Lo flashes his usual bitter smile, normally accompanied with the raise of his bourbon. I can’t make sense of where his thoughts lie.
Before I can whisper in his ear to ask, the front door opens, and the silence settles like a weight. Connor’s loafers hit the hardwood, the noise heightening the tension.
He appears from the foyer, his thick wavy brown hair styled perfectly, as though he’s ready for a congressional speech at any moment. He slips his cellphone in his black slacks, his white button-down tucked in the waistband. From afar, he inspects Ryke’s stiff posture on the Queen Anne chair and Lo’s death clutch on the couch’s armrest.
“I missed something,” Connor states. “Was it good?” He looks to Rose.
“Only if you enjoy the intelligible mumblings of Neanderthals.” Her tone is pure ice.
“Good one, Rose,” Lo says flatly.
But Connor rubs his lips to keep from smiling further. And when Connor smiles at my sister, I instantly straighten up and lean forward like two orbiting stars are about to touch and kiss. I want to be present when they do.
Lo pinches my hip as Connor takes a seat next to Rose, sliding his arm along the back of the cushion behind her.
“You’re my girlfriend,” Lo whispers huskily in my ear, teasing me to take his side of things. But in a game of wits, I should choose the smart option and go with my sister. Or Connor. Lo is a losing battle.
“You’re my boyfriend,” I say the obvious. He edges closer, and my heart pounds, his lips right there. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.
He eases back.
Damn. I wish I had Professor Xavier’s power, but then again, I wouldn’t want to force Lo to kiss me. I’d want him to want it as much as I do.
Connor gestures a hand between Ryke and Lo. “I’m sensing tension here.”
“Lo was just thanking me for not fucking Lily,” Ryke says.
“Exactly,” Lo replies, his voice equally as dry.
Connor doesn’t even blink. “Must be a brother thing.” He casually turns to Rose, whispers something in her ear and presses a light kiss on her cheek. I cannot believe I’m envious of a kiss right now. But I really am. I want that kiss. Not from Connor! Just to be clear. From Lo. I want the kiss from Lo. My cheeks redden just accidentally thinking the wrong thing. Jeez.
“You okay?” Lo whispers.
I nod, squirm a little, and rest my cheek on the crook of his arm, safe in his embrace. His muscular body dwarfs my overly skinny frame. I’m working on being healthier too. All skin and bones is not a good look.
Rose puts her hands up to Connor’s chest, blocking him from scooting closer. “A brother thing? What’s going on here is not normal between brothers. You don’t see Greg Brady thanking Peter for not having sex with Marsha.”
“No because that would be incest,” Connor says.
She shoots him a look. “It’s not incestuous because Marsha is only the stepsister.”
“True.” His eyes flit to her lips and back to her sharp gaze. “And I’m surprised you used the word ‘normal.’ I thought we agreed last week that it’s arbitrary and too subjective to have any real merit.”
She gives me a look like why am I with him again?
I smile and really want to say: Because you’re two nerd stars, orbiting and meant to kiss. But that won’t make sense to anyone but me.
Rose and Connor have had an odd three months together, constantly breaking up over intellectual disputes like this and reuniting only a week later. Their relationship is something I can’t quantify or really understand. I think maybe you have to have a higher IQ or something. But I love watching them like Lo and I do Japanese cartoons. We can’t comprehend what they’re saying, but it’s still fun to tune in every week.
Rose points a manicured finger at his chest. “You can’t discount an entire word just because you don’t think it has merit, Richard.” Ooh, she used his real first name. “You’re basically saying Foucault’s entire sociological studies were worthless.”
My head hurts trying to listen to them, but I’m strangely enthralled.
“Hey,” Lo cuts in, clapping his hands. They both look at us like we’ve just appeared in the room. “You two can discuss normal people and Faulkner later.”
“Foucault,” Rose corrects him.
“What?”
“It’s Foucault. Not Faulkner.”
“Whatever, they both start with an F,” Lo snaps. “You know what else starts with an F?”