Main Bonus #59: Xander's Missing Phone - Part Three (Patreon)

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this bonus scene to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!! xoxo Krista & Becca

RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

READING ORDER: This is a multi-POV bonus scene, and we highly suggest reading them in this order:

1. Part One

2. Part Two

3. Part Three

MUSIC: We listened to "Dopamine" by Rich Aucoin while writing this bonus scene.

IN PHILLY, FARROW PARALLEL PARKS several feet from Studio 9’s entrance. Fists rap against the windows of our Audi, the teenagers bouncing excitedly, frenziedly.

“Maximoff! Farrow! Oh my GOD!!”

“Sign my poster, please!”

“Are they really in there?!”

“I can’t see!”

“Can I have a picture?!”

“Maximoff!!!!”

“Is Xander there?!!”

“XANDER!!”

They elbow one another for a chance to see us, and if you’re out there, I really wish you would back up. For your safety too. The throngs of fans and added paparazzi are shoving and battling to be the closest to the car.

Farrow watches with a trained intensity that shouldn’t be hot, but somehow, it is. I like that he’s as focused as me.

Ripley has stopped trying to reach for his fallen pirate parrot. He looks confused at the banging. These aren’t new noises to him, but he eyes me and Farrow, as if asking whether he should be scared.

We try to stay relatively calm, and I actually hope our son takes more after Farrow in that department. Calm. Chill. Scarily always at ease.

Farrow is a master at it, and I’ve unfortunately been his apprentice. I’d say he’s a pretty shitty teacher since I haven’t surpassed him yet.

That, or I’m a shitty student.

No.

I reject that thought.

There it goes, out the window.

Speaking of windows… “I’m gonna roll down the window and tell them to back up,” I warn Farrow, but he’s unbuckling his seatbelt quickly.

“Or you can just wait for me to open your door.” He’s already climbing out of the car. His side of the Audi faces the road, so only a few cameramen linger near him. My door faces the fucking sidewalk, so naturally, almost every fan is up against my window.

I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I worry these three petite girls will be trampled if I thrust the door open.

Farrow pushes his door open into a camera guy’s gut. “Back the fuck up.”

Camera Guy coughs, and his paparazzi friend shouts, “Lie down! Lie down!”

Listening to his friend, Camera Guy crumples on the cement and moans, “My leg!”

You’ve got be shitting me. I glare at those theatrics.

“FARROW!” Fans shout near my door, and they’re staring over the Audi at my husband.

“Move back!” Farrow yells at them. I can only see his waist and legs as he stands outside the car. “Get on the sidewalk so he can get out.”

Only a handful listen and try to shuffle backwards.

Farrow bends down to me, fitting in his earpiece and tossing his aviators in the cupholder. “You get Ripley.”

I nod, and I do the sensible, responsible thing and wait for Farrow to shut the driver’s door and round the car. Hands are grabbing at his arms and waist, and it takes a ton not to bulldoze out of this Audi and protect him like he’d protect me.

There’s a reason it’s easier to stay in this car than it would’ve been years ago.

I glance back at Ripley, who keeps his big blue eyes on me. Like he knows everything is going to be okay—because I’m still here.

“I was right where you are once,” I tell him quietly. “I know it’s a lot, and some days aren’t easy, but you’ll always have us. Me and him. I promise.”

Ripley reaches his tiny arms out towards me and kicks his feet. He whines, wanting me to pick him up and hold him. In a second, little guy.

“We just have to get past this part,” I assure him.

Farrow storms through the fans and cameras, creating a path to reach my car door, and I open it before he can.

Stepping out, the click, click, click of cameras is a familiar background sound. So is the shouting.

Farrow’s vigilant gaze is blazing, but the ire is mostly directed at the paparazzi. He physically pushes one back, then sets his eyes on mine. “Couldn’t wait one second for me?” he asks.

“You took too long, man.”

He tilts his head and rolls his eyes, but he rests a hand on my shoulder, staying behind me protectively while I open the rear door and unsnap Ripley from his car seat. After bending down and finding his stuffed animal, I place the parrot in Rip’s hands. He hugs the yellow and blue bird like it’s his best friend.

Carefully, I fit earplugs into our baby’s ears, and I hold him against my chest.

“Is Xander in there?!” a girl shouts.

“No,” Farrow answers plainly.

I catch a quick glance behind me. The younger crowd is still sticking around, despite my brother being MIA.

A large camera suddenly swings at my face, and rage volcanoes in my chest. Even with Rip in my arms, my brain snaps to one wrath-induced response: push, shove, throttle.

Thankfully, Farrow beats me to it. His palm slams against the camera. Shoving the paparazzi away before the equipment can connect with my jaw.

“Move back,” Farrow sneers and drills a caustic glare into the middle-aged guy.

Wouldn’t be the first time paparazzi are purposefully trying to hit us with their cameras, just to incite a reaction. I hate that they might’ve gotten one out of me.

I’m holding our baby, and maybe that should smother the inferno in my chest. Be totally, completely calm for Ripley. But knowing paparazzi are still aggressive while I’m carrying this precious, little being—it only adds gallons of gasoline into my bloodstream.

I think the same amount is pouring into my husband.

“I’m not fucking around,” Farrow says through gritted teeth.

“Why are you so angry, Farrow?” the middle-aged paparazzi asks, feigning innocence.

“Yeah, Farrow!” his friend pipes in. “Why are you so angry?”

“Get out of our face,” I growl, and a few fans reiterate the same thing to the paparazzi.

“Leave them alone!”

“Stop bothering them!”

With this, Farrow and I leave our car and head down the sidewalk to Studio 9. His stride is way more casual than mine. I can admit that. Ripley is hugged to my chest, his soft cheek pressed against my collarbone.

Farrow assesses me and him in a quick sweep.

“I’m okay,” I assure. “It’s etched in ancient stone. I’m okay. I’m good. I’m amazing.”

He almost smiles, but his vigilant gaze zips behind us, in front of us. “Is it?”

“Yeah. It’s known. In every universe, among every ancient creature. Just worry about our son.”

“How about I just protect the fuck out of you?” Farrow says like he’s offering to defend me to the death and kiss me in the end.

I blink, my brain short-circuiting. “No.” It’s a firm, unyielding no.

Farrow swings his head to me, trying to read me in point-two seconds before he has to survey our surroundings again. We’re still on the move. We’re still a spectacle. We’re still largely not safe, but that’s my world.

Dangerous.

Unsafe.

Unpredictable.

Farrow speaks. “No, because you’re too stubborn to admit you love that I’m your knight-in-shining armor?”

Maybe.

I lick my lips and reply, “No, because you should be thinking about Ripley first, me second.”

Farrow cocks his head in thought, then studies Ripley for point-two seconds. He sucks in a breath. “Love to break it to you, wolf scout, but he’s doing better than you.”

I let out a short laugh, and now I’m fighting a smile. I can’t be disgruntled or aggravated at that. Rip doing better than me in the face of the media, the paparazzi, and you—I’ll take it.

I’ll embrace it.

I’ll love it.

Every day, that’s a good sign.

“Isn’t that right, little trooper?” Farrow says to him, close enough that maybe Rip can hear him even with earplugs.

Our son looks up at Farrow with those big blue eyes and babbles back like he understands his dad.

“True,” Farrow says back, smile rising.

I might be engraining their conversation in my head for all eternity. Might be. If anyone else asks, I deleted it.

The click, click, click and flashes trail after us. I remember walking in Center City with my mom.

I remember only one or two paparazzi following our footsteps.

This, today, is chaos unleashed. And I want to tell Ripley there isn’t 24/7 madness surrounding us—it’s not always this chaotic. And I know I’ll have time to tell him. Later today, years from now, when he’s five, when he’s thirteen.

I almost smile, too.

Fans skip after us, and I prefer them over the paparazzi right now.

“I love you both so much!” a freckle-cheeked girl shrieks, her blonde friend hanging onto her arm while they scream together at being so close to us.

“It’s really you!” a preteen boy nearly shouts, his voice trembling with emotion.

A young teenage girl in acid-wash jeans, a JanSport backpack, and French braids sprints up to me and Farrow. She maintains our lengthy strides with quickened steps. “I cried soooo much at the episode with the car crash,” she says.

“I did too!” another girl pipes in behind us.

The car crash episode on the docuseries. It’s been out in the world for a little while now. Not that long, but long enough that most people have seen it. Some people think it’s fiction. Made up and dramatized for television, and Christ, I wish it’d been just one massive hoax.

Most are more sympathetic.

The teenager tries to outpace us while she talks. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” She speaks in a rush. “I love you, Farrow. You’re so good to Maximoff. I really, really want someone to love me like you love him.”

I smile over at Farrow.

He’s lifting his brows at me for a beat, but really, he’s focused on our path to the gym.

Knowing Farrow is receiving more love from the public is a good feeling. I’m still smiling as we’re nearing the entrance of Studio 9.

Behind us, the other girl shouts, “Will you be doing another FanCon tour?!”

Considering I’m not the CEO anymore, there is a zero percent chance of a FanCon 2.0 or reunion. Ernest Mangold thinks I’m toxic waste, and he wants me to be a part of charity about as much as Ben Cobalt wants to pollute the earth.

I glance over my shoulder. I won’t let my superpower be Crusher of All Hope. So I end up telling her, “Probably not anytime soon.”

“Oh my God, he answered you, Riley!” her friend screeches.

Riley is stuck in place, eyes widened like I just whispered the meaning of life. She falls back into her friends’ arms.

Farrow almost laughs.

The JanSport backpack teenager is bolder and still at our sides. Farrow keeps an eye on her. Maybe she notices since she asks him, “What’s your favorite animal, Farrow?”

He raises his brows, not answering. He almost never does. My husband mostly maintains the bodyguard standoffishness and I’m doing my job status.

She skips a few steps ahead of us. “Are you both going to have more babies, Maximoff?”

“We might,” I say.

She beams. “You two are such good dads.” She bounces closer, and her high-octane energy reminds me a bit of Winona, especially when she was younger.

“MAXIMOFF! FARROW!”

Shouting causes our heads to swerve backwards.

Awesome.

More fans are chasing after us. Must’ve seen us down the street or something. The entrance is right there.

We’re almost inside. Farrow has a hand on the door.

“Who’s your celebrity crush?” the JanSport girl asks me.

Farrow. It’s the first record-scratch answer. Farrow Redford Keene Hale is my aggravating childhood celebrity crush.

Definitely not Farrow, is the better answer. It’s what I’d normally say, even to paparazzi. We don’t change our dynamic in front of the media.

In front of you.

I think about a response for too long. I think about Ripley. I look at my son.

“Who’s your celebrity crush?!” she shouts louder, maybe thinking I didn’t hear.

And I just say it. “My husband.” He’s my celebrity crush.

Farrow does a double-take as he pushes open the door, and his grin is enough to cause instant regret. I want a take-back.

A Time Turner.

The sheer enormity of what I admitted rubs against me like sandpaper.

I admitted that Farrow is my celebrity crush—that I have a fucking crush on my husband. In public. No, in front of cameras. It’s recorded for him to replay and wave in my face forever.

I knew that.

I did, but holy shit, I want to knock myself in the back of the head. What was I thinking? I know what I was thinking.

I was thinking about Ripley.

“Just go,” I tell Farrow. “Open the door.”

He’s near laughter as he strolls into the gym with me.

“MAXIMOFF! FARROW! MAXIMOFF!”

“MARROW FOREVER!”

The door shuts behind us, the frenzied sounds and chants muffled as the quiet of the gym surrounds me, him, and our son. I’m burning alive.

I clench my jaw. “Can you wipe your memory? Scrub the last two minutes and tack on another century. Except don’t erase all the parts where I remind you that I’m smarter and hotter.”

Farrow looks way too amused. “You mean the parts where you lie?”

Someone laughs—a familiar laugh. We barely turn our heads to see Oscar Oliveira leaning on a red boxing bag and eating Cheetos.

We walk towards him, but this conversation isn’t over. Frustration is knotted in me, and I growl out, “Seriously, you didn’t hear what I said.”

Farrow can’t help himself. He has to repeat it. He has an affliction where he has to piss me off. I’d say the illness is called Make Maximoff Miserable, but that would be a lie.

Because I’ve never been miserable with him. Not one second of my life.

His smile stretches. “I heard a fan outside ask who your celebrity crush is.”

Did you? I struggle to even feign confusion. Hot all over.

His annoying smile is only growing. “And I definitely heard you answer, my husband.”

“Aww,” Oscar teases with the bat of his lashes.

I am dead.

Deceased.

Fling me in the ocean. Let me decay.

I glare at Farrow. “It’s like you want me to shove you in a gym locker or something.”

“Or something,” Farrow laughs.

Ha. Ha. Humor has fizzled out in my lungs, and a good comeback has withered with it. So we end up kicking off our shoes and walking on the gym mats. While we approach Oscar, we weave through the hanging boxing bags. Ripley is hoisted on my waist, pirate parrot in his little grip, and Farrow reaches over to carefully pry the earplugs out of his ears.

Gazing from my son, back to my husband, I want to be honest with Farrow. I want to tell him why I said what I said outside and not leave these unspoken things to fester in my head.

“I just want our son to know I love you,” I say quietly to him. “When he sees media footage, I don’t want him to think I don’t care about you.”

Leaning closer, Farrow cups the back of my skull affectionately. “He’ll know.” His voice is a rough but soft whisper, gravel tied in silk, and I sink into his words and into his gaze that grips mine with certainty. “He’ll know exactly who we are, and he’ll know exactly the lengths we’d go for each other and what our love is made of, and none of the shit the media captures will even matter. Because he has all of us, Maximoff.”

Somehow, some damn way, that makes more sense than anything that’d been tumbling through my brain.

Ripley will know us better than any thirty second video online. He’ll know us better than whatever article is written in Celebrity Crush or Famous Now. Just like I understand my parents deeper and greater than any headline or clip.

And he’ll know why I would’ve dissed Farrow in front of a camera. And he might even laugh with his know-it-all dad and act like I’m hiding the biggest crush on Farrow.

I begin to smile.

He searches my eyes, seeing that I’m better. Less in my head. I lean in more, and he closes the distance, our lips meeting in a tender kiss. His fingers brush against my skull, and I love him.

I just really fucking love him.

When we break apart, we make our way to Oscar. He’s staring around the gym, his hand frozen in a Cheeto bag.

I try to focus on why we’re here. Xander’s phone. Hopefully we’ll be in and out, so my brother can stop fretting over his missing cell.

Only one other person is in the gym. Some burly blond guy that I’ve never seen before. Younger than me, but maybe not by much, he’s running laps near the boxing ring. Probably a temporary bodyguard being trained by Oscar is my best guess.

“Oliveira,” Farrow says.

Oscar awakens from a short stupor. Huh. Wonder where he went. Nice to know I’m not the only one who spaces out at times.

“Yeah?” he asks.

Right then, Ripley drops his pirate parrot onto the gym mats. Oscar bends down first and picks up the toy. The one he bought for Rip.

Oscar waves the stuffed animal. “No doubt, you love Uncle Oscar the best.” He hands it to Rip.

The baby giggles and hugs the thing so tightly.

“Thanks,” I tell Oscar strongly, for more than just picking up the pirate parrot but for getting it in the first place. For thinking of Ripley. I can’t imagine our kid not being attached to that stuffed animal. He’s needed it, and I’m grateful.

Oscar starts to nod.

Before he can speak, I ask, “You know where my brother might’ve left his phone?”

His brows knot. “Xander left his phone at the gym?”

Farrow explains, “After a boxing lesson this morning. I didn’t want to announce that shit over comms.”

Oscar looks more serious. Maybe even concerned. He must be thinking about Donnelly. “I haven’t seen it, but I’d check the lockers.”

With Ripley in my arms, I set a new course. Gym lockers. I leave Farrow and Oscar to catch up, and my bare feet step off the mats and onto the cold floor while I open the wall of wooden lockers.

“You think it’s in this one, Rip?” I ask as I open a locker. Empty. “Nope.”

Ripley babbles and points to a locker at the end.

“Alright, let’s check there.” I fling open three more. I’ve found a dirty towel, an empty water bottle, and a sock.

No phone.

“It has to be here,” I mutter, my muscles flexing as fear builds. What if it’s not? What if it’s really gone? What if someone swiped it? I can’t call my brother and deliver the bad news. I have to wait and tell him in person.

I cut my gaze to the burly guy who stampedes around the boxing ring. What if that stranger took it? Who the hell is he?

“Gabe, go home!” Oscar calls out to the stranger, like the Powers That Be (maybe Batman) answered my nagging questions.

Gabe slows to a halt near the boxing bags. Sweat is pouring down his jaw. “Really?” he pants, out of breath. “I can go another ten.”

He must be a temp bodyguard.

“Go home,” Oscar repeats. “I’ll see you again tomorrow morning.” 100% temp bodyguard. Confirmed.

I try to relax at that notion. Gabe might not be in the inner circle yet, but he’s close enough to erase my suspicion.

“Thanks, Oscar.” Gabe heads for the showers. In a sprint. I’ve never seen someone that buff move that fast.

So I’m not surprised when I hear Farrow say, “He’s huge.”

“But fast,” Oscar says.

Farrow whistles, seeing Gabe hurl his body through the door to the showers. “No shit.”

I look from Gabe, to Farrow, and I scrunch my face at my husband. Do not appreciate him whistling at Gabe, even if it’s a holy shit whistle and not a come-on. I want the holy shit whistle from Farrow.

Me, and plus, I’m faster than Gabe.

Oscar is laughing.

Farrow is smiling at me. He says something between his teeth to Oscar, but he’s looking at me like I’m precious and pure. I swear I can hear him saying, your jealousy is showing.

I know I’m all Farrow thinks about. I know I’m all he’d consider fucking and all he’d consider loving. I know his heart is mine, and my heart is his. But still, the prickle of jealousy rises, and maybe it’s good it exists. It means I’m still territorial over him. It means there are parts of us that are still the same, no matter how much we do grow and change.

I employ the ignore tactic, though.

Ignore his annoying smile. Focus on my search.

“Which locker, Rip?”

My son points to another one.

Empty.

And then another on the bottom row.

I squat down with Ripley against my waist. “Cross your fingers and toes.”

He babbles to me while I click open the latch. It swings open, and my pulse skips at the sight of a slim phone.

I grab the thing. The case is a forest green with gold script in circle. The shape of a ring, and the script isn’t English. I instantly know it’s Xander’s cellphone. Turning the thing in my palm, the screen is locked. He has no personal photos showing.

If a stranger ever found the phone, they’d see the time and date light up over a pic from a comic book panel. X-Men.

Specifically, the Summers family.

Relief swells inside my chest, and I straighten to a stance. “Found it!” I call out to Farrow and Oscar. I show them the phone, and Ripley reaches up for the cell.

I can’t wait to tell my brother.

It’s the first thing I do when we’re in the car. When we’re on our way back to my parents’ house where he’s waiting. I call my mom, and she passes the phone to Xander. “We found your phone, Summers.”

“You did not.” His voice cracks through the speakers of our Audi, the relief hitting him harder. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. It was in a locker. We’re on our way to you with it.”

After a deep inhale, a deeper exhale, I’m shocked that the next thing he asks is, “Who’s driving?”

Farrow bursts out laughing.

And yeah, he’s behind the wheel.

Thanks so much for reading this month's main bonus! We hope you all have a happy happy Valentine's Day!! 💓🌹 We wanted to bring a bonus to you on this day of love because nothing says love more than some extras ❤️ We hope you enjoyed this scene from Maximoff's perspective. If you haven't read Charming Like Us yet, you can see this from Oscar's POV in CLU!

There's lots more to come this month. Another bonus and podcasts will be on there way! Keep on the lookout!!

xoxo Krista & Becca

“Xander's Missing Phone - Part Three," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie