Chapter 20
Vaughn
Robin cries during a documentary about French pastry.
We're on the couch — him tucked against my chest under the cloud blanket, pain pills and water on the coffee table, his bandaged hand propped on a pillow between us.
This documentary was his pick. Some French guy with a white hat and an accent so thick the subtitles struggle is demonstrating how to make a perfect pate à choux, and Robin is weeping.
"It's the technique," he says, wiping his eyes with his good hand. "Look at his hands. Look at that fold. That's sixty years of muscle memory. That's — god, that's beautiful."
"It's dough."
"It's not DOUGH, you philistine. It's art. It's a lifetime. Every fold is a decision. Every lamination is a choice." He sniffs. "Sorry. The drugs make me emotional."
"The drugs make you emotional about pastry."
"Pastry is emotional."
I pull him closer. He burrows into me, and I feel the moment his attention shifts from the screen to me — the subtle change in his breathing, the way his good hand moves from wiping his eyes to resting on my chest.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he says.
"Pastry?"
"The intake forms. At the ER." He doesn't look up. "There's a line for emergency contact. I wrote N/A."
My chest tightens. "Yeah."
"N/A. Like I don't have anyone. Like I'm some — orphan drifting through the world with no one to call.
" His fingers trace a pattern on my shirt.
"I have a brother who bought a house for me.
A best friend who'd drive across the state at 3 AM.
A boyfriend who makes terrible eggs and wears my stupid apron.
And I wrote N/A because I was too scared to put your name on a form. "
"You were protecting yourself."
"I was being an idiot. Next time—" He stops. Corrects himself. "If there's ever a next time, you're my emergency contact. You're my person. The one they call."
"Robin, you don't have to—"
"I want to. I want your name on every form. I want the nurse to call you and you to show up in that leather jacket looking grumpy and beautiful and someone hands you my stuff and you sit in the plastic chair and hold my hand. I want that."
This man. This impossible, infuriating, extraordinary man who couldn't cuddle after sex three weeks ago is lying on my chest declaring me his emergency contact like it's a marriage proposal.
"Okay," I say. "I'm your emergency contact."
"Good." He settles back down. "Now shut up, the choux is going in the oven."
Lunch is sandwiches. I make them while Robin sits at the breakfast bar, supervising with the authority of someone who has opinions about how bread should be sliced.
"Thicker. You want structural integrity."
"It's a sandwich, not a building."
"Everything is architecture. A sandwich is just a horizontal layer cake with savory components."
"You're insane."
"I'm a professional." He steals a piece of cheese before I can put it on the bread. "Also, you're using too much mustard."
"I like mustard."
"There's 'I like mustard' and there's 'I want my mouth to feel like it's been attacked.' You've crossed the line."
I add more mustard out of spite. He watches, appalled, and steals another piece of cheese.
After sandwiches, we make out during the credits of a movie.
My hand on his jaw, his good hand fisted in my shirt, his mouth warm and tasting like the ginger ale I made him drink with his antibiotics.
He shifts in my lap and his hand bumps the couch arm and he hisses, and I spend five minutes checking the bandage while he insists he's fine.
"Stop mothering me."
"Stop being injured."
"I'll try that. Great advice. Very helpful."
But he's smiling, and his hand is fine, and when I settle him back against my chest he goes willingly and stays.
Evening. Golden light through the windows. Robin's in my lap, his good hand playing with my hair — something he discovered I'll tolerate indefinitely — and we're three rounds into a debate about animal combat that neither of us is winning.
"Honey badgers are literally fearless," Robin argues, gesturing with the hand that should be resting. "They attack lions. LIONS, Vaughn. Your people."
"Wolverines take down moose. A moose weighs eleven hundred pounds."
"But honey badgers go for the balls."
"That's a low blow."
"Exactly!" He grins. "Pun intended."
"I'm not conceding just because they fight dirty."
"Fighting dirty is fighting smart. Gordon used to—" He stops. The name lands in the conversation like a stone in water. The grin falters.
"He used to what?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter." Robin shakes it off, but I can see the shadow cross his face. It's the first time he's mentioned Gordon since the breakdown, and I file it away — not pushing, not ignoring, just noting. The wound is fresh. It'll surface when it's ready.
"Honey badger," he says firmly, redirecting. "Final answer."
"Wolverine. But I respect the argument."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I've said many nice things to you."
"Name one."
"I love you."
He goes still. Not the rigid stillness of fear — the soft stillness of a man who's still getting used to hearing it. Each time, it lands a little differently. The first time was a lifeline. Now it's becoming something quieter. A fact. Gravity.
"That one's pretty good," he admits.
The front door opens. Ash walks in, Jason behind him, both windblown from the ride. Ash takes one look at us tangled on the couch and smirks.
"Try to keep your clothes on in the common areas."
"We are fully clothed," Robin protests from my lap.
"Barely." But Ash's eyes are soft. He's glad.
"Ash?" Robin shifts, winces. "I need to talk to you about rent."
"What about it?"
"I'm going to be late. I got fired, so—"
"Robin." Ash stops walking. Turns. "I literally do not care about you paying rent."
"But we agreed—"
"That was something you needed to feel like you weren't taking advantage. But you're my brother. This is our house. I didn't buy a four-bedroom house in this town for my health."
"Your emotional baggage needs its own room?"
"Funny." Ash crosses his arms. "I bought it knowing you'd end up here, even if just to visit sometimes. Let me take care of my little brother."
"I'm twenty-eight."
"Still little. Still my brother." Ash's voice goes quiet. "You're hurt. Let people take care of you for once."
Robin's quiet for a moment. "This is becoming a theme. People taking care of me."
"Good," Ash says. "The old theme was garbage."
After Ash heads upstairs with Jason, Robin turns to me. His face is doing the complicated thing — the war between independence and need, between the person he's been and the person he's trying to become.
"I don't want today to end," he says.
"Who says it has to?"
"You don't have to stay again."
"I have clothes in my bag."
He stares. "You brought clothes?"
"I brought clothes. And a toothbrush. And a crossword book." I hold his gaze. "I knew I'd be here, Robin. I wanted to be here."
"Presumptuous."
"Hopeful."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Go get your bag."
"Now?"
"Now. Put your clothes in my dresser." He pulls back to look at me. Something has shifted in his face — the war is over. One side won. "I've spent my whole life being careful about who I let in. I'm done being careful with you."
I kiss him. Slow, thorough. A promise.
Then I go get my bag.