Chapter 13 Brandon
brANDON
Ihover my hand over the stovetop to see if it’s hot enough, and the heat indicates that it’s ready for the turkey bacon.
The sizzling from the bacon hits my ears like a welcomed, morning soundtrack, and as I’m rinsing off my hands, the doorbell chiming signals Angie is here.
Snagging the rag off the holder, I dry my hands off while I hop down the stairs to the door and sling the rag over my shoulder, opening up the door to see my girl.
“Hi,” I greet and tighten my hold on the doorknob.
I worried that after last night and me leaving so abruptly, there would be a heavy air of awkwardness around us.
It’s easier to bare yourself when the lights are off, but when the lights are on—that’s another story.
But maybe it’s because Angie is better at hiding her feelings than I am.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying every second from the moment I pulled up to her house last night to when I left.
The feel of her, the taste of her… I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and I selfishly wondered when we could be together like that again.
“Hi,” she returns my greeting as her eyes trail over me and I watch a small smile form on her lips.
She’s in a long black skirt with a slit on the left leg that exposes her thigh, a white baby doll tee that reads “give me your keys” over top of a piano, and her signature Doc Martens.
Her bag, which I’m guessing has her golf clothes tucked inside, is slung over her shoulder.
Shaking my head, I open the door wider. “Come in.”
I’m suddenly nervous about her seeing my space. I don’t want it to seem like I flaunt my money. But to be honest, this place was a dump when I bought it almost four years ago and I’m still not finished with the projects. So to see the progress through her eyes, it’s like seeing for the first time.
“Thanks,” Angie says as she passes through and follows me back up the stairs and I watch as her eyes travel over my space and out toward the view. “Wow. This is beautiful."
I come to stand next to her and look at the home I’ve been living in for the last few years.
My townhouse is big by Philadelphia standards with clean lines and a view that looks out toward the Benjamin-Franklin bridge.
When I got the keys all those years ago, I knew this place had potential.
“Thank you. I’m still working on it, but it works for me. ”
“I’ll bet. How long have you lived here?”
“A few years, but I’ve had trouble narrowing down what I want,” I tell her and move back toward the kitchen to flip the bacon. “I hope you like turkey bacon.”
She nods and I see a soft smile lift her cheeks.
I leave Angie to snoop while I focus on cooking our breakfast. Growing up as the oldest of five, I learned to cook very early-on.
It was needed when your mom was caring for a newborn and your dad was at work all the time.
When I went to college, I got a small reprieve, but once I moved back and then out on my own, I realized just how grateful I was to my parents—my mom especially—for teaching me to fend for myself.
“It smells good in here,” Angie tells me as she comes to stand near me.
“Thanks. I hope you like pancakes—they’re gluten-free.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
I scoop out some of the mixed batter and turn to face her.
“I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I also couldn’t sleep last night, so I went on a deep-dive of those with gluten intolerances—and I know you said you’re not, but I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to try out being gluten-free. ”
“You would go gluten-free for me?” she asks quietly.
I divert my attention, flipping the pancake, and turn back to her.
“There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you.
” I don’t know why I said that. Sure, I don’t eat a lot of things that are gluten-based as it is.
Or if I have, I’ve never paid attention.
But just saying that has lit up Angie’s face.
So I guess my decision to go gluten-free has been made.
My Italian mother will riot when she finds out.
“The food,” she whispers after staring at each other following my confession.
“Shit,” I exclaim, pulling off the burnt pancake, and tossing it in the trash. I forgot that this burner gets a hotspot and missed watching it. “We won’t eat that one.”
Angie laughs and helps herself to jumping up, sitting on the counter opposite the stove. “Have you always wanted to stay in Philly?”
“Yes and no,” I say and take off the newly finished pancake and start the next. “Part of the reason I went to school in Tennessee was to get away. But coming back home—I think I just needed to move out of my parents house and get away from my brothers for a while to appreciate the city better.”
“That’s right. I’ve always wondered if it was weird having siblings much younger?”
Now that I have an eye on the stove, cooking goes faster and I plate the next pancake—continuing like a conveyor belt as we talk.
“Yes,” I say after mulling over my response.
“Malcolm is your age and then Ford and Evan are much younger. In fact, Ford is still in high school and won’t graduate for a few more years. ”
“That’s a big gap.”
“Yeah,” I say and hold out a plate for her. “It’ll definitely be odd going to a high school graduation while in my thirties and not having a kid of my own.”
The cabinet bangs behind me and I see Angie looking toward me with wide eyes.
“Oh no. This isn’t me saying I want them now. Or maybe ever,” I stammer and move my plate over to hers along with the turkey bacon, hesitating to ask my next questions. “D-do you? Want kids that is?”
“Um, no? I mean, I haven’t been around a lot of them, but I like kids. I think it would depend on where I’m at in my life to consider them. But right now, I’m way too young.”
“No. Yeah. Of course,” I spit out.
“Do you want kids? I mean you’re at the age where couples are having their second. Or even their third kid.”
I nod toward the dining room for us to eat and we head that way. I head back out to grab us some water and take a seat next to Angie. “Carter and I were just talking about how we’re at that age.”
“You make it sound like you’re retired,” Angie jokes.
I snort and shovel a forkful into my mouth and chew thoughtfully. “Feels like I’m close. But do I want kids? Honestly, I’ve never—no. I try to picture my future with kids running around, but I can never see it.”
“What can you see?” Angie asks and I watch as she sticks a forkful of pancakes into her mouth and smiles when she catches me gawking. Seeing her not afraid to eat around me, like we’re way past the modest stage, is comforting.
I finish off my breakfast and push my plate away. “Still working on video games. I’m not sure if I’d branch out and leave North Autumn Productions, because I love my job. But I don’t want to get in the position where I find myself stuck.”
“I know what you mean.” Angie says and the sliding of her empty plate follows her statement.
“You too?”
She nods and leans back against the chair. “I was so sure of what I wanted to do when I was in high school and looking at colleges. I teetered between wanting to be a teacher—” we smile at each other, “—and wanting to be like Hannah by opening my own TapHouse.”
“But then…?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
Angie sighs, and I see her pick at her cuticles before answering. “But then, Liam died. And everything I thought I wanted no longer mattered.”
I cock my head to the side and regard her. “Your parents care about you, Angie.”
“Not like they did with Liam. He was the golden boy. The child that my dad could brag about at the office and put all his future dreams on. He envisioned everything for Liam’s future before it was even a done deal.”
Anger I feel like no other courses through my body.
My parents bragged about all of us in equal measure.
Sure, some of our accomplishments outshined the others, but even then, they never showed preferential treatment.
I have always wondered what it would be like to only have another sibling, not four.
But then I listen to what Angie says about how she was treated and it makes me glad that my parents knew not to pit the five of us against each other.
“I’ll brag about you,” I tell her and feel her blue eyes on me.
“Why would you do that?”
I shrug and trace an eight on the table before meeting her eyes. “Everybody needs somebody to brag about them.”
“And I’m your somebody?” she asks and places her elbow on the table, resting the side of her head on her closed fist. She looks at me like she’s discovered Big Foot. Not someone who’s sincere about her.
“Yeah, Angie. You’re my somebody.”
Her cheeks take on a rosy hue and she surprises me even more by leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine.
I know she intends to leave it as that, but my hand has a mind of its own and I cup her cheek and hold her to me.
Prolonging our connection, Angie sighs into the kiss and leans into me.
Her tongue licks at my bottom lip and my lips part.
Her whimper mixed with a moan is almost my undoing, but I have enough common sense to slow this down.
My other hand comes up to cradle her face and I break the kiss.
Angie’s eyes are still closed, so I take the moment to look at the light smattering of freckles that paint her nose and cheeks, the light sheen on her lips from our kiss.
I place a kiss to the tip of her nose and her eyes slowly open, still half-mast, and I watch them survey every inch of my face unabashedly.
“I like your eyes,” she whispers after a few seconds of us just staring at one another.
“Thank you. I like yours too.”
“I like your nose,” she says when her gaze travels downward and I smile when one takes over her face, “and your mouth. I really like your mouth.”
I drop my forehead against hers and groan. “Angela.”