“Is she okay?” Phoebe asks with sincere concern, and I nod.
“Yeah, it was minor. She was out of the hospital before I was,” I assure Phoebe, my eyes squeezing tight at my slip of the tongue, and I quickly continue before Phoebe has a chance to query what happened. “Finding out she passed on a secret family recipe to you when I enlisted because she didn’t think I’d live...”
“I wouldn’t have baked them had I known.” Phoebe’s voice is soft and caring, and it breaks something in me, knowing she still has that soft spot for me even though I don’t deserve it.
“It’s okay,” I provide. “It’s my cross to bear, knowing I did that to her.”
“That must be rough, carrying that weight around.” Her hands squeeze my biceps, and I feel some of the pressure elevating.
“I’m sorry for the accusation,” I provide, realizing bringing Phoebe carnations was just as much a play as the brownies, and I can’t hold it against her when I was using the exact same tactic. “And about ruining dinner.”
“Don’t be.” She shakes her head with conviction. “We’ll go out to eat, or we’ll order in once I chuck out the brownies and air the apartment.”
“What? No!” Alarm shoots through me at the prospect.
“Then tell me what it would take to get you back to my place.” I can’t stop a suggestive grin from spreading over my face, which earns me a swat to the arm. “To talk!”
“There’s a serious shortage in good Chinese food in the Grove,” I offer, and Phoebe breaks into a relieved smile.
“Yeah, Chinese sounds great.” She hooks her arm through mine as if to ensure I don’t run off again as she taps away at her phone, pressing on different dishes and adding them to the cart.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”
“Nope.”
“Fine, but no chicken salad!” I request, looking at her through the corner of my eye as I untangle my arm from hers and move to drape it over her shoulder.
“No.” She doesn’t even look up from her screen.
“Hardass,” I grumble in affection and shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket. Phoebe just hums her agreement to my proclamation.
I take a deep breath as we silently walk the few blocks I managed to make before she caught up, enjoying the feel of city air filling my lungs, and sneaking glances at Phoebe every now and then while she pretends not to notice me doing it. But I can see the smile fighting to emerge, and somewhere inside me, a seed of hope is planted.
Hope that I can get back everything I so callously gave up. Hope that I can get back at least a small part of who I used to be.
Chapter Eight
Phoebe
“Eggroll?” I offer Andy, and he nods, his mouth stuffed with Pekin duck.
“I missed this,” he declares when he’s chewed enough to speak again. “City food. The Grove has some wicked pie game, but nothing like this.”
He bites off half an eggroll without even finishing the food still in his mouth and grabs the highlighter-red sweet and sour sauce, pouring a generous portion of it into the half still in his hand and shoving that into his mouth as well.
“I forgot how gross you are.” I make a disgusted face, but deep down, I have to admit, at least to myself, that I missed this, too.
“So, before, when I went to snoop in your bathroom—” I snort, and a small smile plays on his lips as he unapologetically pulls his shoulders to his ears. “—I found some beard cream. It seemed new.”
I stare at him amused, enjoying his attempt at seeming indifferent though it’s plain as day that the answer to his unasked question is torturing him.
“Does it belong to someone special?” he prods cautiously, and I recruit every stage trick I’ve ever learned to keep a straight face.
“As a matter of fact, it does,” I reply and take a sip from my beer, knowing I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. But screw it, I deserve small, harmless retribution.
“Oh, okay.” Andy nods slowly, placing his chopsticks down and picking up his beer without looking at me, absently picking at the label as he contemplates his next question. “Does he have a name?”
“Everyone has a name, Andy.” I put on my best scowl though I’m dying inside from laughter, and he finally looks at me with an eye roll and a tug at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah, smartass. Would you tell it to me, please?”
“Brian,” I provide, unable to hold back my mirth as understanding blooms in his eyes.
“Brian, as in B?” he corroborates, and I nod. “That was mean. Deserved, but mean. B has a beard?”
“Yeah. He stayed here a couple of weeks ago. He and Trista had a fight, he must have forgotten his man-products.” I wipe tears from the corner of my eyes and take another sip of my beer to relieve the hoarseness from laughing so hard.
“Had a fight?” Andy cocks an eyebrow in amused query, and I smile despite myself.
“Yeah, they hit a bit of a rough patch in the whole transition from friends to more, but they’re okay now.” I look out the window, biting my lower lip. “She followed him to China actually. They’re still there, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know?” Andy cocks his head to the side.
“He never told me as much, but my guess is he flew east because he’s planning on going to the Philippines.” With anyone else that would have gone by as an unimportant statement, but Andy was part of our family long enough to know how much weight it carries.
“Wow.” He leans back in awe. “Is he not telling you because he’s afraid it’ll hurt you? Him seeking out his brothers?”
“No. I think he’s not telling me because if he decides not to, or if something goes terribly wrong, he just never has to talk about it.” I think back to all the things I discovered about my brother just a few weeks ago, right there on my porch. “But with Trista there with him, I know he’ll be okay.”
“Do they still do that, Kitten thing?” Andy scrunches his nose, attempting to imitate the face Trista makes when she’s angry, the one that earned her that nickname, and I laugh. I forgot how easy this can be, talking about my friends and family, not having to explain all the complicated connections and relationships, sitting with someone who’s in on all the jokes and anecdotes.
“Yeah, they do, and it’s really gross now that they’re actually having sex,” I declare, and Andy laughs.
“You’re such a little sister cliché.”
“And you’re such an only child cliché,” I retort, immediately regretting my choice of words. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” His smile is kind and reaches his eyes, and I place a tentative hand on his arm.
“Tell me,” I urge, and his gaze turns sullen.
“Mom was diagnosed with high blood pressure three years ago,” he begins. “She never told me, and when I, uh, got injured, I guess it was too much for her to handle and she had a heart attack.”
“So, you decided to stay,” I conclude.
“Yeah. It’s also why I never called to tell you I was back.” His eyes are pleading me to understand, to forgive him for the choice he made. “I should have. The second my feet hit US soil, you were the first person I wanted to call, but I was so scared, Phoebe.”