Page 73 of Charming Like Us

Heavy breath expels from us, but I cut it off first. Dropping my hold of him, I take a firmer seat on thefloorand back up from the couch.

He has to release his grip of my shirt.

The show.

We should talk about Charlie.

Jack battles the umpteenth yawn.

And in the quiet of my apartment, I tell him, “If you’re going to be following Charlie all day just like today, you need to start listening to my advice.” I rest my forearms on my bent knees, his shoe still in my hand. “When I tell you to take a nap in the car, you should actually take a nap.”

Grid-locked in traffic on the way to the library was the best time for Jack to catch up on sleep.

“I was trying to fix my quick release practically all day,” he explains. “And I never saw you nap.”

“Because I’m used to this.” I absentmindedly pass his shoe between my hands. “You need to also eat when you can. Even if you’re not hungry. When you are hungry, you might not actually have time to eat.”

He nods, looking deeper in me for answers to his bottomless pool of questions. He’s a filmmaker. He sees the subtext.

I care about your health, Highland.

I actually really care about you.

Why else would I be flinging pro-tips at him? I don’t personally benefit from Jack eating a granola bar.

But I must still be wary to put my heart on the line. Because I add, “I don’t need a casualty on my hands. And that’s what’s going to happen if your scrawny ass keeps forgetting to eat.”

“You keep saying that.” His lip rises as he leans back. “But I’m not scrawny.” He eyes the shoe in my hands, and I set it on the floor. “What were you like in high school?” he shoots out, and off my confusion, he adds, “Did you fail Geometry?”

“No, never failed a class. Neverskippedclass. I tried hard.” I laugh at myself. “I was a try-hard.”

“How come?” he wonders. “Did your parents pressure you or was it self-motivated?”

I muse playfully, “Highland asking all the interesting questions.”

“Comes with the—”

“Job,” I finish, “I knew that day one, bro. But it’s also a little part of you at this point, isn’t it?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, slowly and languidly. “Yeah, I can’t turn it off.” He smiles more at me.

“It was self-motivated,” I answer him. “The studying, the extra insurance I make it in an Ivy League and get an academic scholarship. I didn’t think boxing would really pan out for me, and I wanted something more mentally stimulating.”

Jack frowns. “But you went pro?”

“And I quit at eighteen. I wasn’t very good. Not like my little brother.” I stare off at the ground. “Thinking back, I just wish my parents had pushed Quinn and Joana towards school. But my parents—my dad most especially—valuephysicalprowessover mental aptitude. It was one of the reasons my brother randomly took up field hockey in high school just to get him off his back. My dad’s largely unimpressed by academic achievements, but if you have a nasty uppercut, he’d gift-bag you a dozen mortadella sandwiches, coxinhas, and invite you over for dinner like you’re family. And my mom’s coxinhas areheavenly.”

Jack lets out a breath, his smile flickering in and out. “I have so many questions. What’s a coxinha?”

His pronunciation ofcoxinhaisn’t perfect in this cute way, and it makes me grin. “It’s fried dough in a teardrop shape with shredded chicken inside. Quinn likes it with jackfruit instead of chicken. He’s—”

“Vegetarian,” Jack finishes. “I remember.”Right.“Mortadella? Isn’t that Italian sausage?”

“It is, but I grew up eating a lot of mortadella sandwiches in Philly. You take the meat—lots and lots of meat, add provolone, mayo, Dijon, all on sourdough.” Damn, my stomach is practically growling—I need to stop painting portraits of food.“They’re popular in São Paulo.” I think Jack knows it’s where my family is from, based on my tattoo.

The motto of São Paulo is inscribed in Latin across my collarbone.I am not led, I lead.

“Did your parents eat them in Brazil?” Jack asks.