Page 95 of A Taste of Vanilla

No, no.

There are many large men in Baltimore. Many men with long black hair.

Many men who order black coffee and have tattoos and wear long sleeves in eighty-degree weather with one hundred percent humidity.

“Warren, this is Halston. I’m so happy you guys arefinallymeeting. It’s been long enough.”

His gaze moves from Marley to me.

And stops.

Every ounce of color drains from his face.

Not dramatically. He’s too controlled for that. But something in his expression goes still and sharp, as if the floor has vanished beneath him and he’s decided to not fall out of sheer stubbornness.

“Halston,” Marley says brightly, still unaware. “This is my brother.”

The man stares at me, and I can only stare back.

Marley looks between us, and her smile falters.

Warren. Halston. Names we probably should have exchanged before I had his lips on mine.

His mouth parts slightly. “Halston,” he says with a curt nod.

Somehow, I hate the way he says it… maybe because I want him to say it under different circumstances so badly.

“Warren,” I say.

Marley’s eyes narrow.

She turns toward me.

And then him.

And then back to me.

The paper bag in Warren’s hand crinkles.

No one moves.

The espresso machine hisses behind us.

Marley’s gaze drops to my pocket, where the edge of the note has betrayed me by sticking out.

Her face slowly changes.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

I close my eyes. “Marley?—”

“No.”

“It’s not?—”

“No.”

“I didn’t know.”