“No…no.” He laughs, but the sound is forced. “Maggie and I would never work. I love her, and I’ll do anything for her. You and I…” He gestures between us. “We’re not so different. Only my inability to commit probably comes from a much less self-destructive place than yours.”
I run my hands through my hair and sigh. He’s right. When it comes to relationships—shit, the word is so foreign even in thought—I am anything if not honest that if things go beyond a day, a week, whatever, it’s only until it stops being fun. Or it starts becoming work. On one rare occasion, I started investing and trusting. That’s what gets me in trouble—trust. After last night, I don’t trust myself to stay away. I can’t stay away, and that scares the shit out of me. But here I am, talking to a dude who seems half attracted to me, half ready to level me, and admittedly in love with Maggie on some level, even if it’s only as friends.
“Is this where you ask me what my intentions are? Because I don’t have an answer to that.”
Miles rubs his jaw, thinking. “Did she tell you she doesn’t date?”
I nod.
“And you don’t date. Not really. Am I right?”
I nod again.
“Then don’t date each other. There’s obviously something between you, and you’ve both got your fucking issues with labels.” He waves his hand in the air as he says this. “Call it whatever the hell you want until neither of you is chicken-shit to call it something more.” His eyes narrow. “She’s special, more than you know, and she can use another person in her corner. If you’re the guy, I can handle that.” He exhales, long and hard. “And if you hurt her, I’ll handle that, too.”
I don’t doubt him for a second.
“Does Maggie get a say in any of this?”
He laughs, and though it’s genuine, I don’t second guess his fierce protection of Maggie.
“Of course she does. It’s all Maggie’s say. But if she puts her faith in you—if she trusts you, and you betray that trust—I’m the one who’ll be there when you’re not. That’s all I’m saying.”
He hops off the chair and heads back around the counter, so I turn to leave, letting his words sink in. If it didn’t make me happy to see someone so protective of her, I’d think he was a douche. I laugh to myself, thinking of Scotland, of Jordan, and how she earned the same fierce protectiveness from her roommate, Elaina. Elaina would have kicked my ass without question if I hurt Jordan. Lucky for me, Jordan kicked my ass instead. And fuck that I’m still thinking about it two years after the fact. “If she’s not in class or at the campus library, she’s here.” I hear Miles over my shoulder, so I pause at the door. “That’s pretty much her routine, working there or working here. But not today. She’ll be okay by tomorrow.”
As soon as he says those last words, he curses under his breath. “Fuck.” I open my mouth to ask him what the hell he means, but he nudges the other barista out of the way, taking over with the line of customers at the counter. I guess our conversation is over.
“Really?” Nat asks when I walk in fifteen minutes late. “You’re killing me here, baby brother.”
I push past her to the kitchen where I can see the pitcher of mimosa calling me like a beacon to the counter. “Nat, you’re barely four years older than me. It’d be nice if you’d give it a rest sometimes.”
She follows me until I stop, arms braced on the cool granite surface. “I’m sorry,” I say, eyes trained on the floor.
“For what? Being late? Making it harder and harder for me cover for you so Dad still thinks you’re worth investing in for this whole eventual, business-partner thing? Or is it for being a dick to me just now?”
This last one gets me to smile, and I pull her in for a hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head.
“I’m going to go with A and C for now. I’m still thinking about option B.”
She sighs, defeated, of course, by my brotherly charm, and returns the hug.
“You could tell them. That’s an option.”
“They could take away the car, the apartment. Those are options, too.”
She pushes herself from me, leaving her hands on my shoulders. “And you can grow the fuck up, do something that makes you happy, and support yourself financially. That’s my favorite option.”
“Mom! Earmuffs!”
Violet has impeccable timing. I scoop her into a hug, and she squeals with laughter.
“We have to do something about your mother’s language.”
“Tell me about it,” she says before kissing me on the cheek. “Grandma wants more juice,” she says, brandishing an empty crystal champagne flute, save for the bits of orange juice pulp clinging to the sides.
Nat grabs the glass from her, rolling her eyes. “Well, I guess Mom won’t care if you’re late.”
“She never does,” I say, filling my mother’s glass and then one for myself.
“Ugh,” she says. “When do you get to stop being the favorite simply because you’re the baby? Because it’s been annoying the crap out of me for twenty-three years.”