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A frown flickers on his brow.
At that moment, there’s a knock at the door, and then Damon appears. He’s wearing a headband with a piece of wire that supports a golden halo. It sits at an angle, as if it’s slipped.
“Wondered where you both were,” he says, coming in. “I’m supposed to tell you they’re going to do Secret Santa soon.”
I gesture at his halo. “Really?”
“I’m a fallen angel.” He sits beside Saxon. The three of us are alike in many ways, different in others. We look very similar. Damon’s a younger, beefier version of Saxon and me—not so many lines at the corner of his eyes, a bit more energy, an inch taller, a tad heavier. But whereas Saxon and I are fairly similar in character, Damon is more irreverent, some would say cocky, impatient, easily bored, and yet brilliant for all that, both in his work and his painting. When he settles down, he’s going to be truly exceptional.
“Why are angels difficult to understand?” I ask. When Damon shrugs, I say, “Because they’re obtuse.”
He frowns. “I don’t get it.”
“He means angles,” Saxon explains.
“Oh yeah,” I say, “sorry.”
Damon snorts. “Fucking double act.”
I chuckle, then sit back and study him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.”
“Do we ever make you feel excluded?”
“What?” He looks from me to Saxon, who just lifts his eyebrows. Damon looks back at me. “What’s this about?”
“Chloe told him that Craig feels it’s us three against him,” Saxon says, “and that he’s jealous of our relationship.” He gestures from himself to me.
“She said it’s one reason why Lesley left,” I add.
Damon’s smile fades. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Do we? Make you feel excluded?”
He gives a short laugh. “No.”
“Really?”
“No. I mean, you’re close, but then you’re twins. You’ve never made me feel like you were shutting me out, even when we were kids. You’ve always made me feel included. Always been there for me. You’re great brothers.”
Saxon looks from him to me and smiles.
“Most women misunderstand the way men think,” Damon continues. “They assume we’re the same as them, constantly analyzing the relationship. They don’t get that when we’re quiet, we’re not thinking deep, meaningful stuff—we’re usually thinking about sport or sex.”
“Or food,” Saxon adds.
“Or food,” Damon agrees. “Lesley probably mistook your reticence for secrecy and thought you were hiding things from her, and assumed you shared those secrets with someone else. And Craig said he’s jealous? What a cunt.”
Saxon and I both laugh.
“Are we done?” Damon asks. “Are we going to braid each other’s hair now?
“Go on,” I say good-naturedly, “fuck off.”
He gets to his feet and walks out. We hear him say, “Marion, I’m standing under the mistletoe, and I want to kiss someone.”
“Damon Chevalier, I’m old enough to be your mother,” she scolds. “Find someone your own age.”
