Blast to the past, Donnelly used to live with me in New York, while on Beckett’s detail, and if anyone asked, I’d probably say he’s the worst roommate and to give me someone else—just to fuck with him. But he’s not that bad. We saw each other every week. Almost every day.
I miss that.
It’s lonely being the only Omega bodyguard in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Donnelly replies. “I’m almost back in PA.” His South Philly lilt comes out strong. “Just made a mandatory pitstop at Wawa. Where you at?”
“Plane bathroom. Sitting on the rose gold shitter.”
He laughs lowly. “Charlie whisk you off to Neverland again?”
“Second star to the right.”
“Let me guess, let me guess. Dubai.”
“Way off, bro,” I say. “Paris.” We can play off each other to annoyance, just ask Farrow, and before we get carried away, I add, “I’m serious though. Why were you at the lake house this morning?”
“Yeah, about that…” Donnelly’s tone sobers. “I need to tell you before everyone else hears.”
My body goes cold. “Tell me what?”
“You know my Uncle Scottie?”
“Yeah…” I’m caging breath.
“I’ve been visiting him in prison, and I finally got him to let Farrow and Maximoff adopt Ripley. So I brought the papers to the lake house.”
“What?” I’m choked.
Emotion tunnels through me. Warring together. I clasp a hand over my eyes that well. Happiness for my best friend. Farrow and Maximoff are adopting their son. Deep weighted concern for my other best friend. What the hell did Donnelly do?
“Paul…” I scrape my hand from my eyes to my mouth, and my chest collapses. I don’t want to diminish the magnitude of what he did for Farrow, who’s practically the reason Donnelly is living and breathing—though Farrow will never say this to anyone.
I hear him sniff, choked too. “Don’t call me that, man. The name’s Donnelly.” His voice is trying to lighten.
“It’s amazing…what you gave him.” Motherfuck, I’m crying. I wipe my face. “But, bro, what’d you do?” My chin nearly shakes.
He comes from a meth-addicted family. All of them are in prison, except for his father who was recently released.
All I can think is that he convinced Scottie to terminate his parental rights by agreeing to something. So what exactly did Donnelly agree to?
“It’s alright,” he says. “Like I told Farrow, I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Now I’m worried,” I tell him. “He didn’t ask you to push drugs?”
“It’s not anything with drugs. I’m good. It’s all good. Nuthin’ I can’t handle.”
I rub my wet eyes and swallow the rock in my throat. “Can we do anything to help you? I get you keeping shit from Redford while he’s on his honeymoon, but I’m on a motherfucking plane. I can’t kick your ass if I’m in a different country. Bro, this is the perfect time to come clean.”
He laughs softly, but the noise fades.
Leaving heavy silence.
I close my eyes slowly, my grip on the cell intensifying. He’s not going to say anything. “Donnelly—”
“It was worth it.”
Is that the measure of our actions? Whether they’re worth something for the people we care about?
A text pings my phone the same time he says, “I’ve gotta go, Oscar. I’m on-duty soon, and I need to check in with Thatcher.”
“Call me tomorrow?”
“Sure thing. Hey, have a crepe for me. Miss those fuckers.” Only Donnelly would call a crepe a fucker.
We say our short goodbyes, and I check my text messages.
Cancelled the Craigslist meet-up. Still looking around for places. Know anyone in NYC? – Baby Sis
I mutter to myself, “What is it with these teenagers and Craigslist.” Between her and Tom, Christ. I formulate a text. I already called my sister and talked her out of the Craigslist roommate.
And I learned she doesn’t want to live at home anymore because she’s A.) nineteen, and B.) employed as a pro-boxer, and C.) sick of our strict dad who pushes her too much as her trainer and father.
Mostly, it’s C.
Her going head-to-head with our dad concerns me, so I want her out of there too. It’d be healthier for both of them.
Which is why I said, come live with me, again.
She said, you live down the hall from the most obnoxious Cobalt boy. I’ll pass. I thought she meant Charlie, but then she told me, Beckett.
I love that she hates him because he’s been trying to hit on my sister since Scotland. And I know what kinds of clubs Beckett goes to, and I don’t want my baby sis anywhere near that.
Right now, I send her a new text: I know one person in NYC who has a place. Me. Offer is still open. And the apartment is all paid for. You can take the bed. I’ll take the pull-out.
Will it be inconvenient? Yeah.
But there are some inconveniences that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s a bed, not a college diploma I’m forsaking.
I’m about to put my phone away, but I rub the wet streaks off my face with my shirt and decide to take my mind off everything for a few minutes.
Popping open Instagram, I scroll through Faith’s profile. I’ve been seeing her off and on for the past couple months. Nothing serious. Her hair is dyed a pale purple, and she blows kisses with her hand in most of the pics. No captions, just a couple heart emojis.
Sleeping with her has been fun, but that’s all it really is. Nothing there beyond the surface. Against my sanity, I click out of her profile and type in Jack’s username.
I may have dug around for that info.
JackStuckOnThe405 pops up. His profile is curated with beautiful landscape shots of Philly and LA, but it’s his selfies that get me. His bone structure is can’t-tear-your-eyes-away stunning, and I’m almost shocked he’s never been an actual model considering all the time he’s been in the industry in California.
I skim his bright hundred-watt smile.
I grin back, then cringe.
Holy shit, I’m torturing myself.
I log out of Instagram.
Fuck this.
I delete the
