And three floors below, Akara, Banks, Donnelly, and Quinn moved in together. Fucking expensive, but Kitsuwon Securities pays for housing, and I’m sure our pay-cut helps afford my Hell’s Kitchen studio and the 30th floor apartment.
Whenever I’m off-duty, I like coming here.
Just to be with the people I’m missing.
Thatcher Moretti is grilling burgers and sausages, the smell making my stomach growl, and my gaze drifts over to my baby brother.
Quinn has been doing sit-ups and planks. Thank the Lord he hasn’t wanted to rip my head off the past couple of weeks. Just what I need, a war with my brother while all this other shit is happening.
“Horses are walked,” Donnelly calls, coming through the sliding doors and unclipping leashes on the two Newfoundland puppies.
“Thanks!” Luna shouts from the pool. Orion is her hyper dog, and he’s chasing his tail in a circle. I reach for my two paperbacks that I’m in the middle of reading and notice Farrow looking bummed at the sliding glass door.
Donnelly isn’t who he wanted to see.
I laugh into a grin.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says into his swig of beer. “Weren’t you just sending cry-face emojis to Jack?”
I’m still grinning. “Says the cry-face emoji next to me. Don’t worry, Redford, the Husband will be back. He didn’t drown in the toilet. He knows how to swim out of shit.”
Farrow shakes his head but he’s laughing. “You’re one of the wittiest fuckers I know.” I have a quip for that, but his features turn more serious in a beat, and he tells me, “I’m almost mad at him. You deserve so much better than the mind games he’s making you play.”
“I don’t think it’s intentional,” I defend. “It’s Jack. When has he ever been cruel to anyone?”
Farrow nods a couple times.
I nod back, understanding that he’s looking out for me exactly how I’d look out for him. Farrow and I don’t have to dive into the weeds in order to get deep. With few words, we reach that place, and we both drink our beers and bathe in the hot summer sun.
I’m glad to have good friends that’ll be with me when I crash and burn.
Besides my job in security, it’s about the only thing I have going for me right now.
I decide between my paperbacks I’ve read countless times: The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck and Laura Esquivel’s Like Water For Chocolate. Choosing the former, I find the dog-eared spot, and I don’t get far before Farrow and I talk about our clients.
How Maximoff and Charlie seemed more like actual fist-bumping friends at the lake house last week. They sat on the dock talking for about an hour. All of us on SFO theorized about what:
“Religion,” Banks guessed.
“Sports,” Thatcher said.
Akara nodded. “Sports.”
“Dingle-berries,” Donnelly said.
Everyone laughed.
“Plato, probably,” Farrow threw out.
“Ditto, add in Confucius,” I said.
“Who’s Confucius?” Quinn asked.
My baby brother. He should’ve gone to college. I bit my tongue from saying that one because that definitely would’ve ignited an Oliveira Civil War.
At the rooftop pool, I say to Farrow, “Remember the tour bus days when they were in each other’s face?” Feels like eons ago. It’s been over a year.
“If you mean Charlie getting in Maximoff’s face, then yeah, I remember that.”
It’s not complete revisionist history.
I don’t always defend Charlie—he provokes on purpose, especially Farrow’s husband which puts me and my friend in hard spots. But back then, I know Maximoff’s short-fuse didn’t help. Being Charlie’s bodyguard lets me see his perspective better than most ever could.
“Speaking of the Husband,” I say as Maximoff enters with a volleyball and his sixth-month-old propped on his waist. Ripley has a happy-go-lucky smile in his papa’s arms, sun hat shading his fair Irish skin. We all celebrated Ripley’s adoption at the lake house last week, and I’ve never seen the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalt parents cry so much at once.
Joy is a feeling I live for, and my joyful ass cried too.
Farrow smiles wider. “Miss me, wolf scout?”
“Who?” Maximoff feigns confusion, tossing the volleyball to Sulli, then stepping into the pool with the baby. His tattoo on his bicep is in full view. Farrow’s name. He got Farrow’s name tattooed on his arm. Almost couldn’t believe it when I saw it. But then again, yeah I can. He’s really in love with my best friend.
“Hey, Hale,” I cut in before they launch into five-minute flirty insults. “Did Charlie tell you the reason he wants a docuseries filmed about his life?” Now that they’re chit-chatting