Page 44 of The Other Brother

“You’d make a good hobbit,” I say, sliding back and adjusting my pillow against the headboard. “Actually, you do remind me a bit of Frodo Baggins.”

The dark curls. The large eyes. Although Cody’s cuter than Elijah Woods, but I don’t say that.

Cody smirks. “In that case, you can be Samwise Gamgee.”

“I’ll be Sam to your Frodo.” I mean to say it lightheartedly, but somehow the words are weighed down with layers of meaning.

The air crackles between us. He swallows, looking away.

“Although you need hairier feet if you’re going to be a hobbit.” I nudge his foot.

“Okay, I’ll get on to growing foot hair.” He keeps his foot resting up against mine.

Suddenly my whole awareness is centered on that slice of skin. As the movie progresses, I hardly see the elves and dwarves and orcs slaying each other. I’m too busy noticing how good it feels to have Cody’s skin pressing against my skin.

I’m aware it’s pathetic. I mean, they’re feet. They’re as far from the fun zone as you can get.

I nod off halfway through the third movie. I definitely remember watching Eowyn slaying the Witch-king, but after that it blacks out.

When I wake up, the first light of dawn is creeping through the windows. I turn my head.

Cody is facing me. He’s still asleep, his curls messed up. Even now, he has this serious, intense expression, with a line etched between his eyebrows like he’s solving global warming or world poverty in his sleep.

Two mornings in a row waking up next to Cody. It’s getting to be a habit.

I try to ignore the happiness thumping through me. And the urge to reach over and smooth the line on his forehead and brush the curls off his face.

Damn.

I scramble to get out of bed before I give in to my impulse to touch him.

Climbing out of bed disturbs Cody, because suddenly he’s sitting up, his face still crumpled from sleep, his curls sticking out in all directions.

“You want to go for an early surf?” I ask from the doorway.

“Yeah, definitely.”

Chapter11

The waves are dumpier today, which is good because I have to concentrate hard to catch a good ride. I want to focus only on surfing, let the spray of the surf and the salt and the sunlight fill my senses so I don’t have to think.

Cody’s struggling today, though. He curses as he falls off again.

“I just can’t find the right rhythm,” he complains. His hair is plastered to his skull, water slicking off his wetsuit. He walks a few steps to where I’m waiting for him so we can paddle back out together.

“Sometimes you’ve got to stop analyzing and just feel it,” I say.

“Feel the ocean?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Which maybe I have. It’s starting to feel that way, at least when it comes to Cody. But I still stumble on, struggling to find the right words so he can understand what I mean.

“Don’t you ever get that in music?” Another dumpy wave slams into us, trying to wrench our boards away. I tug mine back to me like it’s a disobedient pet. “Like, when you get to the point where you stop thinking about technique and worrying about being perfect and just go with your feelings?”

“Yeah, all the time,” Cody says as we brace for another wave. “I mean, you can be completely technically correct, but if you don’t get what the music is about, the feeling you’re trying to portray, then it comes out all robotic.”

“It’s the same out here. Stop worrying about getting it right. You’ve got to respond to the wave like its something living.”

“Something living?”