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I have three beers, Jordan actually joining me for one, though I know she prefers wine or a cocktail. Brooks shows up with groceries right as we settle down to work.
He grabs a beer, kisses his girl, and then proceeds to throw together enough food to feed an entire army, which means it’s barely enough for Brooks and me. We sit the three of us at the table, and while I glower at my beer and devour food, Jordan and Brooks talk about her classes and his art.
It’s so fucking cozy it kills me.
“You need to hit something?”
I look over at Brooks, noting that he and Jordan are both staring at me with amused expressions and raised eyebrows. “More like someone,” I say, giving him a look that says it could be him.
“Bring it, cripple.”
“Oh, stop, the both of you. Malcolm, is there anything else you want to change on the website?”
I struggle with the transition, working to focus on the screen of her Mac that she’s pushed toward me. The lines of the website are clean, like I asked. The logo Brooks worked up months ago is front and center, the silhouetted outline of a skater in mid-flight. Everything else is a buy link to gear.
“And you’re sure…about the brand name?”
I meet Jordan’s eyes, not sure if she’s being genuine or if she’s challenging me again. Christ, this girl looks sweet and demure, but that’s only the surface. Underneath she’s a ballbreaker.
“Yea, I’m sure.”
Brooks slides his eyes from me to Jordan, shaking his head and draining the last of his beer. “Game?” he asks me, clearing the table.
“Sure.” We take our dishes to the sink, cleaning up while Jordan stays at the dining room table and works on her own homework. She has on black-framed glasses that make her look ever the sexy scientist, and I roll my eyes when I catch Brooks eyeing her halfway through the game.
“Get a room,” I mumble.
“Oh, I plan on it.” Then he looks at me. “You straight?”
I look at the clock in the corner of the guide. Nine-thirty. It could be hours before Nala’s home. “Fine,” I say.
“You could tell her how you feel, so she stops going on dates.”
“And you could fuck off, so I don’t have to beat your ass,” I snap back.
Since the pretense of watching the game isn’t working and time seems to have started going backward, I drop my feet from the coffee table and stand, gritting my teeth against the twinge of pain when I put weight on my leg without the help of the cane.
“Don’t be a dumbass, Malcolm.”
“Christ, what are you yelling at me for now?” I hiss, hobbling—goddamn fucking leg—to the table and grabbing my keys and the cane. I hate that even the slight relief of pressure has the pain easing back.
Brooks stands up. “You know what.”
“Why me?” I shout, feeling like a toddler. “Why not her? Because I’m not the one going out on a date, she is. I’m not the one dressing up like a tart for some dickweed hipster who probably has a closet full of patterned shirts and skinny jeans.”
“Who the fuck cares what he wears?”
“I do,” I roar, chest heaving and fists clenching. “I do, because, goddammit, he’s not good enough for her. He’s not right for her.” He’s not me. I don’t say that, but we all know it’s what I’m thinking.
“No, he’s not,” Brooks agrees. “So get your ass in gear and stop pushing her at other people. Fucking tell her you want her and give her the chance to choose you instead of someone else.”
