Chapter Five
Lovers speak in code. Everyone knows that.
Will
The drive home is not too long, not too short. Ruby and Roman live on the outskirts of the city, in what is commonly referred to as the suburbs, but the one time I called them that to Roman’s face, I ended the night hungry and alone on the steps of his “safely located city dweller’s home”, so we’ll just say that it’s located near ish and also far ish from city center.
“Honey, we’re home!” I call upon making my way through the door of the totally not suburban house, warmth tingling in my gut.
Home.
Let’s get home.
Man, that feels nice.
I was worried for a moment that today would be the day Ruby told me to stop, to leave, to never come back. Dread, like a shot of ice to my heart, worming its way through my veins.
And then, instead. Let’s get home.
Warmth enough to light the Olympic torch, washing the ice away.
Bliss.
Closing the door to the cold, Ruby and I toe off our shoes in the entryway, then I turn to her just in time to catch her coat as it slides off her shoulders. I hang it on the hook to the furthest right in a line of coat hooks hung beside the door, careful to adjust her cane where it leans so that the coat doesn’t hide it.
She moves away to greet her brother in the kitchen as I hang my coat beside hers, then I join them, following the smell of onions and garlic.
The smell of home.
“-and he still didn’t give it to me until I had his assistant harass him about it!” Ruby complains as I walk in.
I grin.
“She called me Candy,” I tell Roman, giving my ginger-haired bestie a very manly squeeze – otherwise known as a hug, but don’t tell him that. “It was glorious .”
His eyebrows furrow as he scowls, causing him to look so much like his sister that I can’t help but laugh.
The Vann siblings might have grumpy, prickly outsides, but they don’t fool me. I’ve seen their gooey centers. I know of the goodness within.
“Don’t look so grouchy,” I order. “We’re one step closer to being real brothers.” Something I’ve wanted since pretty much the day we met.
The first day of middle school, skinny, neglected, malnourished young Will ran into tall, lanky Roman at the bulletin board for extracurriculars, where I was signing up for as many as I could in a desperate bid for club snacks and time away from home.
My parents weren’t the worst, but they also weren’t the best. They never hit me. They never called me names. They never beat me down, physically or mentally. I think they even loved me, in whatever way they knew how.
They just loved themselves more.
This manifested in them spending my lunch money – and pretty much any other money meant to care for me – on their own hobbies, and not always remembering to buy enough food for three when they went grocery shopping. “The concert tickets were on sale , Will. What were we supposed to do? Pass up that deal?”
No, Mom and Dad, of course not. I’ll just wear my holey shoes and deal with the hunger. Although, maybe, possibly, could I have maybe just one bite of your spaghetti? Ah, no, you’re right. Of course not. That’s your food, and I’m selfish for even asking. No problem. I’ll just survive on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a few weeks.
Or I’ll sign up for math club and hope there’s snacks.
Or the lanky boy signing up for cooking club will take one ultra-scowly look at me, declare “Absolutely not”, then bring me home to his parents and ignore their raised eyebrows as he tells them, in no uncertain terms, that I’ll be hanging around and eating their food for the rest of our lives. They didn’t argue, pulling me into the fold as if I had always been there.
That option was better anyway.
Man, I love the Vanns.
His scowl now is so reminiscent of his middle school self that I can’t help but smile.
“We’re already real brothers,” he grumbles.
My smile drops, and I blink, eyes mysteriously misty.
These two today.
My poor heart simply can’t take it.
I have to clear my throat twice before I can speak, and even then, I only get out a gruff, “Roman,” before I have to clear it again.
His nose scrunches.
“Don’t start crying,” he orders.
“I’m not going to cry,” I lie, sniffling.
“Is he crying?” Ruby asks, way more excited than could possibly be appropriate.
“No,” I answer.
“Yes,” he grouches over me.
“Take a picture!” Her enthusiasm is as offensive as it is adorable.
“Why would I take a picture?” Roman asks. “You can’t even see.”
“ I can’t see, but the four hundred people I intend to email it to can. Are you taking it?” she asks, reaching out to grab his arms. Her hands travel down to his, and she makes an irritated noise low in her throat.
“Roman!” she snaps. “Quick, before he stops!”
I sniff again, then wipe my eyes.
“He’s already stopped,” Roman tells her, rolling his eyes. “He didn’t even start.”
He’s such a liar.
I give him a watery smile.
“I love you, too,” I say.
He scowls. “Shut up.”
“I can’t believe you missed that opportunity, Roman. You’re so annoying.” Ruby pouts.
“I can cry again for you, Rubble, if you really want me to. Anytime. You just say the word.”
Roman gags.
Ruby pouts harder.
“It’s no fun if you’re willing and unembarrassed,” she grumbles.
“I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing,” I mutter. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Dude. That’s my sister,” Roman protests. “Keep that part of your relationship literally anywhere that isn’t right next to me.”
“Excuse me!” Ruby pipes in. “There is no ‘that part of your relationship’.”
“Not yet,” I add. “We’re waiting for our wedding night.”
“Your respect for her is noted and appreciated. Now it never needs to be mentioned again,” Roman states before grabbing his oven mitts and pulling a cheesy, bubbling mass of perfection out of the oven. Lasagna. Glorious.
My mouth waters.
“I wish you’d stop encouraging him,” Ruby complains “He’s annoying enough without you egging him on.”
“I literally told him to stop,” Roman retorts.
“You told him to stop around you . You need to tell him to stop everywhere .” She says it slowly, for his itty-bitty brain to have the time it needs to comprehend.
I snort.
“I’m not telling him to stop everywhere because we all know it’s only a matter of time before you stop your nonsense and marry him. He’s the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”
Ruby’s jaw is on the floor.
My face is all satisfaction. He’s right. I am the best boyfriend she’s ever had.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” she protests.
Roman rolls his eyes, then twists to retrieve a beautiful, golden length of garlic bread from the oven.
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” he replies, moving the bread to a cutting board and slicing it into precise squares.
Ruby’s nose flares.
“I don’t like the sound of boyfriend either,” I put in, reaching for a square of garlic bread. Roman slaps my hand away. “We should get married.”
Ruby fairly screams her frustration.
Roman points a finger at me.
“Not yet,” he says. “I need her for rent.”
I laugh, reaching for the garlic bread again and earning myself another smack.
“We’ll have a long engagement,” I assure him, having exactly zero intention of following through. If I have my way, we’ll be wed by sundown on the day she finally accepts my offer.
His eyes narrow. He knows I’m full of it.
“I’m not marrying Will!” Ruby protests. She even stomps her foot as she says it.
My fiancée is so stinking cute.
“Go sit down while I plate this,” Roman says, ignoring her.
She huffs, but makes her way to the dining room. I go ahead of her to push in a wayward bar stool and settle a flipped carpet edge in her path, then pull out the chair to her usual spot.
She grumbles a thank you, and I move the candle Roman has lit on the table to a place where she can’t accidentally burn herself on it, then cut him a look.
We’ve talked about this. At length. Why would he light a candle and then put it in prime location to hurt his sister, when there are five other perfectly good place settings to trap at this table? It’s rude, and it’s inconsiderate, and if he does it again, I’m going to reintroduce fistfights to our brotherly repertoire.
Would I lose? Probably. I’m tall, and I’m muscular, but the man is six foot one million and has more muscle in his forearm than I have in my entire body. Not to mention that we haven’t physically fought each other since high school, when we realized it was juvenile and a waste of our time. His mother’s extreme disappointment had nothing to do with it. Obviously.
Unfortunately, Roman doesn’t see my grade-A glare because he’s lost in his art, plating the lasagna as if we’re at a five-star restaurant and not his quasi-suburban house.
To be fair to him, they are kind of the same thing.
Roman spent all of high school cooking elaborate meals and desserts, then shocked exactly zero people when he opted for culinary school after graduation. In a further move that shook the nation, I chose the closest college to him to pursue my love of all things numbers.
Ruby, sharing my love for numbers and my love for her brother, joined us when it was time for her to leave the nest, just one year after Roman and I.
After college, I got offered a once-in-a-lifetime, can’t-turn-down job at Whirlwind Branding working with Liam Warrick, kajillionaire and business savant. I took it. I’m no dummy.
Then it was Roman’s turn to follow me to Iferous, Indiana, where Whirlwind Branding’s headquarters is located. When Ruby graduated, I got her a job with me and that was that. The gang was back together.
Now Roman works at Sweet & Salty Uptown, sharing his creative genius with the undeserving but usually appreciative patrons of the city’s best bakery by day, and blessing Ruby and me with even more goodness by night.
“Roman, stop wasting time making my plate pretty. I’m hungry,” Ruby whines, leg bouncing impatiently beneath the table.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s approximately thirty seconds past her feeding time. Pretty soon we’ll be in code red Hangryville if Roman doesn’t hurry up.
I shoot him a look as I take my place beside Ruby, scraping my chair obnoxiously on the hardwood.
“You’re ruining the floors,” she snaps.
Maybe, but at least she knew which direction to complain in.
Plates clunk against the table as Roman sets them in front of us before he rounds the table with his own.
“The floors are fine,” Roman says, taking a seat. “Eat your food.”
She scowls, but does what she’s told. I do too, taking the tomatoes from Ruby’s salad and adding them to my own. I replace them with my unwanted olives.
“Your palates are never going to expand if you refuse to eat things you don’t perfectly love,” Roman grumbles.
My eyes roll.
“I don’t need my palate to expand toward olives, thanks.”
“Are you trying to feed me tomatoes again?”
How a woman can express so much exasperation with a mouth full of lasagna, I’ll never know.
“Tomatoes are high in vitamin C and, when cooked, antioxidants. They–”
“I know about the nutritional benefits of tomatoes,” Ruby cuts him off. “I’ve been well-educated on the subject by the world’s finest tomato advocate. Many times.”
Roman glares at her, angrily shoving a bite of garlic bread into his mouth. I munch my olive-free salad, enjoying the show.
“Why doesn’t Will get a lecture on how good olives are for the body?”
I am no longer enjoying the show.
I choke on a piece of lettuce, shaking my head vigorously as Roman’s head swivels my way.
“No,” I croak. “Please, spare me!”
The lettuce goes down dry.
“Olives are really good for you. Heart health, blood sugar, memory… you name it, an olive can solve it.”
He straightens in his chair, and I groan. Here we go.
“Ruby, what have you done?” I whine.
“Saved myself,” she replies, unrepentant. An olive disappears into her mouth with a snap.
If I wasn’t mesmerized by her lips closing on the world’s yuckiest food, I would’ve missed the way the corners tip up. Just barely, a centimeter at most. Exactly like in the photo in my office.
I blink, square my shoulders, and turn my attention to Roman. He has his phone out, pictures of olives covering his screen.
“No phones at the table,” I try.
“This is an emergency,” he says, completely straight-faced.
Olives. He believes olives constitute an emergency.
Something is wildly wrong with this man.
“Okay,” I say, giving in to my fate. “I’m ready. Bore me with olive propaganda.”
“It’s not propaganda if it’s facts,” Ruby says. Then, under her breath, “Idiot.”
“Idiot has the same number of letters as candy,” I tell her. “Some might even consider it code, like lovers use.”
“ Some would be extremely stupid to do so,” she says, stabbing at her lasagna.
“Stupidity is the hallmark of love,” I inform her.
“Did you know that olives can reduce the risk of cancer?” Roman asks, scrolling. “Type 2 diabetes, too.”
“Pay attention, dummy, or you’ll get cancer and diabetes,” Ruby snickers.
“Dummy is a five-letter word. Our code is everywhere!”
“Roman, more olive facts, please.”
“Are you changing the subject?”
“They contain antioxidants and phytonutrients, which can help with inflammation. They also…”
? ? ?
An hour.
An hour of olive fact torture.
It lasted through eating and cleanup, and only ended when Ruby left us to do whatever girl things she does in her room. The minute she was gone I put my foot down. Because why would I endure this torment without her around to find joy in my suffering?
I would not, that’s why.
Roman and I spend the evening watching competitive baking shows on TV. He comments on everything, from the station setups to the techniques and the presentation.
I flop somewhat painfully onto the couch – an old blue thing that used to belong to their parents and probably should’ve been retired five years before it was passed on to Ruby and Roman. A beauty it is not, but Roman would sooner cut his own hand off than replace it.
You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but my bestie is a total softie. His gruff exterior hides much, including that he’s the type of guy to keep a busted-up couch because letting go of it feels like letting go of his childhood. Even when sitting on said couch feels like sitting on a slab of plywood that occasionally stabs you.
Still, I happily take the stabbing and the perhaps a little too critical TV commentary, because this is exactly what Ruby called it.
It’s home.
Roman skewers yet another perfectly fine cake design, and my heart warms.
“I love you,” I interrupt his judgment on the use of red on a Valentine-themed cake – contrived, overused, and unoriginal .
He stutters to a stop, brows furrowing.
“I- what?”
“I love you,” I repeat. “You’re my brother. My home.”
My eyes are wet and my nose tingles.
“Dude, you’re not going to cry again, are you?”
“Of course not,” I assure him. “I would never.”
He snorts. “Sure you wouldn’t.”
I grin at him, a small, wet one, then we both turn back to the TV. I said what I needed to say. No need to make him uncomfortable.
We sit in silence for a bit, Roman’s commentary ceased, and I start to worry I’ve ruined the mood, possibly the entire evening.
Just as I’m about to apologize for making things weird, Roman speaks.
“I love you, too,” he mutters, so quietly I barely hear it.
But I do.
I hear it, and my heart soars.
While I’m soaring, he goes right back into ripping the TV contestant’s hard work to shreds.
I beam, leaning back on the couch and ignoring the way my body protests at the lumpy cushioning behind me, and sigh.
Home.
What a wonderful place to be.