I hate that I’m derailing the Hale camaraderie. But I’m older, more practical. We’re about to move. Jane has a fuck ton of cats, and we’re already having to introduce a baby to her seven felines. Now two puppies?
Not to mention, this isn’t just my choice.
I turn to Farrow. If we agree to this, then that means we become pet owners. We just became fathers.
He’s grinning at me and he lifts his shoulders. “Why not?”
“Newfoundlands can weigh up to two-hundred pounds, man.”
“That’s not a problem,” he says easily. “Are they good with kids?”
“Yes!” everyone shouts.
Jesus.
I’m smiling. “Yeah.”
“Sounds perfect.” He raises his brows up and down in a wave. “Let’s get a dog, wolf scout.”
Today is too surreal.
I think I slipped in the shed. Hit my head. Fell down into Alice’s Wonderland or something. Because it’s midnight and two brown and two black Newfoundland puppies hop playfully around my parent’s living room.
Ripley is somehow awake. And he’s in heaven, giggling and catching onto brown fur as the puppy licks his cheek.
That’s when I know we made the right choice. And I feel a lot like my dad. So I find myself next to him near the kitchen doorway.
He’s been eating a soft shell chicken taco and watching Luna, Xander, and Kinney play with their new puppies.
The two black-furred dogs belong to Luna and Kinney. And then Xander chose a brown-furred puppy, and I took the one that was left, which Ripley keeps holding on to.
“I’m surprised you didn’t even hesitate to say yes this time,” I say to my dad. “Especially since you now have two dogs.”
He swallows a bite of taco. “It’s kind of like after I had you, bud. I did it once, and I knew I could do it three more times.” He smiles more, and I can tell he’s at a better place. “What are you naming him anyway?”
I start laughing.
His amber eyes are like knives. “No. Not Bruce or Wayne, or god-forbid the fucking Batman.” He’s squeezing the life out of his taco. “He doesn’t even have a goddamn power. He goes out and plays dress up at night—”
“You’re killing your taco, Dad.”
He loosens his grip.
I explain to him how we all agreed on naming the puppies after places. He missed this conversation while making dinner, but he knows that Luna and I have male dogs, and Kinney and Xander have females. I tell him, “Kinney has Salem. Xander has Erebor. Luna has Orion. And Farrow and I named ours Arkham, after—”
“Arkham Asylum.”
A location in Gotham City.
I wanted to pay homage to my Basset Hound, in some way, and Farrow came up with the name after flipping through some DC comics.
My dad blinks like his brain short-circuited. He reanimates and licks hot sauce off his thumb. “He’s now Ham Junior. Sorry not sorry.” He flashes a half-smile.
I laugh, and the noise fades as my smile grows. My dad and I watch my son and my soon-to-be husband. Farrow is video-recording Ripley as he hugs onto Arkham.
I want this to last.
I want him forever.
I feel guilty for wishing it, and I almost drop my head. My dad has a hand on my shoulder and softly says, “It’ll be okay, bud.”
29
MAXIMOFF HALE
The six of us—me, Farrow, Jane, Thatcher, Sulli, and Luna—stand at the expansive wall of windows in a spacious, unfurnished living room. And we stare out at the sunny cityscape.
On the 33rd floor, the penthouse is a massive 9,000 square feet in Center City. Six bedrooms. Seven baths. A private elevator entrance, library, game room, and rooftop terrace. It’s extravagant, colossal, and probably obnoxious.
And it’s all ours.
“It doesn’t seem real,” Jane whispers.
Thatcher puts his hands atop her head, protectively. “I didn’t think you two would ever choose this.” He means me and Janie.
I slide an arm around Farrow’s shoulders, and a smile plays at his lips. I’ve heard all about the house-hunting mission with Thatcher.
Even sifted through the apartment listings they visited. And none of them came close to this square footage. An alternate universe exists somewhere, and the six of us are living in just a normal apartment. With normal amenities and rundown appliances.
But I like this reality.
I talked for a long while with Jane. Being filthy rich has always felt different than living like the filthy rich. I’ve avoided staring directly at my wealth because I don’t need much. Don’t want much.
The older I get, the more I’m accepting the fact that I can change. And I am changing.
Even if you want me to stay the same.
I can be happy in a shoebox or a mansion, but I find myself wanting to give them the world. Farrow and our little boy. I’m not going to beat myself up for choosing a penthouse.
I’m just not.
“Be careful, wolf scout,” Farrow whispers, our eyes fastening with a strong jolt of affection. “Your happiness is showing.”