Page 41 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

“We’ll take two waters?—”

“Diet Dr. Pepper,” Gen says, scrunching her brows at me in disdain.

“Sorry— one water and one diet Dr. Pepper.”

I can feel Gen smiling beside me, radiant in the afternoon sun, as we wait for the cart attendant to slide us our hotdogs and drinks. When he does, it’s to Gen, his gaze seeming to search her face for the magical element that has him staring so hard.

“Thank you so much,” she says, scooping up her meal as I grab mine, giving the guy a curt, but understanding smile.

The city’s busier than it was just a few weeks ago, the collective anticipation of the holiday season reverberating with every honk, every flash, every harsh halt of the brakes.

It has me on edge, looking both ways and then once again as we cross the street.

Gen is oblivious, it seems, arm looped in mine as she alternates between sips of her soda and the tiniest bites of her hot dog I’ve ever witnessed .

“I’ve never seen someone savor a hot dog with such…precision.”

She licks her lips, catching the mustard the managed to veer off route, and slides her gaze up to mine. Her eyes twinkle with mischief, like she’s imbuing what I said with a dirty meaning.

“I mean ,” I say, laughing, “that you take like, mouse bites.”

“My mom was crazy about eating slowly,” she shrugs, glancing at the empty wrapper in my hands.

“You, on the other hand, eat like someone’s going to steal your dinner.

” Her smirk is good natured, and I feel like shit when my own unwittingly dips into a frown.

“Oh my god. Someone probably has stolen your dinner. In foster care.” Her eyes go wide, the shock and apology palpable. “I’m so sorry.”

My laughter rumbles through me, her alarm so damn refreshing. “Just when I thought the memory of fightin’ over corn casserole was on its way out...” I press a grateful kiss on her forehead, feeling her relax. “It’s okay. It wasn’t usually that bad.”

“Have you talked to Sloane about Connie?”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about. I’m not going; she wants to—good for her, I guess.”

“But you think she’s making a mistake.”

It’s a statement, like she can read my mind, my intentions, my fears—all of it. And why shouldn’t I be worried? Sloane’s got this big, gaping wound, one our birth mother inflicted on both of us the day she left us but also from the years of leaving us over and over again.

“She always comes back,” is her argument. Always when she needs something is never part of it.

“She’s going to get hurt. Again. I don’t see why this time is going to be different. ”

Gen wraps her arms tighter around mine. “But maybe it will be, Grant. ”

“I stopped hopin’ a long time ago.” I say it more to myself than to her, like saying it out loud will make it true. But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel that tiny fucking kernel of it, embedded somewhere deep inside me.

We pause on the sidewalk, the display window of the children’s toy store reflecting the two us standing close, Gen looking up at me with a delicate hand cradling my jaw.

It’s the sincerity of it that makes me swallow against the pressure behind my eyes, and I feel my molars grind as I will the emotion back down.

“Well, Sloane’s on her own path.”

I huff, pulling her in at the waist. “Don’t I know it.”

She smiles softly up at me, her hazel eyes peering up at me through her lashes.

“What time do you have to be back?”

“Soon,” I say, resenting the fact that I have to leave her. That we ever have to be apart. “And you have to be at the studio by five.” I know her schedule like the back of my hand. We cross the street once more, the conservatory coming into sight.

“But I’ll see you at home?” she asks, like it’s the most normal phrase in the world. Home . And I know what she probably means: home as in Astor, as in that place we’ve both called home the past few years. But I can’t help but feel like she means us when she says it.

“Of course,” I tell her, capturing her lips in a kiss that reiterates my promise until she’s smiling against my mouth and me against hers. I lightly smack her spandex wrapped ass, the feel of her in my hand like a rush of dopamine.

She bites that lip of hers and I almost pull her back as she walks away.

The only thing that stops me is the lighthearted way she walks from me to the ballet, like we’re the only two things that could make her feel so buoyant.

Watching her walk away, watching the soft sway of her hips and the single curl that escaped her bun be swept up by the wind, dulls the pain still sitting in my chest.

I make my way back to my truck, and I’m not sure if it’s the endless brick of the city, or the mother I see clasping a little boy’s hand as they leave that toy store, or Gen asking me what I could be hoping for, but I realize I’m still thinking about my mother.

Eleven years ago

I slip my PSP in my pocket as the hostess comes to seat us at the table. It’s only me though—my mom’s in the bathroom.

“We should wait for—” I start to tell the hostess, but then I see her shuffling down the narrow aisles between the booths of the pizzeria.

“Your restrooms are disgusting,” she tells the teenager holding the menus. “Please tell your manager it’s barely usable.”

The hostess just nods, using mostly hand gestures to convey where we should be headed.

The bangles on my mom’s wrist clash against each other, and I’m sure people can hear us before they see us.

I battle the cringe I feel at the spectacle she tends to make, reminding myself how awesome it is that she wanted to see me today.

Sloane couldn’t come, which is kind of nice.

She’s at an art retreat with her new friend Clementine, and I hope it sticks.

Clemmy’s nice, and she seems normal enough.

Someone Sloane could definitely learn a thing or two from.

If Sloane was here, she’d steal the whole show anyway. I like that it’s just the two of us.

“So what are we getting? Two pies? One for me, one for you?” Her eyes sparkle conspiratorially, and I try not to smile too wide. “Get whatever you want, Grant.”

I rest back in the booth, slightly bouncing against the red leather cushion, scanning the menu.

“I kind of want a calzone,” I say, unsure if that’s okay because she mentioned pies. I feel my stomach bottom out as I wait for an answer.

“Your grandpappy loved a white pizza. It’s all we ever ordered as kids, all we were allowed to.

” Her gaze is lost in the oil and vinegar mixture she’s dipping her bread into.

“So now I never get it. But you can get it if you want.” She smiles up at me, my question having evaporated in the air as soon as it left my mouth.

“I don’t like white pizza,” I tell her, my smile small now.

“Me neither,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “You’re so much like me.”

When I look at her, I see Sloane. And we’re twins, so I guess I am like her in that way, too.

We have her hair, we have her height, and if I look close enough, I can see the way her mouth curves just like ours do.

Even so, when I look at her I can’t believe she carried us.

Made us. She feels so foreign to me, and I hate it.

“You’ve never told me about my grandpa.” I’d like to know about some of the men who came before me, especially since she’s made it clear that the man who made me isn’t worth the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

“Because he’s a piece of shit, that’s why. Never wants to help anyone but himself.” Her face turns sour as she sops up more oil on a wedge of baguette.

“He’s alive? ”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “How are you liking the Fielders?” Her face turns bright, her smile so different than the scowl she had just moments ago.

Beau and Evie decided it would be okay if we kept in contact with our mom, within reason.

This is the first time I’ve seen her in two years—our last home didn’t let us.

But the Fielders are different. I mean, they adopted us, so of course they are, but things are still rocky.

It’s cool they’re letting me be here to begin with.

“Uh… they’re really nice. We have our own rooms.” It’s a first for Sloane and I. Everything about life with the Fielders is so new; I keep feeling like I’ll wake up and it’ll have been a figment of my imagination.

My mom huffs a sardonic laugh, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Probably buying you all kinds of nice things.”

“I guess.”

“When did you say your sister would be back in town?”

“It’s a week retreat,” I tell her just as our server comes to take our order.

She nods at me. “Go on. Tell him what you want.”

“I’ll uh—” I peek down at the menu again, panicking, “I’ll take a pepperoni calzone.”

“I’ll take a margherita pizza, but box up three quarters and leave it under the lights.”

Our server smiles, takes the menus under his arm, and flits to the next table.

I’m sitting on my hands now, unsure of what to do with them now that the menus are gone. I look up at my mom, half expecting her to be watching me. I mean, I haven’t seen her in two years. She’s watching the door, and when I turn to see what she’s tracking, I find the doorway empty.

“How’s basketball?” Her smile feels genuine for the first time all day, and I’m so happy she remembers. The only things I still have from her are the Chicago Bulls shirt I must’ve been dropped off in, and the infant Nike’s I couldn’t have ever worn but were mine regardless.

“Good. The place we live has really good programs, and Beau wants me to talk to a friend of his who can get me on the right track…”