Page 106 of Headstrong Like Us

“What?” I glance over at him, light and shadows from the TV dancing over our faces.

“You’re really into this movie.” He smiles at me, then focuses on the television. “It’s cute.”

Heat bathes my neck, and I turn my head forward. Trying to maintain concentration on the film. I want to tell Farrow that he’s looking at the wrong guy. I’m scorching hot, not cute. But the movie does draw me in.

A ton.

We’re quiet, just watching a love story between two guys, and the only time my eyes dart to Farrow is when Elio pries out the pit of a peach. Confusion knots my brows, and Farrow chews a piece of gum, completely at ease and unflinching.

And I’m watching further and further, as Oliver comes in and sits on the bed, teasing Elio over the peach, wrestling with more than limbs. Vulnerability, fear, love—and something…something about the whole scene just fuckingpummelsme.

I start crying.

Not silent tears or one wet streak. I’mbawlinginvoluntary tears, more than I ever have, and they come from a place I don’t understand. Because I’m not angry. Hot-blooded frustration is usually a current that sweeps away my tears or accompanies them, but I’m the furthest thing from rage.

Farrow bows forward to try and see my face, his hand consoling me, warm on my ribs, and his arm is still around my back.

To break this seal inside me takes actual conscious force, and yet, one film scene just struck a hammer to my emotions like I’m made of glass.

He hears me cry. “Maximoff?”

“I can’t,” I choke—I can’t stop crying.I’m embarrassed, and I start to pull away from him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Farrow breathes, his voice deep and reassuring. He strengthens his grip around my waist, and I want to ease back into him.

I cover my face with an iron hand, and my face twists, crying. At the same time that Farrow draws me back, I turn into his chest.

And I shudder against him, a sob spilling out of me. He cups the back of my neck, his fingers rising into my hair. “It’s okay,” Farrow whispers against my ear.

I shake my head.

Hot from embarrassment, and my eyes burn with incessant tears. I’m grasping onto his thigh with one palm, and I’ve yet to pry my other hand off my wet, splotchy face. Not until I force myself to wipe my running nose with my fist.

Farrow sees my struggle. He starts pulling off his black shirt. That action takes me back. So far back. To when he threw his shirt off a yacht for me, so I could staunch a nosebleed.

“No, don’t do that,” I cry, unable to fight the emotion that cascades down my jaw and soaks us both. And what he’s doing is just puncturing another dam, more tears.

I’m never going to stop crying.

There is no pent-up emotion to scream out. Everything flows from me like a rushing waterfall, and I can’t end it.

His strong hand encases my cheek, my jaw. “Just let go, okay?” His eyes are welled up. “You don’t need to be titanium.”

I feel like all I’m doing is letting go, but I understand what Farrow means in the next beat. I’m fighting his embrace, to let him hold me.

Scared that if I do, I’ll keep unraveling and bawling, and maybe that’s the point. Unravel. Cry like I’ve never cried before, because somewhere deep I wanted to and needed to—and he’s right there.

Right there.

I bury my face in the crook of his neck. Farrow pulls me against his body and holds me while I hold onto him, like I’m the wobbling buoy and he’s on a ship anchoring me.

I cry and cry. “Fuck,” I sob, drenching his shirt with snot and tears. “I don’t know why I’m…it just came out and…”

He strokes my head, my back. “You’re okay.” He sounds choked.

I lean back and see the tear tracks slipping down his jaw. He’s feeling what I’m feeling. We look into each other, and the intimacy of this moment settles in my body. Feather-light.

Deep breaths.