He shoots me a look like I’d said it in Martian. “I don’t play sports.”
“Oh.” I furrow my brow in exaggerated confusion. “Then why are you wearing basketball shorts to school?”
His duh look is well-honed from practice. “Everyone wears basketball shorts. And I have a pair of jeans in my locker in case I get busted.”
“That’s my point. We don’t need to tango with the law—not when you go to a freaking magnet school.”
“But I look good in these shorts.”
I lift a brow. “Are you sure?”
He recoils, jerking his head back. “Are you saying I don’t?”
I shrug, scratch my jaw, adopt a casual stance. “I’m saying there are ladies who prefer a sharp-dressed man. One lady in particular.”
He spits the rest of the Crest into the basin and snaps his gaze to me with keen but wary curiosity. “What do you mean?”
My brother lights up whenever Rachel is around. Hell, he sparks at the mention of her. But she won’t wait for him forever.
I know what happens when you wait too long—the window of opportunity slams shut and you lose your chance. I won’t let him make the same mistakes I’ve made. Not if I can help it.
Ever so casually, I stroll out of the bathroom, trailing the bait a little. “Just that a certain someone might have remarked she likes a well-dressed man.”
“Who?” He’s on me like sticky tape.
I stare at the ceiling in the living room, tapping my chin as if thinking hard to recall. “Let me see. I believe it was the sweet and funny girl you had over last Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and so on. She and Peyton were talking about clothes, and she remarked how much she likes a dapper look.”
“‘Dapper’? She said ‘dapper’?”
I nod. “She definitely said ‘dapper.’”
He weighs this, then nods. “Sounds like her.”
“And it can’t hurt to impress the woman. Speaking of, how did it go when you asked her out the other night?” I ask, since he’d hinted that he had something to tell her—that he has feelings for her, I presume.
He huffs. “It takes time. It’s like a painting. It’s not something that’s going to come together all at once.”
I grab my coffee cup and take a fortifying drink before I turn more serious. “Look, Barrett. I’m not saying it’s going to come together all at once with you and Rachel. And maybe it never will. Maybe her feelings aren’t the same as yours. But let’s be honest—you’ve had it bad for her for a while. Do you think you might want to ask your best friend to—oh, I don’t know, call me crazy—go out with you before you graduate?”
He sighs, sliding a hand through his floppy brown hair. “Maybe you don’t get it. It needs to feel right. When I tell her, it needs to be perfect. Know what I mean?”
The question gives a glimpse of the vulnerable underbelly that he rarely shows. I let down my guard to match.
“Yeah, I do. And I hear ya.” Oh, hell, do I hear him. “I’ve been there. But I don’t want you to wait too long and then regret it. You could ask her to the upcoming dance. Worst case is you go as friends, and you’re already friends.”
He shoots me a look like I just opened his medicine cabinet without permission. “How did you know about the dance?”
I tap my chest. “Guardian here. It’s my job to know what’s going on.”
“You read entirely too many school emails.”
“Yes, I do. Such is the fate of a responsible adult. And since I read my emails, I learned of the tragic shortage of chaperones for the homecoming dance and volunteered.”
He groans. “You’re joking.”
“I’ll pretend I don’t know you. Fair?”
“How does that constitute fair? I think fair would be more along the lines of me having the apartment to myself for a week.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway, wouldn’t homecoming be a great opportunity to ask Rachel to go with you? And maybe you’d want to look a little more . . . dapper.”
Muttering under his breath, he stomps off to his bedroom. A minute later, he returns wearing jeans and a Henley. Just like me.
Victory is mine.
Standing, I scan his attire with an approving nod. “Well done. You look sharp, my man. Very sharp.” I squeeze his shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Now, I know you like this woman. Think about finally asking her out. I don’t want you to look back and wish you had.”
Slipping away from my grip, he grabs his backpack from the floor, shouldering it. “If I ask her out, you’ll stop bugging me about my clothes?”
“News flash: I’m always going to bug you about your clothes.”
He smiles then brings me in for a hug. “I know. I appreciate it.”
In moments like this, I can handle the insanity of his now-I-like-you-now-you’re-the-worst-person-ever teenage ways. I hug him back and ruffle his hair. He grumbles about it because that’s what we do—rib each other and fake-grumble about it—and have ever since he was born, a whopping twelve years after me.
He heads for the door, then turns around, flashes me a grin, and says offhand, “And maybe you should finally ask out Peyton?”
I don’t say anything for a minute. Just hearing that name in that context makes my heart beat a little faster than it should.
“Why would you say that?” I ask carefully.
With a gleam of triumph, he points at me. “Why don’t you just admit you have it bad for her?”
Ah, but there are a million reasons why I don’t do that.
Or, really, one.
I tried.
It was too late.
And that was long ago.
That ship sailed, and I had to figure out how to move on. Mostly I do a good job on that front. Or so I thought.
I shake my head. “I don’t have it bad for Peyton.”
One eyebrow shoots all the way to his hairline. “Really? You sure about that?”
I heave a sigh. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“That’s not what you said one night many moons ago . . .”
My brow creases. “What are you talking about?”
He taps his temple. “I remember lots of stuff. Including what you told Mom that time.”
I wince, a memory taunting me from wherever memories go when you’d like to delete them but can’t. “I didn’t say anything,” I bluff.
“No? You didn’t say, ‘I’ve been dying to ask her out since college, and I think I’m finally going to do it’?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say stoically, willing my expression to give nothing away.
“Maybe you remember Mom answering.” He does a spot-on imitation of our mother. “‘Good. You’ve only wanted to since the night you kissed her during your sophomore year of college.’”
He’d heard that entire conversation? Remembered something I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to forget?
Not so much the conversation with Mom, but the kiss that prompted it. Stuffing it into a mental trunk, locking it, and then throwing away the key.
Barrett opens the door and leaves. But two seconds later, he pops back in. “How about this? If you ask her out, I’ll tell Rachel how I feel. Deal?”