Ian looks at Corbin and nods. “I’ll go. Let the captain go back to his apartment and sleep off the effects of his cola.”
Miles pegs me with his eyes and adjusts slightly in his seat so that our knees touch. He wraps his foot around the back of my ankle. “Sleep actually sounds really good,” he says. He trades my stare for the menu in front of him. “Let’s hurry up and order so I can go back to my apartment and sleep. It feels like I haven’t slept in more than nine days, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
My cheeks are on fire, along with several other areas of my body.
“In fact, I kind of have the urge to fall asleep right now,” Miles says. He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Right here at the table.”
Now the temperature in the rest of my body matches the heat in my cheeks.
“God, you’re lame,” Corbin says, laughing. “We should have brought Dillon instead.”
“No, we should not have,” Ian immediately says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“What’s the deal with Dillon?” I ask. “Why do you all hate him so much?”
Corbin shrugs. “It’s not that we hate him. We just can’t stand him, and none of us realized it until after we had already invited him to our game nights. He’s a prick.” Corbin shoots me that all-too-familiar glare. “And I don’t ever want you alone with him. Being married doesn’t stop him from being an asshole.”
And there’s that possessive, brotherly love I’ve been missing all these years.
“Is he dangerous?”
“No,” Corbin says. “I just know how he treats his marriage, and I don’t want you getting involved with that. But I’ve already made it clear to him that you’re off limits.”
I laugh at his absurdity. “I’m twenty-three, Corbin. You can stop acting like Dad now.”
His face pinches together, and for a second, he even starts resembling our dad. “The hell I will,” Corbin growls. “You’re my little sister. I have standards for you, and Dillon doesn’t come close to meeting even one of them.”
He hasn’t changed a bit. As annoying as it was in high school, and still kind of is, I do love that he wants the best for me. I’m just afraid his version of what’s best for me doesn’t exist.
“Corbin, no guy will ever come close to the standards you’ve set for me.”
He nods, getting all righteous. “Damn right.”
If he warned Dillon to stay away from me, it makes me wonder if he warned Miles and Ian, too. Then again, he did think Miles was gay, so he probably didn’t see a possibility there.
I wonder if Miles would meet Corbin’s standards.
My eyes want to look at Miles so incredibly much right now, but I’m afraid I’d be too obvious. Instead, I force a smile and shake my head. “Why couldn’t I have been born first?”
“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Corbin replies.
???
Ian smiles at the waitress and motions for the check. “It’s on me tonight.” He lays down enough cash to cover the bill and tip, and we all stand and stretch.
“So who’s going where?” Miles asks.
“Bar,” Corbin replies immediately, blurting it out like he’s calling dibs.
“I just got off a twelve-hour shift,” I say. “I’m beat.”
“Mind if I catch a ride with you?” Miles asks as we all make our way outside. “I don’t feel like going out tonight. I just want sleep.”
I like how he doesn’t disguise the emphasis in front of Corbin when he says sleep. It’s like he wants to ensure that I’m aware he has no intentions of actually sleeping.
“Yeah, my car is back at the hospital,” I say, pointing in that general direction.
“All right, then,” Corbin says, clasping his hands together. “You lame asses go sleep. Ian and I are going out.” Corbin turns, and he and Ian waste no time heading in the other direction. Corbin spins around, walking backward in pace with Ian. “We’ll drink a shot in your honor, El Capitán!”
Miles and I remain motionless, boxed into a circle of light cascading down from a streetlamp as we watch them walk away. I look down at the sidewalk below us and scoot one of my shoes to the edge of the circle of light, watching as it disappears into the darkness. I look up at the streetlamp, wondering why it’s shining down on us with the intensity of a spotlight.
“Feels like we’re on a stage,” I say, still looking up at the light.
He tilts his head back and joins my inspection of the odd lighting. “The English Patient,” he says. I look at him questioningly. He gestures to the streetlamp above our heads. “If we were on a stage, it would probably be a production of The English Patient.” He flicks his hand back and forth between us. “We’re already dressed the part. A nurse and a pilot.”
I mull over what he says, probably a little too much. I know he says he’s the pilot, but if this really were a stage production of The English Patient, I think he would be the soldier rather than the pilot. The soldier is the character who is sexually involved with the nurse. Not the pilot.
But the pilot is the one with the secretive past . . .
“That movie is the reason I became a nurse,” I say, looking at him with a straight face.
He returns his hands to his pockets, shifting his gaze from the light overhead back to me. “For real?”
My laugh escapes. “No.”
Miles smiles.
That rhymes.
We both turn at the same time to head back toward the hospital. I find myself using the lull in our conversation to construct a really bad poem in my head.
Miles smiles
For no one else
Miles only smiles
For me.
“Why are you grinning?” he asks.
Because I’m reciting embarrassing third-grade—level rhymes about you.
I pin my lips together, forcing my smile away. When I know it’s gone for good, I answer him. “Just thinking about how tired I am. Looking forward to a really good”—I cut my eyes to his—“sleep tonight.”
He’s the one smiling now. “I know what you mean. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired. I might even sleep as soon as we’re inside your car.”
That would be nice.
I smile but bow out of the metaphor-laden conversation. It’s been a long day, and I actually really am tired. We walk in silence, and I can’t help but notice that his hands are shoved firmly into his jacket pockets, as if he’s protecting me from them. Or maybe he’s protecting them from me.
We’re only a block away from the parking lot when his footsteps slow, then stop completely. Naturally, I stop walking and turn around to see what caught his attention. He’s looking up at the sky, and my eyes focus on the scar that runs the length of his jaw. I want to ask him about it. I want to ask him about everything. I want to ask him a million questions, starting with when his birthday is and then what his first kiss was like. After that, I want to ask him about his parents and his entire childhood and his first love.
I want to ask him about Rachel. I want to know what happened with them and why whatever happened caused him to want to avoid any form of intimacy for more than six years.