Chapter 21 Maverick
MAVERICK
I don’t expect anyone to be home as I make my way down from the pool, but H and H have made it back to the condo and are standing on either side of the bar that divides the living room and kitchen, chatting.
I can’t wait to talk to them about Boone. Maybe I’ll even tell them about my purple belt.
Holmes sees me in the foyer, though, and stands back, dropping the conversation.
Honoré turns and sends me a smile. “Hey, cuz. Didn’t know you were home.”
Ignoring the weird vibe, I ask, “Where were y’all last night?”
“Classified,” Holmes says with a regretful twist, and I rub my chest.
About a week ago, I had the worst sense of dread and called him immediately. He didn’t get back to me for five hours, and when he said he was fine, I knew he was lying.
This feels just like that, except now he’s lying to my face.
Holmes darts a quick look to Honoré, and they just sorta awkwardly stand there, as if waiting for me to let them get back to whatever it was they were talking about.
I shove down the annoyed buzz in my chest. “Actually, I’m just gonna grab something and run a few errands.”
The elevator doors open and my heavily tattooed—and probably murderous—cousin Silas walks in. He’s accompanied by Cupcake, his enormous, incredibly sweet Cane Corso. He stops when he sees me and looks quizzically between me and H and H.
“Hey, Mav. Didn’t know you’d be here.”
I flex my hands, starting to feel like an unwelcome house guest.
“Yeah, super weird for me to just, you know, show up where I live.”
He opens his mouth and shuts it again. Sy doesn’t do too well with snark.
“Ignore me,” I said, waving off his confused look. “I’ll be out of your hair in a few seconds.”
The three of them smile and nod and… I don’t know what to make of that.
More of the shit I’m not privy to, clearly.
The elevator opens again, and my cousin Rami walks in backward with his boyfriend Truett pushing him into the foyer, and they’re attached at the lips. I grab Rahm before he tumbles down the steps into the living room, and I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason they see me at all.
Rami shares the same confused look with H and H that Sy did. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Guess I’m a surprise for everyone,” I say through gritted teeth.
Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if—
“I’m here. Sorry I’m late,” my cousin Maya says, coming in from the stairs. She practically squeaks to a halt. “Mav! I haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, sounding artificially chipper. “And hey, what was that thing with you getting arrested for jaywalking?”
Rami laughs, joining in. “Seriously, Mav. What do you have against sidewalks?”
He grins in anticipation of my answer.
Yeah, no.
“Actually, I was doing a favor for Ru,” I explain, unable—unwilling—to keep the edge out of my voice. I glare at Holmes. “Also, I’m not in the mood for whatever this is.”
I’m definitely not telling them about the purple belt, or that Boone cuffed me again yesterday before we came all over each other.
My brother’s eyes widen. I never get like this, but in a family full of geniuses and overachievers, I’d latched onto my twin to navigate all the shit that constantly flew over my head.
He’d always been the one I could go to when Dad and Father were being too strict about the boys I was interested in.
The one I went to the night Boone broke my fifteen-year-old heart.
And he’s been lying to me. For years.
Holmes holds up his hands. “It’s really important that you know we’re not intentionally shutting you out of stuff that’s important to the family.”
Bullshit.
“Whatever. I’ll be out of y’all’s hair in just a sec, and y’all can continue your little meeting without me.”
Before they can come up with a response, I turn back toward the hallway, quickly disappearing into my room.
A lot of people would call this messy, but it’s more intentional than you might assume.
I forget about stuff I can’t see, so I’ve learned to organize things into pretty stacks, aesthetic groupings, and color-coordinated baskets with a combination of floor-to-ceiling cube systems that make my brain purr.
The result has always felt a little like Hong Kong—crowded, colorful, but with a place for everything.
I step to the far corner of my room and tap my lips as I regard the filing system for my unfinished craft projects, kept separate with an old rack made of long wooden dowels.
The whale shark I started last week is cute, but it’s gonna require going through piles of recycled blue jeans and saris, and I’m not in the mood.
Ditto with the painting of the Rainbow Mountains I’d toured in Gonsu. I’m a shit painter with zero understanding of shading, and I don’t need any reminders that I suck at it.
A slice of dark indigo catches my eye, and I select the frame with the yarn project I started six months ago. It’s going to be my rendition of the Milky Way in the West Texas night sky.
I chose the nubby dark-blue background based on the color of Boone’s eyes.
Pathetic, but it’s calling to me.
I take a while to peruse the details I’d already woven in and appreciate that I pinned notes for myself to the corner. I’ve already added stars to outline the general shape of the Milky Way in the dark Texas skies, and now I can’t wait to fill in the rest.
As I get lost in the textures underneath my fingers, a text notification goes off, and it’s Boone.
Boone: A small hint.
I click on the picture, and it’s a section of a painting. It’s abstract, but the intertwined hands are easy to make out.
Me: I can’t wait to see the rest of it.
While I’m grinning at the screen, a soft knock on the door sets my teeth on edge.
“Yes?”
Holmes lets himself in.
“You okay?” he asks, looking around. His room is neat as a pin, all clean surfaces and right angles. Coming in here gives him anxiety.
I shrug, feeling stupid all over again.
“C’mon. Talk to me, Mav.”
I grip my project, annoyed that his concern is making me emotional.
I recognize his determined stance. Knowing he’s not going anywhere, I ask, “Do you know how shitty it feels to walk into a room and have the conversation come to a complete stop?”
Holmes opens his mouth to answer, but I’m not done.
“I know there’s a lot you can’t tell me because of your work, but y’all made it pretty clear just now that my presence in my own home is just one big, damned inconvenience for the big secret organization I’m not a part of.”
Holmes avoids my eyes. “That’s not—”
I cut him off again. “You seem to forget that you cannot lie to me.” I tap my chest. “So don’t even try.”
He has the temerity to look sheepish and closes his mouth. I worry my top lip, annoyed that I need a minute.
“When I think of how many years I’ve been lied to, not trusted with the truth even after I could tell in here,” I say, digging the tip of my finger into my sternum, “that you were hiding something from me. Something big. And it makes me feel like a fucking idiot for not seeing it sooner.”
Holmes stares at his shoes, not even bothering to correct me for calling myself an idiot.
Telling.
“Anyway, I’ve been put in charge of checking on Mr. Calderone, in case he’s slipped into another depressive episode, and making sure Hopper doesn’t starve for his art. I’m gonna take them both some food and work on this.”
I grab a slim zippered portfolio bag and shove the piece into it. I tug on the zipper so I can leave and am, of course, immediately slowed by snagging the unfinished edge.
Fuck.
I try to pull the snarled-up piece of yarn from the zipper’s teeth, only making it worse.
“Mav…”
Frustrated and on the edge of tears—again—I finally rip at the trapped piece and manage to finish zipping up the portfolio with one last exasperated yank.
“Don’t worry about it, Holmes,” I say, brushing past him. “I’ll text you before coming home so you can let me know if that’s allowed.”
He calls after me, but I ignore him, making my way out to the foyer and banging open the door to the stairs before he can reach me.
This started out as such a good day.