He glances at it. Sighs. Wipes his mouth with the napkin.
"Margot. I actually have to head downtown. Cohen pushed our meeting up."
"On a Sunday?"
"He thinks he's important. I have to humor him."
"Go, go. Take a sandwich for the road."
"Already wrapping it."
Bane gets up. Wraps a second sandwich in parchment. Drops a kiss on the top of Margot's head on his way past her. She smiles and I know she appreciates the gesture. Feeling loved–welcomed–embraced. Bane loves so easily and fully it’s hard not to want to be near him.
He gets to the door. Then turns back.
He looks at me for a beat. The smallest possible curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Be good, Maxie."
He leaves. The front door clicks shut. The kitchen, which was loud, is quieter.
Margot is rinsing her plate at the sink. Zero is finishing his apple. I am staring at my empty plate trying to figure out what to do with my entire body.
"I'm going to lie down for a bit," Margot says, drying her hands. "I think Liz exhausted me. You boys good?"
"We're good, Margot," Zero says.
"Max, sweetheart, drink some water. You're flushed again."
I clear my throat. "I will."
She kisses the top of my head on her way past and leaves the kitchen.
I sit at the island for one beat.
The bond between Zero and me is going so loud I can feel it under my ribs. The bond with Bane—now somewhere in a car on a highway—is a softer pulse, present but distant. The bond with Atlas, in another time zone, is the third low constant.
I'm hard in my shorts. Have been since the side yard. Through the sandwiches. Through every kind of mustard everybody wants. Through the corn pudding and the bakery joke and the iced tea and Zero's eyes on the side of my face for an entire meal.
And my cock… istheirfault.
They wound me up. They watched. They sat me down at an island in front of my mother and made me eat a sandwich with one of them three feet away whispering filth into my ear.
I want to be furious about it.
I can’t be.
The thing I am, that I’m still figuring out about myself is: that I am allowed towant. That wanting and asking are not the same thing and I have only ever really practiced the first one. That a year ago I would have gone upstairs and dealt with this in a shower with my forehead against the tile and never said a word to anyone about it, and that approach was, on consideration, not really working for me.
Bane is gone.
Zero ishere.
I look at the pitcher of iced tea sweating on the counter and I think, with a small clear voice that has not been in my head before:
Ask.
I'm up.
