Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Yeah, yeah, happy to see you too.” And I am. I might hold resentment toward Foster and how I come second to everything he does—I mean, graduating as summa cum laude couldn’t even compete with him signing to the NHL—but I love him.
Being his brother gives me the right to do both.
“Where’s Zach?” I ask.
“Trying to help Mom in the kitchen.”
“He never learns.”
Foster gets a teasing look. “And you told me he was smart.”
I jab him again.
Foster’s hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, and his stubble has grown in thicker. For twins, we’re not that much alike. My hair is longer and a bit lighter, and I generally stay clean-shaven, and while we’re the same height, Foster’s hockey career has made him way bigger than my lanky ass will ever be.
Zach, on the other hand, is the same as ever. Scrawny, big glasses, shaggy hair. And for some reason wearing one of Mom’s frilly aprons.
I laugh. “What’s this?”
“Nonnegotiable, apparently.” He leans down to check the vegetables in the oven, fogging up his glasses in the process. “Your mom said if I insisted on helping, it was required.”
“And how did you convince her to actually let you help? That’s happened all of never.”
“I simply reminded her that Foster is a terrible cook and someone will need to make sure he’s fed properly.” He drops his voice. “Now I’m scared she’s on a mission to teach me every recipe she knows.”
Foster hums and backs Zach up against the counter. “That apron looks sexy on you. We’ll take it upstairs later …”
I fake gag loudly, and Zach’s face floods red.
This. This is one of the many reasons I didn’t want them hooking up in the first place. The awkward third-wheel vibes I’m constantly surrounded by do nothing but make me feel even more out of place than I already do. “You know the rules. No talking about that shit when I’m around.”
“No one’s keeping you here,” Foster points out.
I flip him off.
“And I’ve never been great at following rules.” He kisses Zach’s head but thankfully steps away again.
“Tell me about this place you found,” I say, trying to steer the conversation to safer grounds.
“It’s great. One bedroom, view of the city. Only a few blocks from the arena.”
“Living the dream.”
Foster and Zach share a small smile. “I will be.”
Urg. Love. “It’s only a year,” I remind them.
The smile slides right off Zach’s face. “It feels like forever.”
“Yes, but you’re going to be busy this year anyway, so it’ll fly. You can call each other every day and drive up on breaks—”
“Seth,” Foster cuts in. “You’re meddling again. For someone who didn’t even want us together, you sure do work to keep it that way.”
I just want you to be happy. I don’t say that out loud though. My need to see the people I love happy apparently comes on a little strong sometimes.
It’s why I put on a happy face for them. They’re genuinely so sickeningly into each other that only a dickhead would try to get in their way. I wish I knew what it was like. To miss someone even when they’re right there within arm’s reach.
Mom and Dad join us, and we spend the evening eating the roast she’s cooked and sipping Dad’s gin. Zach gets the hiccups, and Dad wants to talk hockey.
“So, Seth,” Mom says, turning to me. “When do we finally get to meet Emma?”
Ah, fuck. This is why I need to keep my mouth shut about my relationships. Whenever I start dating someone, she always gets it out of me. “We, umm, we broke up.”
“Sweetie …”
“It’s fine. It was mutual.” Lies. “Besides, I’m starting my master’s this year, so I don’t really think I’ll have time to dedicate to a relationship.”
“If I can manage, I’m sure you could,” Zach says. I know he’s trying to mean it in a reassuring way, but this is another one of those instances where he’s oblivious. I’m lying, dude. Don’t unintentionally call me on it.
“Well, we’re not all geniuses like you,” I say. “I’m going to need to concentrate. I can worry about dating when I’m done.”
Or, you know, when I don’t completely scare my partners away by wanting to be around them.
I’m not fooling anyone though. Mom’s look of pity curls the disappointment in my gut even tighter.
I could tell them the real reason. Just come … out? But if it’s confusing in my head, I don’t have a chance in hell of telling my parents in a way that will make any sense.
“Oh hey, Mom and Dad, she actually broke up with me because we didn’t have enough sex” is not a comfortable conversation. Guys are meant to want sex. Always. No excuses. Foster came out to them as bi with no problems, but people know what bi is. Ace? Not so much. Gray ace? Demi? No chance. And without that, I’m what? Straight but maybe questioning? It’s a mess.