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Did I hate my stepbrother? Truly?
Did I hate myself even more?
Was this water just too cold?
It did what it had to do. My fight-or-flight instinct took over my body for a few heartbeats and redirected my blood flow into my head rather than my treacherous dick. And as my erection passed — I was too stubborn to let myself indulge when it wasn’t fully on my terms — I focused on showering.
My hair was darker and my eyelashes thicker and seemingly longer when I stepped out of the shower. Water dripped everywhere and I grabbed the edge of the sink to lean against. I felt weak. Weak in my muscles and in my soul.
I was a young man with a young man’s needs and urges. How would I survive these days with Jordan, out here, with nobody to witness my fucked up desires? How would I resist it when all I wanted was to fall on my knees and show him one thing I could do better than anyone? Because I could. He wouldn’t last a minute in my mouth. I knew it.
I knew it in my dreams and fancies.
When I looked at the mirror, it mocked me. The sneer on the face of my reflection begged to be shattered to pieces. I knew, for once in my life, what my choices were — what they had always been. I could want him, or I could hate him. There was nothing else. I had been shifting between the two since I had first laid my eyes on him.
And I wasn’t ready to decide.
I knew I couldn’t have him, so wanting him was useless. But I couldn’t give it up altogether. And for all the hate that filled me whenever he broke my heart in passing, Jordan had a sweetness to him, not just excellence.
I hurried into my room, naked, and picked out my clothes for the night. A pair of dark brown shorts that weren’t even knee-length and a Russian-collar hemp shirt a shade closer to beige than white. I rolled up my sleeves and concealed two-thirds of my skin behind the buttons, leaving my chest slightly bare. In the last year or so, I had accepted my body as it was. I even grew to like it. I would never be big and strong like Jordan, but plenty of people found beauty in a lither athletic figure like mine. I had also discovered that it was my Adonis complex that drove me to my dissatisfaction with my body, not any true lacking on my part.
When that looked fine, I slipped on three casual bracelets ranging between black and dark, leathery brown to my left wrist, and then strapped my wristwatch to my right. It reminded me of the time Jordan had informed me that wristwatches were worn on the left wrist, to which I had replied he could stuff himself because I wouldn’t justify my left-handedness to a smug prick.
I slipped on a pair of sandals with tight leather straps and soft soles. They were in the Greco-Roman style with straps reaching above my ankle and they were far superior to any old flip-flops. And when I ran my hand through my drying, naturally wavy hair, I realized I was dressing up to impress.
Fuck.
But the sound of cutlery from downstairs told me I didn’t have time to dress down, so I simply hurried downstairs to join Jordan for dinner. Not that it would be the first time he ate without me. Jordan always assumed the worst about me — like I wouldn’t join him — and he acted accordingly.
Tonight was either an exception or I was punctual. I passed into the dining room where the atmosphere was breathtakingly romantic. So much so that the hairs on my neck stood. What was he doing? What was he thinking? I frowned. “What’s all this?”
The table that normally seated six people was covered with a white tablecloth. The two chairs on each side of it had no purpose and nothing before them. There were scented candles with flickering flames in the middle of the table. A bottle of wine stood next to the big bowl of pasta Jordan had prepared. The colorful salad had bits of feta mixed with cucumber and cherry tomatoes. It was a full-blown dinner.
“Dad and Eileen must have left this after a romantic dinner or something,” he explained with a small shrug, looking at the candles rather than me. “I figured, what the hell, why not light them?”
“Oh.” Did I let disappointment enter my tone? I thought not. Silently, I walked to the far end side of the table and helped myself to a serving of Jordan’s pasta. His plate was already full. “And the wine?”
“It was on the booze shelf,” he said. “Want some? But only one glass. You’re twenty. I’m not getting you drunk.” I rolled my eyes and Jordan hesitated, then decided not to say anything else. He picked up the bottle, took off the wrapping, twisted in the corkscrew, and pulled the cork out with effortless ease. As I watched him, I realized how differently we perceived everything around us. I was dressed for a goddamn date and I hadn’t even realized it until it had been too late. Jordan was dressed for a quick bite with his annoying little stepbrother before he fired up the gaming console and zoned out. I saw the candles as this grand romantic message; Jordan lit them up because it was easier than removing them from the table. I saw his careful pouring of red wine as an aphrodisiac; Jordan probably just wanted to avoid a crimson splatter on the white tablecloth.
I slid my glass over to him and waited for my share of wine.
We ate in deafening silence. Every scrape and scratch of my fork against the plate was like an assault on my ears. Every mushy, soft chew of creamy sauce and pasta was embarrassingly loud. Every audible swallow made me want to fall through the ground. And when I washed it down with wine, my face only grew hotter. “This sucks,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” The obvious hurt on his face squeezed my heart.
“Not the food,” I corrected. “It’s very tasty.”
I only complicated the confusion by saying that. “Then what is it?”
“This awkwardness,” I said stiffly. “We lived in the same house for years. And we live in another one now. And we’re here in the middle of nowhere, stuck together…” I lost my train of thought. I scoffed and sighed. “It’s delicious.” The words were a surrender. His dinner was great and I should focus on that. I stabbed a shitake with my fork, dragged it through the sauce, and put it in my mouth. I lifted the napkin from the table, wiped the corner of my mouth, and then exhaled.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Jordan said. He was probably feeling like he was above all this shit. No surprise there. “Whatever I say, you just bark at me.”
“Bark?” I asked, eyes wide in surprise.
“There you go again,” Jordan said, his controlled voice cracking with annoyance. “You take everything the wrong way.”
“Maybe you’re the one saying everything the wrong way.” I looked up, but his gaze had already returned to his wine. He drank a little and ate again for a long while. I did, too. I chewed on the pasta and on my words. And when I finally looped back to the present moment, I had to surrender. “Maybe it’s both of us. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”
