“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.
Still, I didn’t pull away…couldn’t.
I shook off the memory. “Get it together,” I told myself, then went into my en suite to take a shower and clear my head.
CHAPTER NINE
Lane
I wanted to have a nice evening with Isaac. We hadn’t had much quality time together since I’d been staying at his place. He worked a lot, and when he was home, he spent a lot of time in his bedroom—often not alone. We were so different that way. My relationships always lasting, and him more interested in just sex. I tried not to let it bother me, knew that I had no reason for it to. As long as Isaac was enjoying himself, that was all that mattered, but so far, I had yet to figure out why I was so annoyed by it, nor managed to keep it from bothering me.
On top of that, whatever had made him pull away from me was still there between us. There were moments like when he’d come home, where we slipped into the familiar, into just being Isaac and Lane, but eventually he always closed himself off again.
I missed our talks, missed the times when he couldn’t keep a secret from me even when he tried, missed the way Isaac had always made me feel important, needed, wanted.
I continued cooking while he was in the shower, wanting to do something nice for him. I’d actually planned on putting the groceries away before he got home, but that hadn’t gone as intended.
He came out a little while later, his short, dark hair wet but still looking styled. He was always so put together, and I wanted nothing more than to muss him up.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
“Nothing.” He was wearing a tight T-shirt and sleep shorts, and all I could think was thank fuck; he was clearly in for the night. He likely wasn’t having anyone over either because of how he was dressed. Isaac didn’t let just anyone see him without being dressed in jeans or at least clothes he wouldn’t go to bed in. “Sit. Talk to me while I finish our dinner.”
He cocked a brow. “You’re really fucking bossy. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You, I’m sure.”
“Don’t plan on changing it, I see.”
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Feels pretty broken to me,” Isaac teased back.
“You think it’s endearing. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
He pursed his lips but then sat at the high-top bar counter that separated his living room and kitchen. “What are you painting?”
“Nothing I can really do much with right now. I’m just letting myself create what feels right.”
“Which is…”
I worked on mashing the potatoes. “The view outside my studio window.” It wasn’t my typical style, doing just scenery, but that didn’t stop me.
“At Dad and Helena’s?”
“No. Shit. Here. I guess it’s not my studio. You know what I meant.” He watched, waiting for me to continue, so I did. “There’s this really tall, full tree in the distance. The other morning I couldn’t sleep and I was up at dawn. The sun was rising behind it, and just that tree, with the city around it and all the colors of the sky, was really beautiful, so I decided to paint it. Feels…comforting, familiar, and my life hasn’t felt that way in a long time.” Maybe since things had started to change with Isaac.
“I don’t know how you do that, how you see so much beauty around you. I’ve seen that tree, probably at dawn too. It didn’t strike me as anything special, but I guarantee it will when I see your painting.”
I never knew how to react when Isaac said things like that to me. I received compliments on my work all the time, but it was different when it came from him. “Stop making me blush.” I winked, playing it off as if his words didn’t have the effect on me that they did.
“You love it. Don’t pretend you don’t. You like to be praised by me, Lane.”
“What? No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What do you mean?” I continued with our dinner. This was news to me. I’d never thought of liking to be praised before, and I was curious why Isaac would say I did.
“You’ve always asked me about stuff, liked when I’d sit with you when you created, then preened when I told you how good it was.”
I rolled my eyes. “I doubt I preen.”
“Deny it all you want, but I know the truth. Your eyes sort of glaze over and your leg starts to shake—you know, how a dog’s does when you scratch the right spot.”
Isaac grinned, and I laughed, wishing I had something to throw at him. “Oh, fuck you. Now I’m a dog.”
“No, just like one when I tell you something nice.”
“I hate you.” He didn’t respond to that. I made sure not to look his way when I added, “I don’t, ya know? With other people.”
“How do you know, when you didn’t even realize you liked praise from me?”
“Not that. I mean liking it, when people watch me paint. I usually want to do it alone. That was always our time, though. We talked so much when I was painting or drawing, and I loved it. I felt close to you then, and it never felt right with anyone else.” Seconds stretched to a minute, maybe more, and when I looked over at him, Isaac had his hands clasped together, fingers entwined. His arms rested on the table, and he was looking down. My chest got tight watching him, and I massaged the muscles of my pec, trying to loosen the tension. “Did I say something wrong?”