Page 41 of Alphas Like Us

“Aren’t you supposed to be reading to me?” I ask Farrow as he clutches a paperback in one hand,mypaperback, and flips a page. “You know,out loud.” I sit up as best I can on the firm hospitalbed.

Farrow has claimed a seat at the end of mybed.

My bare legs stretch over his lap. One of his inked hands moves up and down my leg, settling on my kneecap for a few seconds before movingagain.

“I’m saving you from a dull read, wolf scout.” He flips anotherpage.

He’d say everythingon this planet is a dull read because he rarely reads, and he already folded the cover and dog-earred the pages just to irritateme.

“I’ve read that philosophy book before,” I tellhim.

His eyes flit to me, a spark of amusement in them. “I know. You have a hard-on for Cicero. There are little highlight marks and scribbles on basically everyline.”

I almost smile, and I lick my dry lips. “Noteveryfuckingline.”

He flashes the page he’s on. It’s annotated to hell andback.

“Fine,” I concede. “I like Cicero.” I lie on top of the hospital sheets, my throbbing right arm secured in a loose sling. A thin blue hospital gown reaches my thighs and hides the reddish-bluish bruises that mar my abs andchest.

My sore body thuds in a harsh rhythm like I’ve been run over a billion-and-one times, but I have the best distraction in front ofme.

“He loves Cicero,” Farrow repeats as he skims thebook.

“Likes,” Icorrect.

His biceps look ripped in a Yale T-shirt, but the crew-neck conceals the symmetrical pirate ships on his collarbones and inked skull on his sternum. He said he gave Winona his black button-down for her busted lip, so he ended up borrowing the shirt from Oscar’s gymbag.

Farrow flips another page. His speed-reading is fuckingannoying.

Another pageturns.

More seriously, he asks me, “Why do you likehim?”

“You jealous?” I try my hand at teasing myboyfriend.

His brows slowly lift at me like I’m the geekiest fucking geek that ever did geek. “Of a dead Romanphilosopher?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” he says like I’ve lost my mind. “There’s no competition living or dead.” He skims the nextpage.

I try to shift my arm, but pain shoots up my shoulder. I bite down and stay still, and if Farrow can tell I’m hurting, he doesn’t nagme.

ThankGod.

I already have two enormously worried parents who stopped by about fifteen minutes ago. My mom brought a towering stack of my favorite comics and philosophy texts. To help distract me from the pain while I wait for news about surgery on mycollarbone.

She also gave Farrow a tight hug and had to “air hug” me. And my dad—he was choked up, glassy-eyed. They’re just grateful I’m alive. The paramedics told them that if Farrow didn’t release air from my lungs, I probably would’ve died before theyarrived.

But if you know my dad at all, he’s a hard sell. Saving my life is like half-a-brownie point. For my mom, Farrow earned every brownie that ever existed in everyuniverse.

I watch my boyfriend flip another page. “Cicero is timeless,” I tell him, trying to explain what’s always hard for me:why do I like x, y, z?I have too many reasons, and they all jumble together at once. “…a lot of thinkers and theorists derive from his ideas and philosophy.” I pause. “He wasn’t perfect, but he fought against a Roman dictatorship…and I think he would’ve been Plato’s idealphilosopher.”

Farrow raises the book somewhat, just to read, “‘However short your life may be, it will still be long enough to live honestly and decently.’” He looks at me. “Sounds likeyou.”

“Maybe,” I say, thinking hard, “but what if I want to live longer at the risk of being lessdecent?”

Farrow sucks in a breath, his hand stopping on my knee again. “You’re posing that philosophical question to the wrongman.”