18. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Rot”
Tomorrow you will reach for some dead thing.
P ost-game interviews when you’re on the losing end are really the high times of life. The media wants to know why you’re a loser, and you have to keep your head up while confessing your and your team’s shortcomings. Sid and I take turns grunting through one ear-stabbing question after another.
We’re hauling our egos back to the locker room when Sid taps my arm and backs up.
Cillian and Salem take seats at the press table.
“How do you feel about tonight’s game?” the same interviewer who just asked us in sports code why we’re such losers, asks Cillian.
“Splendid. We just loved having them.”
He turns to Salem, who nods and adds, “So respectful. You’d hardly know they were here.”
The room echoes with laughter.
“In the third quarter, when Cade moved in to defend you?—”
“Oh, that’s what he was doing?” Salem quips, and the press erupts again.
Sid steps back. “Your boyfriend got jokes.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
I’m just obsessed with the way his metal massaged the back of my throat.
I catch up to Sid and ask, “What were you talking to him about after the game?”
“Why?” He leans in and sniffs me, and I lurch back.
“Stop that.”
“Smells like a crush.”
“No.” I sniff my shirt.
He smirks. “Ready to roll?”
We reach an elegant three-story brownstone with an iron-like gate, window railings, and polished brass numbers affixed to the glass and wood door.
“Pretty.” I sweep my gaze over the tree-lined block.
“Fort Greene is one of my favorite neighborhoods,” Sid says.
“Ty grew up around here, right?”
“Born and raised until his parents passed, then he moved to Jersey to live with his uncle.” I expect him to ring the bell once we reach the top of the landing, but he pulls out a key and unlocks the door. “Besides my mom’s house, this place is like a second home for us.”
We remove our shoes.
“Mmm.” I sniff the air. “Garlic.”
He crinkles his nose. “And butter.” He takes my bag and places it on the entry bench. “A-yo, we’re here. Everyone decent?” he calls out as we make our way past a curved staircase with muted gold and black wallpaper and soft lighting.
“In here,” adeep voice calls back.
My socks skate against the hardwood floor as we head down a hallway.
“In here” is a sprawling family room. I zero in on the Steinway on the far side of the room, adjacent to the dining room table, and my fingers tingle. “Sheesh.” I whistle and spin. The high ceiling has embossed tiles in rustic gold, deep grays, and slate blue accenting the exposed beams.
Sid grins. “K, where you at?”
“In here.”
I whip around, searching for the source of the voice, when there’s a thump behind the laddered wall of built-in bookshelves with color-arranged books, artworks, and photos.
A panel opens, and Kieran, Sid’s cousin, whom I recognize from Sid and Ty’s barbecue, emerges, balancing bottles of wine in his arms.
I jet over to help him.
“Thanks, hon!” he says as I lighten his load. “I’m glad you could join us.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Feeling this ’fit,” Sid says, taking the remaining bottles from Kieran.
High cheekbones and chestnut eyes are family features, and Kieran’s eyes are highlighted by black eyeliner and a dusting of gold shimmer.
Both men have the sides of their heads shaved low, but where Sid has short coils, Kieran has golden-brown dreadlocks piled intricately high.
“This old thing”—Kieran twirls, voice almost as deep as Sid’s—“is what some might call the result of having exquisite taste. On the bottom, the gentleman is wearing a pleated paper bag, ultra-high-rise waist, with a leather belt tied into a bow. The hem is hemmin’”—he points to his leg for emphasis, making Sid chuckle and me grin—“at a precise four inches below the knee. And up top, we have a mint-green, silk-tie crop shirt with a front concealed button placket and?—”
“Hey, where’d you put the Cajun seasoning?” Tommy, their childhood best friend, enters from the kitchen, wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt that’s stretched around his massive build.
“Bae-bee!” Kieran huffs. “I’m serving these lewks like a gracious host.”
Sid and I laugh as Sid wraps his arms around his cousin, pulling him into a hug.
“My bad. You’re gorgeous as always, babe.” Tommy smiles. “What’s good?” He nods to me. “Thanks for coming thru.” Then he greets Sid. “Sup, bro?”
“Sup, T,” Sid replies.
“Thanks for having me,” I repeat.
“It’s in the fridge,” Kieran replies to Tommy, referring to the seasoning.
Tommy turns and disappears back into the kitchen.
“Dried seasonings don’t go in the fridge, K,” Sid teases.
Kieran sighs. “The man knows I’m hopeless in the kitchen, yet he still lets me unpack the groceries.”
We’re following him to the bar to transfer the bottles of wine when the doorbell rings.
“I got it,” Sid calls out, heading toward the door.
“There’s beer there.” Kieran points to a silver beverage tub. “And lots of reds and whites. What can I get you?”
I flinch at the sound of laughter coming from the entryway—Salem’s laughter.
“Whoa. Your face,” Kieran says.
My heart pounds. “What’d your cousin do?”
“You didn’t know he was invited?” Kieran touches my elbow, his brows furrowed.
I shake my head.
At the light thump of their footsteps, a surge of electricity makes me want to break for the window.
“You like him, yes?” He frowns. “Wait, no. I’m reading terror.” His nose scrunches.“Aww, you really like him.”
The hell?
Is the whole reading-people thing genetic?
“Your secret is safe with me,” he whispers. “Shhh.”
I school my expression to neutral as Salem saunters in, not looking wholly edible in a white button-down with a band collar and dark washed, slim-fit blue jeans. His socks are fancy, with a blue and orange chevron print.
Did he change after the press conference?
“He’s scorching,” Kieran whispers.
Where’s the whiskey?
“This is my cuz, Kieran,” Sid introduces him to Salem.
“Hi, Kieran,” Salem replies, placing a grocery bag down to extend his hand. “Salem. Pleasure to meet you.”
I don’t forget how to talk or listen and catch only every other word of their exchange. My head definitely doesn’t tilt in, sneaking a sniff of his fresh laundry and vanilla-mint scent. I don’t stand frozen like a powered-down robot when he says, “Hey, you,” in that not-at-all spine-tingling voice.
Tommy reemerges from the kitchen with a large tray piled with seafood and vegetables. He’s introduced to Salem, pops back into the kitchen, then returns with two additional trays before passing around cloth bibs to protect our shirts.
“It looks delicious,” Salem compliments him.
“Thanks, man,” Tommy replies. “We make a seafood boil a few times a year.”
“What are you both having?” Kieran asks, heading to the bar.
“That reminds me.” Salem reaches into the grocery bag on the floor and pulls out a case of IPA and a bottle of wine.
“Chablis,” Kieran says, smiling at the bottle. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” Salem turns to me. “What are you having?”
His eyebrows crinkle when I don’t respond.
And now everyone’s staring.
“He likes IPAs,” Sid jumps in, and when Salem turns away, he mouths, 4. 6. 8.
I end up doing more of a 2-12-3 second inhale-hold-exhale technique.
Salem returns with our drinks, then digs back into the grocery bag. “Just in case,” he says, placing a box of European-style vegan butter on the table.
“Are you lactose intolerant?” Tommy asks me.
I half nod. I think.
“Gotcha. I wondered why Sid asked us to skip dairy for one of the trays.”
The four of us settle in, then Salem passes me the dairy-free tray after he whips me up a sauce with the vegan butter, lemon, and spices.
When Salem isn’t looking, Sid mouths, Marry him.
I glare back. This is all his fault.
A huge mess is made while we’re cracking into lobster and crab and peeling prawns. I press the cold IPA bottle into my palm as Salem licks butter from the inside of his wrist before it catches his cuff.
I’m quiet, which isn’t unusual—lately, I’m often out of sync with the mood of a group—but tonight’s different.
I’d never admit to my quiet awe at watching Salem be a human.
He recognizes a painting hanging on the wall, which leads the conversation toward this year’s Met Gala. He expresses curiosity about Tommy’s chemistry professor gig, and we all learn that a drop in chlorophyll is the reason leaves change in autumn.
He turns to me often when he speaks, never letting me feel left out but never forcing me to contribute.
He’s a human masterclass on being a people person.
Yeah, he’s definitely more broken into his skin than I am mine.
He and Sid talk fashion, and then the charities they support. When I recognize the name of one that focuses on mental health services and shelter for unhoused LGBTQIA+ youth, I blurt out, “I support that one too.”
He turns to me and quietly asks, “Yeah? Did Cat mention there’s a seat becoming available on the board?”
She did. “Boards aren’t really my thing.”
He nods.
“Are you, uh, thinking of applying?” I don’t even know if applying is the right word. I always imagine people in suits doing that kinda thing.
“I am.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “If they could use me, and it works with my schedule.” He stares down at my plate. “You liked the sauce?”
I follow his gaze to my plate filled with shells. “Mmhm. You’re a baker and a cook?”
“I feed myself alright. You?”
I wince, making him laugh.
“That bad, huh?”
I shrug.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, brushing my knee, and I forget how to speak again.
Later, when we take turns cleaning ourselves up after we eat and Salem heads to the bathroom, Kieran whispers, “He’s dreamy.”
“A keeper,” Tommy echoes.
The ants are back, organizing an ant army invasion in my blood. “We aren’t together,” I mutter.
Kieran exchanges a glance with Tommy. “Why not?”
“Where’s the remote?” Sid interrupts, crashing onto the large marigold-colored couch and kicking his feet up on the kidney-shaped footrest.
“Let me guess, you tryna catch highlights of the Knights at Madison Square Garden?” Kieran teases.
“So?” Sid smirks.“And leave Princess alone.”
I glare at him. “You’re a matchmaker now? You’re dead to me.”
“See.” He catches the remote Tommy tosses him. “He loves too hard to love easily.”
I take a swig of my beer, ignoring the squeeze in the middle of my chest.
Okay, he was dead to me for an hour. It’s impossible to stay angry at him any longer than that.
We watch highlights of Ty banking mid-and long-range shots with the precision of a sharpshooter. The Knights shooting guard and power forward also do damage, collecting forty-two points between them.
“Speak of the angel,” Kieran says as the front door shuts.
Our heads swing toward the hallway and a few seconds later, Ty walks in. He slides his key into the back pocket of his ripped skinny jeans, then daps Salem and me. “Wassup.”
He moves to Kieran and Tommy, planting kisses on both of their cheeks.
Sid smiles, shuffles to a stand, and wraps him up in a hug. “Car ride over was smooth?” he asks before dipping down to kiss him.
“Yeah,” Ty replies after he pulls away, returning an easy smile I’ve only ever seen reserved for Sid.
“It’ll make sense in a moment,” I mutter to a slack-jawed Salem.
Sid massages the back of Ty’s neck, rubbing his thumb over his fading hickey.
“Guys. Salem…” I remind them.
“Oh,” Sid says as they both turn toward us. “You wanna or should I?” he asks Ty.
Ty nods for him to shoot.
“You probably know from the media that we’re best friends. We’ve actually been in a relationship and have recently become engaged,” he tells Salem.
“We’re out to close friends,” Ty adds.
“It’s only a matter of time before we come out to the public or our relationship gets leaked,” Sid says.
I’m impressed that Salem’s able to contain his shock enough to stammer, “Engaged? Wow.” He huffs a laugh. “I mean, I knew you were close friends—everyone knows that. But engaged?” His gaze bounces between them. “Well, shoot, it isn’t a hard sell,” he jokes, making us laugh.
Sid was voted Sexiest Man Alive, for fuck’s sake, and Ty’s nickname is Pretty Boy. Only someone snorting too much Special K would look at them and not trade a year off their life for a top-ten spot on their threesome short list.
“Hey,” Ty says to me. “I can tell from his face that he didn’t know. Thank you for protecting us.”
“Always,” I reply.
Ty emerges from the bathroom, removing his beanie and moss-green sweatshirt, leaving a white tee underneath, and joins Sid, who’s waiting for him at the dining table with the remaining half tray of food. He slides onto Sid’s lap.
Sid congratulates him on the dub, and Ty boasts Sid’s game stats.
I look over at Salem, who’s just picked up the controller to start a game with Tommy.
He turns and catches me staring. His nose ring glints slightly as his lips spread in a warm smile. His gaze lingers on my face, the heat of it sending ants down my spine, before he turns back to the game.
“May I?” I ask Kieran, nodding to the Steinway.
“Have at it.”
I finish my beer and then toss the bottle in the garbage before I pad over, adjust the bench, and take a seat. Opening the fallboard, I stare at the black-and-white keys as I crack my knuckles.
I begin with scales to loosen up my muscles.
“He’s a pianist?” Ty asks.
“And guitarist,” Sid replies as their voices fade, and I drift away.