I grin. “It can be our little secret.” And I know it will be, because there’s no way I’m sharing this part of Reeve with anyone but myself.
From his simple offer begins a monthly home-cooked Sunday roast between only Reeve and me. And true to my word, I don’t tell a soul.
Later in the month I’m at Reeve’s for our Sunday dinner. A lot has happened over the past few weeks. Stana has become a fast friend of mine, visiting Saint Street with me only to discover she had previously been there and already met Ali. The only person who seemed unsure of her was Reeve. But I know I will crack him.
“You really didn’t have to go to all this effort,” I tell Reeve as I place my fork on my empty plate. It’s practically shiny clean, my greedy fingers swiping up every little morsel of gravy that I can get. It’s only the first Sunday dinner he’s made for us, but it already feels like it’s been a staple in my life forever.
He smiles at me from across the table, still working on his food. I try to subdue the butterflies that wreak havoc on my stomach at that boyish charm only I manage to see from him. It’s been years I’ve harbored these feelings for him, feelings he clearly doesn’t reciprocate. I have to say I’ve become quite the professional at pushing them down, but in these moments where it’s just the two of us and he goes to all this effort to keep me happy, it’s hard to ignore.
“It’s really no problem, Emmy,” he replies, his voice smooth. “You’re my family. It’s important to take care of family.”
I nod, reaching across the cloth-covered table for my wine. Of course it’s my favorite, not that I need to tell Reeve that. He’s always noticed the little things. How I like my food cooked, what bottle of wine I want to drink, if I need company, if I need to be alone.
It’s what has always separated him from the “brother” category that Ali and Owen easily fell into.
“So, I’ve invited Stana around to Saint Street again,” I tell him, then wait to see his reaction. Reeve’s never been keen on inviting others into our small circle. He’s protective of those he considers family, probably because he isn’t close with his real one.
He just nods from across the table, face impassive as he eats a potato. I give him a pointed look, not willing to put up with him giving Stana the cold shoulder.
“What?” he asks. I keep my gaze on him, not letting him out of the hot seat. After a few moments, he breaks into a smile, shaking his head.
“You’re right, I know I was a dick when I first met her. You bet your ass Ali let me know it too. I’m just protective, Em. I don’t want everyone dealing with another Poppy.”
“Poppy wasn’t that bad,” I snap. “She’s my friend, Reeve.”
He looks away. “I didn’t trust her, Em. She would drop you for a lad at any second. What kind of friendship is that?”
“Well, maybe I did the same to her,” I respond, knowing full well I would never do that.
Reeve’s head pops up from looking at his plate. “With what lads?”
I burst out laughing. “I’m just kidding. Jesus, you’re so protective sometimes. You do know I’m not a child; I’ll be twenty-three soon.”
“Trust me, Emmy. I know you’re not a child.” His voice holds a darkened quality I’ve yet to hear from him, my attention captured by his stare.
As if sensing my confusion, he runs a hand through his hair, seemingly flustered. “It’s just, I’ve grown up with you. I know you’re not a kid,” he tries to clarify.
I nod, not really sure what to make of the comment.
“Dessert?” he quickly adds in, motioning toward the kitchen.
“I think I might need a few minutes to digest.” I pat my stomach and Reeve laughs, standing up from the table and collecting the plates. His tall frame practically towers over me, all lean muscle and dark hair. His usual black attire of jeans, T-shirt, and boots makes me smile. It’s almost a uniform for Reeve. While I’m all color and mismatched patterns, Reeve is dark and set in order.
“Let me do the dishes for once,” I say, but he’s too quick for me, grabbing the last of the glasses off the table.
“Guests don’t do the dishes,” he tells me, balancing about ten things on each hand.
“You let Ali do the dishes when we ate here last month!”
“Okay,” he replies, turning to me, “you don’t do the dishes.” I ignore how my heart speeds up, needing to constantly remind myself he’s just taking care of me.
“Pick a movie, Em. I’m just begging you that it’s not The Notebook.” His voice is distant as he enters the kitchen, but I can still hear the humor in it. I could pick Twilight for all he cares, and he’d still sit next to me and pretend to like it. I may or may not have made him watch the series a few times already.
Walking into his living room, I can’t help but laugh at the contrast between Owen and Reeve. A leather black couch faces the TV unit, also black, while a coffee table sits directly in the middle, not a thing on top of it. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to tell you Reeve decorated this part. Yet if you turn your head a fraction to the left, the walls are covered in framed movie posters ranging from The Godfather to Wedding Crashers, the latter film all Owen. If there was ever a lad into Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, it was him.
Reeve and Owen’s dual personalities, although highly different, manage to complement one another around the room. But if I opened their bedrooms, Owen’s would be a hurricane of stuff while Reeve’s would be simple, kept to itself with small things that matter and a closet of mainly black.
My feet move me over to the fireplace that we once tried to use and nearly caught ourselves on fire with, so now it’s strictly decorative.
I bypass the books on the mantle, smiling at the painting I gave Reeve for his birthday last year hanging on the wall. But it’s the photo of the two of us from my seventeenth birthday that makes me stop. I pick it up, the memory of the day assaulting me, like jumping into an ice-cold ocean. Reeve’s arm is around my waist, pulling me into him, while Ali and Owen are joking with one another on the side. But it’s my face that really gets me.
The fresh innocence that overtakes me as I stare up at Reeve, my emotions practically written across my face. To anyone else it would seem like just another photo, a group of kids celebrating, but it’s so much more to me.
“What are you grinning at?” Reeve asks, catching me off guard as he comes into the room, our drinks and something else in hand.
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen this photo,” I tell him. He places everything on the coffee table before coming toward me. “I remember when we took it. Ali stole the last slice of cake and Owen went after him.” I squeeze my lips together, fighting back a smile.
Reeve stands next to me, the heat from his body radiating into my own. It’s instinctual, and maybe crossing some imaginary line, but I lean into him. He stiffens; it’s momentary, but I feel it. Luckily, he brushes it off, his hand coming around to my shoulder.
“At the time I was pissed they ruined the photo, but after I had the pictures developed, I realized it made it better, more us.”
I smirk, looking up at him. “I think it encapsulates the four of us perfectly.”