Headstrong Like Us (Like Us, #6)

by Krista Ritchie

Aristotle said it best. Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.

Farrow grips the hem of my tee. “I’m going to check your muscle.” I could make a sarcastic comment, but I’m trying to watch the movie. Unlike Farrow, I’ve never seen Call Me By Your Name before.

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 fucking pummels me. I start crying. Not silent tears or one wet streak. I’m bawling involuntary 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.

“Was it the movie or something else?” I think for a second. “The movie.” I blink, my eyes wet and raw, and I pinch them. “And I don’t know why…” My chin quakes. Fuck. Farrow shrugs, wiping at his own eyes. “It’s art. Art has the power to move people in different ways.” He lifts his brows. “You were moved, wolf scout.”

I’m super-glued to his new hair color, probably as much as the tabloids. I had no clue he planned to dye his hair for our wedding. But he surprised me this morning and said, “I know you have a giant, overwhelming thing for my hair this color.” Yeah. But he has no idea why—no idea that the first time we met, he had black hair

I’m not confused about who I am. I understand my weird existence in this world, and it’s not worth the energy to try and control something that literally cannot be controlled. And I can’t control how you perceive me.

There are reasons why Maximoff says his parents are the strongest people he knows. Why he believes in them endlessly and faithfully. Every time they’re kicked down, they crawl to a stance and fight towards courage.

I say the words etched on the inside of the ring, “Dum spiro, spero.” He wipes his eyes with his right hand, overcome. Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope.

And I’d like to think Plato was right. That in the beginning of time, it was Farrow and me, and we were once whole together. Our souls united. But like all humans, we were split down the middle. Separate halves wandering around this universe. We found each other. And finally, together, we became whole again.