“What do you want to drink, Deck?” My dad popped our little bubble.
Decker stepped back, and I turned toward the stove to stir.
“Water’s fine. It smells great.”
“She’s been slaving away all day. Cheddar biscuits are in the oven, caramel brownies chilling in the fridge.”
“All my favorites.”
I didn’t turn around so they couldn’t see my face, which was surely the same color as my Hartwell sweatshirt.
“Do you need any help, slugger?” my dad asked.
Decker started to laugh but caught himself, coughing to disguise our inside joke.
“No, I’m good. Just relax.”
I’d have preferred them to go to the other room so I could get my bearings, but my dad told Decker to sit at the kitchen table.
I didn’t live with my dad. I’d opted for the dorms so I could make friends. I was there just for the meal.
They talked about school, Decker’s team, the rivalry between Hartwell and Kingsley.
“Have you and Foster reconnected?” my dad asked.
I’d wondered the same thing. I’d seen a few pictures they’d been tagged in together on social media. There were so many questions I wanted to ask about how it had gone and where they stood, but they were always smiling in the photos, so I assumed things were good between them.
“We have, and things are great. We hang out occasionally and talk a lot. Crazy how it all went down. And now he’s playing for you.” There was a lightness in Decker’s voice that I had never heard before when he talked about his twin brother.
“Rumors are he’s a hothead. I met with him last week, and I’m gonna be honest—I don’t mind his edge. He’s got that win-at-all-costs mentality.”
Decker laughed. “That’s Foster. Complete opposite of me.”
“I’m not sure about that. I think he just lets it out while you internalize everything.”
There were moments in my life when I was jealous of my dad’s relationship with Decker. They had become so close, and I wondered sometimes if Dad would have preferred a son. But I wasn’t going to magically grow a penis, and I wanted Decker to have a man who took on that fatherly role for him since his own father wasn’t in his life. So my jealousy faded quickly.
My dad’s phone rang, and he excused himself as I was about to say dinner was ready.
“Pen.” The sound of a chair scraping across the kitchen floor came from behind me. “Let me help you.”
I was mid-reach into the cabinet for the plates when Decker’s chest hit my back. “I’ll get them.”
But even after I dropped back to my heels and his hands were on the plates, he didn’t move. The longer we stood there, the more I wanted to turn around and look him in the eye. Would he still have that look in his eyes? That one that said I was more than a friend. Like there was a wordless conversation we’d been having for years because neither of us had the guts to say it out loud.
He eventually stepped back, and I opened a drawer for a spoon.
“Pen?”
“Yeah?” I kept my attention on the drawer, moving around utensils as though I couldn’t find the right one.
“You haven’t even looked at me yet.”
I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and let my gaze lift.
His hips rested against the opposite counter, arms crossed. Then his lips tipped up, and I gave myself the gift of one quick look, but the minute our eyes caught, relief flooded through me.
Decker was still looking at me as though I was his. My shoulders relaxed.
