I’m usually the one carrying Luna’s backpack for her as we deboard. The one keeping a protective hand on Xander’s shoulder, while Kinney proudly claims she needs zero assistance and the media flock our parents.
Now they’re flocking me.
“Maximoff, who’s walking down the aisle?!”
“Are you writing vows, Farrow?!”
The sky is bright blue, wind whipping in a cool July afternoon, and no clouds are overhead the docked ferry. My family is scattered around but clustered close enough. All of us waiting to board the boat that’ll bring us to the Island of Capri.
My socialite grandmother is somewhere here. She hasn’t said a word to us, not even when we left Philly. Farrow and I prefer it that way.
“Don’t you dare push me in the water, Richard,” Aunt Rose warns her husband, her voice carrying in the breeze. I can feel my uncle’s billion-dollar grin across the dock.
“I’m starving,” Ben groans.
“I have extra trail mix in my backpack,” Winona replies.
Their words are distant, almost faded behind the tabloid questions.
I’ve separated myself a bit from my cousins and siblings while cameramen shove to be closer to me and Farrow. I don’t want them dealing with that shit, but my best friend and her fiancé said, to hell with that, and they stand with us on the dock.
“Nove del mattino,” Jane says on the phone. “Si, grazie.” To say she’s a good wedding planner is a major understatement. She learned some Italian just to communicate more efficiently with local vendors.
Thatcher has an affectionate hand on her head as he surveys the extra security. Bodyguards are working hard to push media back from our spot. Any cameramen that try to breach their defenses are met with Thatcher and Farrow’s harsh threats and my sharp glare.
“Shhh,” I whisper to Ripley, bouncing him a bit, and I press a kiss to his head. He’s been crying nonstop. I look at Farrow. “Maybe you should try the scarf thing again. It distracted him before.”
Oscar gave us a blue scarf to conceal Ripley from the camera flashes. But our son was more interested in what Farrow did with the scarf on the plane.
“Okay,” Farrow says, grabbing the rolled scarf out of his back pocket. He wraps the fabric around his neck and hides his lips.
“Rip, look.” I point at Farrow. “What’s your dad doing?”
He sniffs, his crystal-blue eyes blinking on his dad.
Farrow draws down the scarf, his lips parted in a shocked O, and Ripley lets out a soft, uncertain laugh. So Farrow brings the scarf back up, then down. His lips are playfully downturned.
Ripley giggles more, entranced.
He does the peekaboo move again, only he gasps into a cheek-to-cheek, breathtaking smile. Ripley wiggles excitedly in my arms and looks up at me like, did you see that?
I saw him.
I’ve seen him.
My lungs flood.
Don’t turn into a maple tree.
Do not turn into a goddamn maple tree.
My mom loves mantras, and I think this is my pre-ceremony one.
“Meltdown averted,” Farrow says with the rise and lower of his brows.
A thought slams at me hard, and I lower my voice to tell him, “Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t have the Hale last name. He has no chance to be cursed.”
Farrow looks me over. “Have you been cursed yet? Because it still feels like bullshit to me.”
“We have a week. A lot can happen from now till then.”
33
MAXIMOFF HALE
6 days until the wedding
The private villas in Anacapri are a sanctuary for my family. Even if paparazzi have followed us all the way here, they can’t step foot on the property.
Our location might’ve been leaked and the media is a hassle, but I wouldn’t have picked a different place to marry Farrow. The coast is stop-in-your-tracks gorgeous.
Limestone crags jut out of the vibrant aqua sea, and the sky looks unreal. Like bright blue gelato that you want to scoop and taste. Sweet and refreshing.
At the main villa, robust columns line a walkway to the entrance. Foliage spindling and centuries old trees shading the lavish pool and Jacuzzi. Renaissance sculptures and rose bushes decorate the courtyard, and for our first breakfast, almost everyone is here. Under umbrellas. Crostatas and espressos are spread over the glass circular tables.
Scenery aside, it’s been a relatively peaceful morning. Except for one unfortunate thing five tables away.
Kaden Simmons is here for breakfast. He’s sipping a cappuccino and chatting with my mom’s therapist.
On one hand, I’m glad my dad is making sure he has the support he needs—especially during the stress of traveling.
On the other, I’d like nothing more than to leave Kaden Simmons across the ocean. Better yet, in the ocean. He can go make friends with dolphins and sea creatures and find a new home down in Atlantis for all I care.
Part of me wants to still be firmly in the camp of don’t rock the boat and that boat happens to be the one my dad is living in. Which means I shouldn’t say anything about Kaden. My mouth has been shut for months.