Page 27 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)
HUXLEY
T he elevator doors ding open, and a blonde middle-aged woman with a chihuahua tucked into her large purse walks in.
She gives me a double take but says nothing, slowly turning to face the doors while Connie is barely keeping it together beside me.
She’s holding in her laugh, a small snort coming out from her nose.
I can barely manage to save face, either.
I’m soaking wet.
My jeans are now dark blue and sticking to my legs, seeping water into my boots drop by drop. Given my current predicament, we agreed to stop at my place before the Remington so I don’t freeze to death.
I didn’t stay in the shower for long, but I wish I could have stayed in forever, if only to exist in that happy feeling until I died. But I couldn’t excuse my absence from Whit for much longer, although the thought of playing hooky sounded much better than working.
Connie continues to snicker beside me, trying to keep silent, and my smile is so wide it’s hurting my cheeks. I’m vibrating with a feeling I can’t quite place; all I know is that it’s making me feel good, like really good.
I might not know what this all means for Connie, but right now, I don’t care. Sharing a private laugh with her in the elevator of a fancy hotel is good enough for me.
Following her through the lobby, I stop us before we reach the exit.
I grab her hand and pull her into my arms. Something tells me that as soon as we walk through those doors, the spell will be broken.
Whatever happened between us in her hotel room was a fluke, a bizarre shift into an alternative universe, and as soon as the icy cold air hits our skin, we’ll revert back to our old timeline. I just know it.
Her lashes flutter as she looks up at me, a smirk still on her flushed lips. I kiss her effortlessly and with no resistance. To the strangers passing us in the lobby, we’re a couple in love sharing a tender kiss.
I like the idea.
I like that idea very much.
The bell above the door clangs as I walk into my brother’s restaurant, Enter Sandwich.
It’s a quarter to six, and the place is full of young professionals grabbing a bite to eat on their way home from work.
I scan behind the counter for Ozzy but don’t see him yet, so I sit at a free table and text him that I’m here.
I’m not in the habit of visiting his restaurant out of the blue. But he called when I was still at the Remington today. Told me I hadn’t come by since they had changed the menu and that I should come try it out.
Ozzy’s always so eager for us to hang out.
Might as well get some free food out of it.
It might also have to do with the need to keep my mind occupied after the morning I had with Connie.
As predicted, things reverted back to casual friendliness almost instantly, and I’m trying not to let it sour the memory.
After a few minutes of waiting, Ozzy appears from the back, his usual smirk at the corner of his lip.
He might get on my nerves most of the time, but I can’t deny the brotherly resemblance.
Even down to the clothes we wear. Dickies and band tees.
Shitty stick and poke tattoos that make it look like we’ve never seen the inside of a professional tattoo shop before.
His keys jangle from his carabiner on his hip, and I unconsciously toy with mine.
“You made it,” he says, his smile widening. “Sorry, it took me a second. I was making you a sandwich.”
He slides a plate in front of me and the smell makes my mouth instantly water.
“What is it?” I ask as I force a disinterested look on my face.
Rotating the plate a full three-sixty, I pretend to inspect the sandwich, but it’s all a facade. I know exactly what this is: Sourdough bun, mortadella, melted provolone, Dijon, and mayonnaise.
“It’s your favorite,” Ozzy says casually, his elbow resting on the table as he sips a small cup of espresso. “Remember? From that small Italian deli near our old place.”
My heart unwillingly squeezes painfully at the childhood memory.
It’s an ache that feels too vaporous to locate and soothe.
It just haunts and haunts until it eventually dissipates if I ignore it for long enough.
I’m not sure I would have remembered that Italian deli myself if Ozzy hadn’t mentioned it.
Or placed the sandwich directly under my nose.
I don’t remember much from our childhood.
It’s like a black void, consuming anything that comes close to its orbit.
Good or bad, it doesn’t discriminate. But if I strain and concentrate hard enough, I can conjure up the memory.
It’s frustratingly vague but somehow also feels extra bright.
Like a single ray of light poking through a cloudy day.
Like one impossibly small positive amongst the total mess we had to live through.
I toy with my tongue ring absently, staring at the sandwich. He even served it with a side of plain potato chips, just how I like it.
“Is this off-menu?” I ask, not knowing how to show my gratitude.
The feeling is uncomfortable, like a pair of boots two sizes too small. I distract myself by lifting the bun and shoving a few chips into the sandwich.
He shakes his head and grins. “It’s from the new menu. I called it the Huxley.”
I’m hit with another disarming emotion. Love dipped in glass shards. It hurts. But I also desperately crave it.
I snort, grinning from the corner of my lip, trying to cover my actual reaction. “You’re so fucking cheesy.”
I take a bite of the sandwich, and I’m suddenly transported back to the Italian deli.
Barely seven years old. Back when one single afternoon felt like a lifetime. Ozzy felt so old to me back then. Like an adult, when he was just a teenager.
Ozzy’s eyes shimmer as he takes another sip of espresso. And maybe it’s the happiness that I constantly see in his gaze that makes me hate him. Jealousy so profound for how his life turned out that I can hardly put it into words.
“You like it?”
I take another bite and nod. Fuck, it’s good.
“You know,” I muse after swallowing my bite and placing the sandwich back on the plate. “That Italian deli is pretty hazy, but I do remember you never getting anything anytime we went. You’d always just take a few bites of my sandwich.”
Ozzy laughs, but it’s a sardonic kind of sound. He slowly smoothes his hand over the bottom half of his face, his gaze distant as if recalling something. His eyes then flick to mine. His expression is friendly but I can see behind the bullshit.
I don’t think I’ll like what he’s about to say.
“I never had enough for two sandwiches. That was your treat, not mine.”
The jagged, broken feeling returns. This time, it slices straight through my heart, and vague anger wafts in like a hot breeze on an equally hot day. This time, the anger isn’t directed at my brother like it usually is, just at … life.
At the injustice of it all.
My voice cracks when I speak. “You never told me that.”
Ozzy studies me for a few seconds, then presses his lips together and shrugs.
“I didn’t tell you a lot of things. You were just a kid, Hux.” His gaze turns mournful while his index finger taps idly on the linoleum table. “I was trying my best to keep it that way.”
I stare at my older brother. Nine years separating us. I stare at him long enough for all of our miserable childhood to pass us by. Somehow, I feel like a failure, and I don’t even know why .
I want to run out the door. I want to spit on Ozzy’s stupid fucking sandwich and flip the table over. Instead, I sigh and take another bite of the sandwich, our silence speaking volumes.
Then I surprise us both. It’s as if our exchange stirred something deep in me, and the words pour out of my mouth before I can convince myself how stupid the question is.
“Do you still have the contact for that therapist?”
Ozzy jolts as if I just confessed to murder, but he recovers quickly. He smooths his shocked expression into one of nonchalance and smiles.
“Yeah, of course I do.”
I can tell he wants to press the issue. Probably ask me why now? But I’m relieved he’s still treating me like an easily spooked dog because I wouldn’t have an answer.
Only maybe …
This constant suffocating anger is getting old.
Maybe aiming for a better version of myself isn’t a bad idea after all.
“Send it to me?”
Ozzy smiles warmly and nods.
I return to my sandwich.