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Jordan lets out an audible sigh.
“You okay, big guy?” I tussle his hair with my hand.
He smiles. “Yeah, weeks aren’t so bad.”
“I wasn’t done,” Dr. Bhakta says reluctantly. “It could be weeks, or months.” His eyes move away from Jordan and he looks at Mag. “Or years, I’m afraid.”
God. I think I can hear poor Jordan’s heart smashing in his chest like fallen glass.
We sit at the hospital for hours. Jordan never says anything to his unresponsive mom, but he never wants to leave the room either.
He won’t go to the cafeteria to eat, and when I offer to bring food up for him, he refuses.
If his bleeding weren’t totally invisible, I’m sure it would look like a crime scene.
“Jordan, we’re going to have to go soon,” I say, lowering my voice.
He nods like his head weighs a ton.
“If we went out for dinner, what’s a place you’d like?” Magnus asks, stepping up next to us.
“Hell if I know.” Jordan shrugs and sighs.
“I know you like pizza.” I smile at Mag. “I could go for a nice warm pizza tonight.”
“Where at?” Mag asks. “I know a place downtown.”
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I’m picking the place. We’re not doing fancy pizza.”
He snorts. “How can pizza be fancy?”
“Even his pizza’s fancy?” Jordan asks. “Jesus.”
Mag lifts an eyebrow. “Thanks, Brina.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I just meant you probably do something crazy like put imported pineapples on it.”
“Gross!” Jordan mutters.
Mag’s eyes dart around helplessly as he says, “Please, I’m a civilized man. I do not put fruit on my pizza.”
I fight back a smile.
“How ’bout Pizza Shack? The reviews are great and it’s tasty without being weird and experimental, but it’s a little bit of a drive.”
“Armstrong doesn’t mind,” Mag tells us.
The Pizza Shack is closer to my parents’ house than downtown, and the drive takes over half an hour. Mag makes a few awkward attempts to talk to Jordan on the way, but he doesn’t get more than one-word grunts back.
When he gives up at last, he places his hand over mine in the dark car.
I enjoy his touch, and my heart aches for him as hard as my body does.
He’s trying so hard. Jordan just isn’t giving in.
Stubbornness is definitely a Heron family trademark.
At Pizza Shack, we plop down in a teal-green booth with a big lamp hanging over our heads. The server comes for our drink orders and scurries off to grab them.
“Just like home! My parents used to bring me here once a week sometimes,” I say, inhaling the delicious scent of fresh baked pizza, garlic, and everything good in life. “They’ve still got the arcade, I see. Mom and I would team up on Dad and fight over tickets. I always got to choose what the tickets bought.” I laugh.
“I had play dates at the golf club so my dad could close deals with my friends’ parents,” Mag says, taking a long, irritated sip off his water.
I smile. It’s easy to see how he comes across as arrogant, ever the stuck-up suit, but that’s not who he is.
He’s kind and generous with Jordan and takes care of his employees.
When push comes to shove, he lets his inner asshole guard down, and a good man steps out.
“Howdy, folks, all set to order?” The server brings drinks to our booth and sets them down on the table.
Jordan looks at Mag, blinking like he’s unsure.
“Can we get a buffalo chicken pizza?” he asks.
Mag nods. “A large pepperoni and a large buffalo chicken pizza. Please.”
I’m beaming. He remembered the p-word.
“Chicago style?” she asks.
“Is there any other way to eat a pizza in this town?” I fire back.
“Not a sane one.” She scribbles our order down and disappears with a laugh.
“I’m glad you got pepperoni,” I say.
“Classic choice.” Mag smiles. “I had a feeling.”
“What, how?” I ask, tripping over my words.
“You strike me as a pepperoni kind of girl. Simple, plenty of heat, and...” He leans into my ear. “Utterly delicious.”
I tremble, pressing back into the booth, trying to hide how my face heats. From anyone else, it would almost sound lame, but from Magnus Heron?
I’m grinning like a fool.
“Pepperoni should be a nice contrast since Jordan likes fancy pizza,” he says, looking at his little brother.
“Dude. It’s just buffalo chicken on pizza. Two of my favorite things,” Jordan says.
“I like buffalo wings as much as the next guy,” Mag says. “But not on my pizza.”
“Yeah, well, you’re old,” Jordan grunts.
Mag’s eyebrows go up. His smirk could cut something.
“I’d like to think one foot in the grave is a long ways off, but I guess to a fourteen-year-old, I probably am old.” Mag picks up his cup and takes a drink like he has to rinse his mouth after saying that word.
Jordan stares at the arcade across the room.
“What’s your favorite game, Jordan?” I ask.
