Milán
“You look nice,” Aiden says when I walk into the kitchen the next afternoon.
I stop and turn to look at him.
“Thanks?”
Frankly, I’m surprised he can see me past the stack of books in front of him on the table.
He leans back in his chair and rubs his face before he stretches. His gaze settles back on me.
“Going out?”
I quirk my brow at him.
“One of us should see the sun every once in a while. Otherwise they’ll start mistaking us for a family of vampires.
” I look at him pointedly. He stares back and blinks like he doesn’t understand what I just said.
Maybe he doesn’t. By this point, he could easily pass as the official mascot of sleep deprivation.
“Ha,” he says. “It’s nice.”
“What is?”
He waves his hand toward me. “This. You look… cheerful.”
Do I?
I don’t know what to say to that.
“And Rory seems more settled lately,” he continues.
I don’t want to jinx it, but he does. We’ve somehow managed to cobble together a routine, and where that word has always made me scoff with derision before, I can’t find it in me right now to go in search of that long-held disdain.
“What I’m trying to say is that… I know you didn’t relish the idea of being here, but I really don’t know how any of us would manage without you.”
I stare at him. “Are you dying?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to show my appreciation. People, as I understand it, generally thrive when you acknowledge their input.”
“Is that something they programmed you to say when they sent you on your mission to Earth, or whatever it’s known as on your planet?”
“E56732. Also known as disaster ball, colloquially.” He sighs.
“I know you’re shouldering this whole thing right now, and that I guilted you into this.
I feel bad about it, too, believe me. So, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’ll try to do better.
I’ve been working on rearranging my schedule this past week, and I’ve managed to clear two afternoons a week, so consider those your time off.
I’ll deal with homework, chores, cooking, whatever else there is.
” His brow furrows in concentration, as if he’s trying to remember what else he had on his list. “Oh, and I’ll take him to soccer practice, so you can take that off your plate, too. ”
It’s a nice offer.
Very considerate of him.
“Sure. Take cooking, groceries, curfew. Go nuts. But I get soccer because Theo’s father is fucking hot, and I deserve the eye candy. It’s the only thing that gets me through the week.”
Aiden, predictably, looks conflicted as hell.
“Is that a good idea?” he asks.
“Admiring what’s right in front of me? Baby brother, I don’t think you grasp just how fucking beautiful that man is.
It’s like telling me not to look at an exquisite work of art.
Why would you deprive me of the experience?
It’s like somebody telling you, ‘Here’s a Van Gogh.
Now make sure to close your eyes tightly and don’t open them until you’ve exited the gallery. ’”
Aiden looks both exasperated and like he’s fighting off a smile. “That’s not even remotely the same thing.”
“How? It’s art.”
“It’s not. It’s you lusting after the father of the kid our kid punched in the face. Tell me you see the problem. Please, oh God, please tell me you see where the conflict of interest might come in here?”
“I’m not going to do anything. I know how art works. You look, but you don’t touch.”
“The analogy has really run its course by now.”
“It fits too perfectly to stop.”
Aiden lets out a deep exhale. “Just don’t do anything stupid. And by stupid, I mean anything that’d make things more difficult for Rory.”
“Believe it or not, I do have some self-control left somewhere.”
Aiden doesn’t look like he believes me.
I start patting through my pockets while I frown. “Now where the hell did I put it last time?”
“I’m sleep deprived, out of my depth, and for the first time in my life, pathetically behind on my to-do list,” Aiden says. “Keep this up, and I might snap.”
“What does that look like in your case?” I tilt my head to the side and lean forward, lowering my voice. “Will you… file an official complaint?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Or write a strongly worded note where you underline something in blue ink instead of black?”
Aiden does not look impressed with me.
“Oh, you’re right. You are about to snap,” I say. “You should see yourself. That’s the face of a man who’s about to drink a glass of water and not use a coaster.”
Aiden flips me both his middle fingers. “Fuck you,” he tells me pleasantly.
I salute him with a grin then head out.
The air is cool, but the sun is warm on my face, and my good mood only gets better as I walk. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed, because Aiden is right. Things have been going decently well.
Part of me thinks it should make me suspicious. When things are going well it’s usually little more than a prelude to something worse. A moment to lull you into a false sense of security before shit hits the fan.
I’m not sure if it’s my mood, the nice weather, or the promise of meeting up with Jordan, but at least for right now, I don’t have it in me to let those thoughts take root.
Maybe, just maybe, things are going well because they’re just going well.
I smile when I see Jordan sitting on the front steps of his house, waiting.
He looks up and watches me approach, and I ignore the fact that I like it. I ignore the flash of interest and the warmth in my chest. Let’s keep it simple.
“Ready?” He looks up, squints, and shields his eyes from the sun.
“I’m all yours.” I hold out my hand, and he grips my arm, fingers wrapping around my wrist and mine around his, and damn, what a waste that he’s not even a little bit interested in what I have to offer.
Which isn’t much, really. A night of fun.
Mutual, mind-blowing pleasure. And not much else.
So it’s probably good he’s straight. That way I get the friendship without the temptation of ruining it.
“I was thinking we could—” He can’t finish whatever he’s about to say because my phone starts ringing way too loudly and cuts him off.
“Sorry,” I say when I fish the phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen.
Unknown number.
I frown and lift the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Corbin?” a voice says on the other end of the line.
“Yes, this is he.”
“This is John Langford from Brooklyn Eighty-Fourth Precinct. We have a Rory Ellis in our custody.”
My heart drops to somewhere in the bottom of the soles of my shoes. I’m not an expert, but I’m guessing this won’t end up being something like, “we arrested your kid for being too awesome.”
“I’m on my way.”