“In a little bit,” I say. “I like watching you.” I force down the rock in my esophagus. “We need to talk.”
“About last night?”
“Yeah.” My eyes stay on him.
He swallows hard. “A minute ago, when Arkham got scared of the water, you said ‘we have another overthinker in the family’. In the family…That family is me and you, right?”
Slight hurt creases my face, just knowing he’s questioning this. “Wow, did you bump your head on the diving board?”
“I just need to hear it from you, man.”
“Yes,” I emphasize. “That brown bear is our overthinking puppy who’s afraid of the pool. And he’s a part of our family.”
He nods strongly. “Who’s in our family, Farrow?”
I see more of where he’s going. I comb a hand through my hair and set aside my radio. “Me and you, obviously. Plus, that furball.” I nod towards the Newfoundland. “And Ripley and however many more kids we have in the future. That’s our family.”
“For how long?” Maximoff questions. “Because I can’t ignore the fact that Scottie only has five years left of his sentence, and there’s a possibility he could be released earlier on parole and take Ripley. And I keep thinking that a Newfoundland has a life expectancy of around ten years, and we could lose Ripley before we lose a fucking dog.”
“Ripley isn’t dying.”
Our baby makes a fart noise with his lips, and we break into soft smiles, despite the sinking feeling in my gut.
Maximoff rubs the black tungsten band on his ring finger, and I glance at the gray titanium wedding band on mine. We’ll be taking these off soon, only to slip them on each other, and I’m making unbreakable vows to him in Capri.
I’ve already vowed to love and protect him long before we even proposed. Shit, if I could’ve, I would’ve been at his side earlier. Before I even became a bodyguard.
But that’s not where our paths slammed together and converged.
Our eyes meet again.
He lowers his voice. “Scottie could do anything with him. Move to another state, file-restraining orders against us, extort us—who the fuck knows. He has all the power once he’s out, and it could be like Ripley doesn’t even exist anymore. And I know you’re going to tell me, you can’t dwell on that and just focus on the good now and the present moment with him—”
“I’m not,” I cut him off, this conversation burning holes in my body.
His brows scrunch. “What?”
“I’m not telling you to block out the future, wolf scout. You’re right, I don’t do this—I don’t dwell on shit I can’t control, but I haven’t been able to stop lately. And I don’t care that I can’t because even through the fucking pain, I’d rather envision a future where he exists with us.”
Maximoff inhales. “I want that future too.” His eyes redden. “I’ve fallen in love with our son, and I don’t know if I can lose him in five days. Five years. Five centuries. Especially knowing Scottie could be a harm to his fucking life. We have to protect him.”
“We’re going to protect our family,” I say easily. “There’s not a reality, or one of your alternate realities, where we wouldn’t.”
“Universes,” he corrects.
I smile. “Whatever.” I splash some water at his waist, the air lighter.
I’ve always been shit at preventing storms. Better at handling a crisis once it comes. But I don’t just want to mitigate the loss and hurt once it’s arrived. Not with this.
I might need his survival gear. A life raft and flare, and I’m sure he’ll pack ten extra. That’s just what Wolf Scouts do.
While Ripley lets go of the ledge and tries to float (Maximoff helping), I scroll through my phone and put on a playlist.
Ripley starts to sob as “Far Behind” by Candlebox blasts from the speakers.
Come on.
I give Maximoff a look. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He has a smug smile. “Sorry, man, but a baby even recognizes how awful your music taste is.”
“Laugh now, but this might be the song for our first dance.”
“No.” He winces. “Christ, just pour gasoline in my veins and light me on fire.”
I scroll through the playlist. “That would kill you and I’m not marrying a corpse—”
He tries to steal my phone.
I hold the cell above his head and press a song with my thumb. Ripley blubbers in confusion, not sure how he feels about this one. “When you’re older,” I tell him, “you’re going to love 90s rock and then together we can give your papa a lot of shit.”
“You’ll need the backup.” Maximoff smiles. “Your come-backs could use an assist.”
I roll my eyes. He’s on fucking fire today, and he grabs my wrist to lower the phone. Just to see the song and artist. “You like this one?” I ask him.
“I hate it,” he says seriously. “What kind of band is named Butthole Surfers?”