to Oscar. “Stethoscope. Stat. He’s dyin’ on us. Can’t you see how ugly he’s starting to look?”
“That’s just Oliveira’s regular face.”
“Fuck you too, Redford,” Oscar says, trying not to laugh. “I’m the hottest fucker here.”
Neither are on Fanaticon, but in a “hot bodyguard” poll on the We Are Calloway forum, fans ranked Oscar below Farrow. Quinnie was #1, as always. Our little Casanova.
And me—I came dead last out of SFO.
Didn’t take it to heart. It’s hard to even be in the middle of the pack when all of us could grace a GQ cover if we really wanted.
My ego doesn’t bruise easily.
“You saving the hottest fucker or letting him die?” I ask Farrow.
He sucks in a breath. “Oliveira is maxed out on saves.”
“Like you’ve ever had to save my ass from near death, Redford.”
“And I don’t plan on ever having to.”
I grin, and Oscar does too. The three of us have more in common than stepping foot on the same Yale campus. They’re inhaling the same pure-grade self-reliance I am. Makes sense why we’ve all found ourselves in the same career. Same sphere.
Finally, Oscar gives up the Mystery Girl. “You know what, fine. I’ll get a real meal upstairs. I’m motherfucking starving, and I smell food.”
I don’t follow him.
Farrow is the one who stays a little longer on the stairs while Oscar pushes further ahead.
No matter where or how far back I am, Farrow has always found a way at my side when I need him. He’s my cool as shit brother who I love to tease ‘cause I’m just as cool, and like me, he rarely takes anything personally.
Life’s freeing in his company. Life should be like that for everyone, I believe.
I nod up to him. “How’s the baby-making going?”
His lips rise. “Are you asking about my sex life or about MK’s pregnancy?”
“Whatever you wanna tell me.” I climb higher on the staircase, only a step below Farrow.
He combs a casual hand through his hair. Strands dyed black again, he tips his head in thought, a smile spreading. “Sex with Maximoff is always amazing, and the surrogacy is still going smooth. For the most part.”
Millie Kay Miller is their surrogate. Farrow is going to have another baby—and that seems more than right. He’s the father we both wished we had. Always knew he’d be a great one, especially to Ripley.
His son has those Donnelly genes. But I’d like to think DNA means nothing, really. Who you’re surrounded by means more.
And Farrow loves him with all his being. I know he’d do anything for his son. Including decking a camera guy for getting too close.
Happened last week.
“Something’s off with MK?” I ask since he said for the most part.
“We love MK,” Farrow explains. “She’s just putting a lot of pressure on herself as the due date closes in.”
December, Baby Hale is supposed to arrive. I got it on my calendar. “Why’s that?”
“Because she’s carrying a ‘famous’ baby.” He uses air quotes. “I told her that shit doesn’t matter, but Maximoff and I can’t control the media. There’s a hundred-percent chance the birth will be publicized by some dipshit in Philly General finding out or our cars being seen.”
I know Farrow is already tired of answering media questions about whose sperm and what egg made the baby. It’s public knowledge that it’s Farrow’s sperm, Jane’s egg, and media and public are trying to invalidate my friend and his husband. Saying shit like, “It’s Jane’s baby. It’s going to look just like her.”
