25. George
George
I grab the basics, then start throwing extra shit into the cart without really thinking about it.
Greek yogurt because he goes through it and never replaces it until he’s down to ketchup packets and ice cubes.
Two bags of mandarins because he eats them standing over the sink while scrolling his phone and calls that nutrition.
Lemon pepper crackers he swears he doesn’t care about but somehow wipes out in one sitting every single time.
I end up grabbing half the stuff he won’t remember he needed until he opens the fridge later and acts surprised it exists.
Been doing some version of this for years now. Long enough that his habits sit in my head right beside my own.
I park outside his building, grab both bags from the back seat, and go up to his unit with the key I’ve had for a few years now. I used to just walk in whenever. Lately, I’ve been knocking first. Don’t know exactly when that started, but I know why.
Today, I skip it. Figure he’s either still crawling out of a seven-to-seven or halfway dead on the couch after one. Easier to dump the groceries and get out than stand in the hallway waiting for him to answer the damn door.
The lock clicks open. I push inside with my shoulder.
I hear some movement.
There’s a man in Lance’s kitchen.
Late thirties maybe. White dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up neat at the elbows. Dark blond hair, considerably neater than Lance’s would ever manage without serious effort and a mirror. One hand around a coffee mug, the other braced against the counter.
He’s got Lance’s eyes. That’s where the easy resemblance ends.
Lance’s face operates like a live feed and gives everything away in the first two seconds. This man’s eyes take everything in and return nothing until he’s decided what to do with it.
He’s got sharp jaw and good posture. He’s good-looking, and you’d notice him walking into a room. He looks like what Lance would’ve turned into if he’d gone to law school and learned how to iron his shirts.
Noticing my presence, he turns toward me and barely reacts.
“George,” he acknowledges emotionlessly.
“Marcus.” I set the grocery bags on the table. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
“There’s a three-day conference at the San Diego convention center. I’m giving a lecture on the second morning.” His expression doesn’t change a bit. “Lance forgot to mention I was coming, I assume.”
“He forgets what month it is after overnights.” I start unpacking groceries because I’m sure as hell not standing here empty-handed while Marcus Bradford stares me down. “He’s probably not clear on what day it is after a night shift.”
“Sounds like my brother,” Marcus says dryly.
He doesn’t offer to help. He just watches while I move through the kitchen.
Eggs in the fridge. Yogurt on the second shelf. Oranges in the fruit drawer. I open the drawer automatically. Bottom left. Same place it’s always been.
Marcus notices that too.
“You have a key,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“That’s convenient.”
“He locks himself out at least twice a year.” I shut the fridge with my hip. “And I grab groceries sometimes. Easier than coordinating schedules.”
“He has you grocery shopping for him.”
His tone is neutral. Too neutral.
“I offered,” I respond. “Otherwise he gets home from shift work and eats crackers for dinner.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost.
“That reminds me how he’s never great at feeding himself,” Marcus says. “Back in Seattle, he’d disappear for sixteen hours at a time and survive entirely on cold brew and whatever overpriced salad his friends dragged him out for.”
Marcus studies me over the rim of his mug. “Different world around him now, though.”
I don’t answer immediately.
“That’s not a criticism,” he adds evenly. “I think this version of his life suits him better than the one he had up here.”
That should probably make me feel better. Instead, it plants this sharp, little ugly thought in my head.
Standing in Lance’s kitchen with his older brother looking like he belongs in rooms where every watch costs more than my truck, I can suddenly picture the version of Lance I never really met.
Seattle Lance. Rich-kid parties in high-rise apartments. Friends with trust funds and polished shoes. People who never smelled like motor oil a day in their lives.
Lance never acted above anybody. He fit into my world so easily I stopped thinking about the fact he came from a completely different one.
I unpack the second bag while Marcus just leans against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“You’ve known each other a long time,” he says.
“Yeah.” I shove the crackers into the pantry. “Met him when he was basically a kid.”
“I know. He’s mentioned you.” Marcus pauses, then adds meaningfully, “A lot,” before taking a slow sip of his coffee.
“You too,” I say, because how do I tell him Lance rarely talks about family? I put a box of crackers in the pantry and don’t say anything else.
Great. Good talk.
Everything I know about Marcus Bradford was whatever Lance told me. That means I got the version Lance wants me to know, not necessarily the one Marcus would’ve chosen for himself.
He’s older by nearly a decade. By the time Lance was still trying to make sense of who he was, Marcus had already moved through the life their family had mapped out for him.
Georgetown. Stanford Law. Junior partner now at one of those Seattle firms that handle cases that end up on the news.
Close enough to their father’s orbit that the distinction probably only matters to the people billing hours.
I remember the way Lance talked about it.
There’s no resentment—just a clear understanding of what Marcus represented in that family.
Marcus is proof the path worked.
Lance is proof it wasn’t the only one.
Standing here in Lance’s kitchen with his older brother watching me across the counter, I get the feeling he’s spent years carrying both of those truths without dropping either one.
He looks like a man who has his shit together, not because everything’s easy, but because he’s decided how to handle it either way.
The front door opens.
Lance drifts in wearing beat-up scrubs, bag slung over one shoulder. He’s staring down at his phone and makes it three steps into the apartment before he finally looks up and sees us both standing in his kitchen.
The color drains from his face.
“Oh, shit.” He looks between us, then at me specifically. “I forgot to mention my brother was coming.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I would have said something, I just—”
“Lance.” I cut him off, giving him a tight little smile. He stops. “It’s fine.”
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he’s standing still. He then looks at Marcus and fondness settles on his face.
“You sleep okay?” he asks him. “You should’ve taken the bed.”
“Adequately,” Marcus answers, and there’s perceptible warmth in his voice now. “You look exhausted.”
“If I stop looking exhausted, check my pulse.” Lance drops his bag by the chair and finally notices the groceries. He opens the fridge and looks at me.
“George. I asked for only three things.”
I grunt.
He closes the fridge. “Thanks,” he says, softer than usual.
“You guys should catch up. You haven’t seen each other in a while.” I pick my keys up from the table.
“Six months, give or take,” Marcus says to Lance, his gaze fixed past me.
“I know.” Lance barely acknowledges him. His attention’s still on me like he wants to say something else and can’t decide if he should with Marcus standing there.
I save him from figuring it out. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” he says with reluctance. “Later.”
I nod once toward Marcus. “Good luck with the conference.”
“Thank you,” he says smoothly. “Good seeing you.”
Sounds civil enough, but still somehow feels like a line drawn in concrete.
I let myself out, closing the door behind me.
The hallway’s the same ugly beige it’s always been. Same scuffs along the baseboards. Same dryer running somewhere down the hall.
I linger for a second, Lance’s key in my hand for no real reason, before heading downstairs. Cold morning air hits me the instant I step outside. Sun barely up over the rooftops. I get into the truck and sit there, both hands on the wheel, not starting it yet.
I keep thinking about the way Marcus’s eyes bore into me as I move around Lance’s apartment—using the key, stocking his fridge, knowing where shit goes without asking. It’s like he was trying to work out how a lowly mechanic from San Diego ended up this deep in his brother’s life.
I start the truck harder than necessary and pull out of the lot.
I’ve got work waiting at the shop and about ten better things to think about than the expression on that lawyer’s face.
Mostly, I manage it.