Page 101 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

“Brandt…”

“Also,” he spins around, throwing his arms out wide. “Didn’t I say no strange men in my bed?”

What the hell…

I think my brother lost his mind in Colorado. That is the only explanation there is for this.

“One, it’s Milo, not strange. And two, we weren’t in your bed, we were in his.”

Brandt blanches, and I can almost see the bile rising in his throat. I also almost feel bad for making him want to puke. Almost. But not totally.

“Details I didn’t need,” he mutters, his anger returning. “How long has this been going on?”

“I thought you didn’t need details,” I quip.

“His sarcasm certainly rubbed off on you this summer.”

My blood starts to boil, my brother’s offhanded remark sounding more like a personal accusation. I will not let him spin this into a bad thing.

“You lied to me,” he continues. “When I asked you what that picture was. There was more to it, wasn’t there?”

Yes…

“Anton really did throw a peach at us. But…”

“But…”

“We’ve been seeing each other for most of the summer.”

“Most of the summer. So instead of going out and finding yourself or whatever hot-girl summer was about, you wandered across the apartment and decided to fuck the guy you found there?”

Low blow…

Brandt’s words cut like a knife, each one leaving a stinging that lingers in the silence. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes and I have to fight to keep them from falling. I won’t cry. I am stronger than that.

Pushing to my feet, I suck in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I walk toward the kitchen, giving myself a moment, wanting to make sure that when I do speak, my words are clear and not wobbly. Turning to face my brother, I look him in the eye, making sure he knows I mean business.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah? Then what was it like?”

Milo was there to help build me up in a way I didn’t know I needed…

“Not like that.”

“Right…”

I ball my fists, trying to find my words to explain. But they escape me. All summer long, whatever this is between Milo and me has been inexplicable. That’s been part of the joy. The sheer mystery behind it. The fact that there wasn’t a requirement for a definition. But now that I need to put words to it, that I need for it to have an explanation, I still can’t.

Actually, I can.

I know exactly what I feel about Milo. For Milo. However, that little—big—word is best said out loud for the first time to Milo. Not my big brother.

“He’s twelve years older than you,” Brandt says, starting to pace.

“I am aware.”

“And a bad idea.”