Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“How was your day?” Lane asked, going over to stir whatever was in the pot. There was something baking in the oven as well.
“Good. I made a lot of people money…made myself money. I call that a win.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I shoved the milk in the fridge, wondering how long he’d had it out. It still felt cold, so that was a good sign. “Pretend what?”
“That money is what you care about. You’re good at what you do, which I guess, yeah, that results in money, but you like numbers because you’re good with them. Because they’re consistent to you and you can control them—not how much money you make, of course, but where to invest and how much. You research to know these things, and one plus one is always two.”
I shrugged because he was right. “What’s for dinner?”
“Ah, the Isaac shuffle.”
Leaning against the counter, I crossed my arms and looked at him. “What’s the Isaac shuffle?”
“You and how you change the subject. You’ve always done it. I’ve never let you get away with it—at least not without calling you out on it. Hopefully things haven’t changed between us that much that you’d expect me to change now.”
No, no they hadn’t. As inconvenient as all this was, it meant a lot to me to have someone who knew me so well.
“Nope, but it’s a two-way street. Hopefully you don’t expect me to have changed either. I will likely always be an expert on the Isaac shuffle.”
Lane rolled his eyes, but a small smile teased his lips. He had slightly more scruff on his face than usual. “I know,” he replied. “Baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, with sautéed green beans. I haven’t cooked like this in years. It’s nice.”
“Feel free to do it as often as you like.” I winked.
“You can go change if you want. I’ll finish up here.”
“Okay.” I nodded, enjoying having Lane in my space.
As I walked toward the hallway, the music came on again. It must have been an eighties playlist because now he was listening to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” He used to listen to music like that when we were in high school too. That was part of the reason I even knew the songs. I remembered when I had a few friends over from the football team, and Lane had been listening to some of his favorites from that decade. When I wasn’t in the room, the guys had been laughing at it, at Lane. I heard them when I came back. They’d shut up real quickly because they knew I didn’t accept people talking shit about him. I’d lied and told them Dad said it was time for everyone to go home, and then I’d lain in Lane’s bed with him, my head on his pillows, his facing the other direction as he played all his favorite songs for me and drew.
“You’ve been having them again, haven’t you?”
I knew what he was talking about, but still I said, “Having what?” Fuck Lane. He always did this shit. He always made me talk about things and could read my mind and my moods better than anyone else.
“The dreams about finding your mom,” he said without looking at me. “I heard you. I went in to make sure you were okay, but you were quiet again.”
Because I’d woken up with him there and hadn’t wanted to look weak.
“Yes,” I answered honestly, because this was him. Because he was the only one who ever asked.
Lane turned the other direction on the bed, beside me, head next to mine. None of my other guy friends would have done this. They wouldn’t have lain in bed with me, so close, then touched my hair, fingered the strands like it was their own. Even before they’d known I was gay, they wouldn’t have done it, but Lane did.
“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have saved her.”
“If I’d come home instead of stopping to play, I could have called 911.”
“And she still would have been gone. They said it was instant.”
I turned, my vision blurry, but Lane scooted closer. He didn’t force me to look at him, but he didn’t let me escape either. He put his head on my chest and said, “Tell me about her,” and though I’d done this a hundred times before, he always acted like it was the first.
So I did. I talked about Mom in a way Dad never did. I told him stories about her, and before I knew it, I was smiling…laughing…and it was my fingers in Lane’s hair, playing, massaging his scalp, twisting a curl around my digit.
I was scared of what Dad and Helena would think if they saw us, if they knew how I felt. If they’d send me away because he was my brother and I wasn’t supposed to think those things about him.