Page 200 of Broken Brothers

“Chicago?” I wrote back, trying to be lighthearted. “You went somewhere colder than New York right now? Are you secretly a polar bear?”

I then sent her a GIF of a polar bear shivering, hoping to keep things lighthearted enough to draw a laugh from her.

Instead, I just got “Yeah, it’s a bit cold.”

She was definitely being distant. She was definitely not as engaged as she had been on Friday. Had I… had I pushed her away just like that? Was karma really on me for Sarah Hill?

Or, fuck, had Layla created a fake email for Sarah?

It only sounded ridiculous when my background and story wasn’t taken into consideration. I’d seen too much shit go down for me to dismiss the idea so quickly.

Still, regardless of whether it was all made up or if she had orchestrated a plan to test my fealty to her, I decided I wasn’t going to press her on the issue. I didn’t need to be texting her such questions while feeling like the old 12 year old; I needed to be seeing when she’d be back so I could see her and Sarah shortly apart. There wasn’t a much better way to determine which I liked more or which I needed more than that.

“For sure. When do you get back?” I wrote.

This time, not wanting to seem like I was on my phone all the time, I put it in my pocket and ignored the buzzing that came within a minute. This was already a sign that agreeing to Sarah had fucked with my head; I never played by these silly rules of who texts who and when. And yet, here I was…

I couldn’t help myself after about five minutes, though. I pulled out my phone.

“Thursday.”

OK, so it’s soon. It’s not “never, because I’m moving here.” She’s still distant and there’s still something going on. But you can see her before you see Sarah. And if it goes great? Then you can cancel with Sarah or keep it very short and strictly platonic.

If you’re able to control the preteen inside of you that needs that validation, that is.

I immediately wrote back.

“Can I see you when you get back? Or maybe on Friday?”

This time, I didn’t put my phone away on some guise of needing space or to not look desperate. There was no reason to, either, because the bubble showing that Layla was texting had popped up.

“Yes please,” she wrote, along with about three different facial emojis.

I actually laughed when I saw that. I had read way too much into it. The twelve year old had gotten nervous and didn’t know how to handle it, but there wasn’t anything he had to handle. He had just had to make a move to ask her out, and then the rest would fall into place accordingly.

“Sounds like a delight,” I wrote with a kissing emoji, feeling uplifted by her response.

She simply sent back a blushing emoji, which was the perfect cap to our conversation.

Things wouldn’t be so bad after all. I’d get to see Layla again, I’d be more assertive and aggressive in what I wanted, and then I’d get to satiate the young kid inside of me while moving on as an adult quickly.

That was the best case scenario, at least.

81

Iheaded home at that point when I got a text from someone else with something very unexpected, something actually a little sad.

“Hey, can you meet me for dinner,” Morgan had written. “It’s about Edwin. He’s falling ill.”

I couldn’t pretend to have the slightest bit of sympathy for the old man. Though I would never wish illness or death upon anyone, that didn’t mean I had to feel sorry for them when such a thing happened. Right now, that’s how I felt about Edwin—it was sad that he had fallen ill, but for the kind of person he was, for the way he treated me, I really couldn’t have given a shit that he was sick.

I did, however, give a shit that Morgan seemed affected by it. I could practically hear and feel his pain through the text message, and even though I could have made dinner given the lack of plans in my day, there was little doubt that I was going to make this dinner for him.

“Of course, you let me know time and place and I’ll be there.”

Morgan responded shortly after with a quiet steakhouse about five blocks from my house about four hours from then.

When I arrived at the steakhouse, I’d actually made the effort to dress up a little bit. I hadn’t thrown on a tie—I was sick of ties and could do without ever have to wear one again—but I had thrown on slacks and a button-down shirt. I saw Morgan sitting at the table already, his eyes cast down, his gaze distant, and his hands in his lap.