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“He wants to write an epic,” Jet says, putting down the knife, grinning. “He thinks he has to write something like the ancient history he’s obsessed with. I keep telling him real life doesn’t always end with a bang.”
“Ancient history is real,” Joel mutters, frowning. “Babylonia. Assyria. They existed. It wasn’t a video game.”
“Assyria,” I mutter.
“Yeah.”
“And Babylonia.”
“I’m particularly interested in the reign of Ashurbanipal, as a matter of fact, but anything of that period fascinates me.”
“Ashurbanipal.” Oh, baby, keep talking dirty to me.
And I should probably stop randomly repeating words he says.
“You were serious,” I whisper. “You’re interested in ancient history.” It wasn’t a come-on line. It was real.
He rubs his chin. “I took history in college. I like that stuff. Better than fantasy.” He pulls a chair back and holds my gaze with his glittering one. “Dinner is served.”
“I’m more of a Middle Ages fan myself,” I hear my voice saying as I cross to the table and take my seat. “I love the epics. Beowulf. The Edda. The Song of Roland.”
“You li
ke history?” he asks, sounding pleased. “What did you study?”
“Still studying,” I mutter, and it’s my turn to blush. “Comparative literature.”
“No way.”
I wait for him to add two and two, realize we went to college together—well, that we were on the same campus, anyway, that I was one of the girls who ogled him on a daily basis, but he turns and drags Jet to the table.
“Who will say Grace?” Jet grins at Joel as he takes his seat, the plate of chopped bananas in front of him. He steals one, right before Joel smacks his hand.
“Grace,” Joel says and pushes the pancakes toward us. “Now eat.”
Chapter Fourteen
JOEL
I give Jet a hand up from the wrestling mat. “Had enough?”
“Screw you.” He groans as he climbs back to his feet. He’s been out of sorts lately. Falling on his ass three times in a row is unusual for him these days.
“I’ve got your back,” I tell him, not entirely sure what has stressed him out, but the quick, grateful look he sends me tells me it was what he needed to hear. “Come on. Loser buys the drinks.”
Seeing Jet shovel food into his mouth eases the knot of worry in my chest. The thought that he was feeling so shitty he let Candy drive him here, that he didn’t want to tell me… it burns. I want to be there for him, always, like the family he doesn’t have anymore. The family he never really had, if what he’s told me of his parents is true.
Say all you want about my stupid, closed-minded parents, but they fed me and clothed me and held my hand to cross the street when I was little. Although Jet rarely speaks of his own parents, I doubt he had any of that.
But he has me.
I check his face for any sign of discomfort as I gather the dirty dishes and dump them into the sink to wash later. I watch him like a hawk for any dizziness as he gets up, collecting the silverware. He looks better than he did when he woke up, for sure. There’s color in his cheeks, and he’s steady on his feet.
He chuckles at something Candy says, and I watch the easy way with which she touches him and makes him laugh. She’s a sight for sore eyes—gold and cream and rounded curves, a cheeky smile that lights up her brown eyes. And the glasses.
Can’t forget those nerdy glasses.
The way she slept in Jet’s arms. The way he was curled around her, more relaxed than I’ve seen him in ages. She made her choice, I guess. A good choice, too.
