“It’s not—” Juniper and I start to say simultaneously before we catch ourselves.
“It’s not a date,” I finish.
Juniper buries her nose in the menu, looking like she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.
Juniper
IT DOESN’T TAKE long for me to learn Fitz and his brother are nothing alike. Lewis is relaxed in the way only truly confident people are, and he clearly loves an audience. I understand why. He recounts his hours of interviews with humor and charisma, and I even catch the waitress eyeing him appreciatively once or twice. In fairness, I understand that, too. From the fit of his suit, he definitely works out. His face is highlighted by his strong jaw, brown eyes in deep brown skin, black hair, and an irrepressible smile. I know he and Fitz are adopted. Nevertheless, it’s striking just how different they look.
I’m surprised how instantly included I feel, how comfortable with the rhythms of the conversation. I find myself describing my college picks and plans when Lewis asks, and then I’m asking him more about his interview. I notice Fitz’s discomfort when his brother elaborates on the company, on his prospects in New York, on his plans to split a “sick” place in Queens with friends if he lands the job.
Lewis seems to notice too. He changes the subject, questioning Fitz on what he did today. Fitz describes walking in Union Square Park and visiting the Strand. He doesn’t mention The Great Gatsby or the High Line, which leaves me wondering if he routinely dodges the important stuff with his brother.
We finish dinner in forty-five minutes. The chicken really was insanely spicy. We all agree the menu didn’t exaggerate with labels like “inferno” and “killing blow,” which is saying something coming from a Mexican girl and an Indian boy. Fitz was worse off, visibly suffering, sweating profusely and gulping down water. We walk out of the restaurant with our mouths on fire, grateful for the cold air numbing our lips.
We ride the subway to my hotel, the train empty enough for Fitz and me to sit next to each other while Lewis crooks his elbow around a pole. When we reach my stop and climb the stairs to the street, Fitz’s phone rings. He pulls it out and checks the screen.
“I’m sorry,” he says, giving me an apologetic glance. “I have to get this.”
Without explaining, he walks ahead, holding the phone up to his ear.
I fall into step with Lewis. We say nothing for a few moments, realizing in unison we’re without the only person we have in common. We’re like kids holding two tin cans with the string connecting them cut.
“It’s probably our mom,” Lewis says finally, nodding to Fitz.
“Oh.” I remember everything Fitz told me. “Right.” I watch Fitz walking in front of us, noticing things I probably wouldn’t have if Lewis hadn’t brought up their mother. His posture, hunched and tense, the quickness of his footsteps, like he’s running from something.
“I’m glad you’re joining us, Juniper,” Lewis says, his voice nothing like when he was telling stories in the restaurant. It’s softer, more vulnerable. “You’re going to be good for him. I can tell,” he continues. He smiles cautiously. “He’s . . . always worrying.”
His eyes drift to his brother. They’re clouded with concern.
“You worry too,” I observe.
It’s funny. In Fitz’s descriptions of Lewis, I didn’t get the impression he was the protective older-brother type. Fitz’s offhand comments instead conjured the image of a stereotypical frat dude, content to play drinking games with his friends and get whatever finance job he wants. It’s not who I recognize walking next to me. This Lewis is watchful, insightful.
He laughs a little. “I guess I do.”
Fitz finishes his call. He waits while we catch up. “Mom wants you to call her,” he says when we reach him. “She wants you to tell her about the interview.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lewis replies. “Later.”
Fitz frowns. He opens his mouth like he’s about to reply, but then closes it, his expression flattening. Whatever he wanted to say, it’s gone, hidden where I have the feeling he’s hidden his words for a while. I don’t have to know Fitz and Lewis well to see everything they’re not saying to each other. It’s a weight pressing down on them both.
I want to encourage them to speak up. Fitz should know Lewis worries about him. Lewis should hear how his hopes and dreams in New York make his brother nervous.
Except then I remember how I didn’t tell Marisa what happened with Matt. Why I’ve hidden the end of my relationship and the start of this new friendship with Fitz from my own family. Sometimes honesty in families is worse. Sometimes it doesn’t end with everyone coming together, commiserating or celebrating or understanding each other. Sometimes it ends on the floor of a hotel room in the dead of night, with tears and fighting and finally not talking for days. The way it worked with Tía, or didn’t. Honesty can bring you together, or it can drive you apart.
“What’s going on tomorrow?” Lewis asks while we walk.
“NYU,” Fitz replies.
Lewis nods and doesn’t follow up.
I could fill in the details. I don’t, deciding I trust the quiet.
Fitz
I’M DISAPPOINTED WHEN Juniper walks into the revolving door to her hotel. I knew I would be. Even though we’ve hung out for the past four hours, it doesn’t feel like enough. I could walk the High Line and discover new restaurants with her for the rest of the night. Limerence. It’s the strangest feeling, one I don’t remember ever having before and one I’ll never forget.
I chew my lip, watching the cabs cycle in and out of the hotel driveway. Lewis stands next to me.
“Should I have offered to walk her up to her room?” I finally ask.
“It is generally date protocol.” Lewis grinds the heel of his Kenneth Cole oxford on the curb like he’s looking for something to do.
I cut him a look. “We just gorged ourselves on fried chicken with my brother,” I remind him. “For the hundredth time, it wasn’t a date.”
He shrugs. “Felt like a date.”
I don’t realize I’m smiling until a second later. I’m not used to being the subject of Lewis’s easy optimism, and it’s welcome in the present context. “It did, didn’t it?”
Lewis laughs. “You know,” he says, getting a very Lewis gleam in his eye, “I’d head back to BU and leave you both to it if I didn’t know Mom would kill me.”