Page 53 of On the Line

So, not strangers then.

He rips his arm out of Ozzy’s grasp and sneers. “Fuck off.”

When he walks away from our booth, Ozzy jumps up, his fists tight, shoulders tensed. “I’ll be right back,” he mutters quickly before following the other guy outside.

Luckily, the large windows I’m facing allows me to inconspicuously spy on them while I sit in the booth and wonder how they know each other. Similar hair and height, familiar traits. Brother maybe? I vaguely remember him telling me about his siblings before. Their interaction seems heated.

The only times I ever see Ozzy this serious is in the middle of a busy service. But there’s a pained expression etched into the lines of his face that normally isn’t there. Despite the frustration written on his face, I can still see the care in his eyes.

They must be family.

Eventually, the younger one storms off, and I watch Ozzy let his head fall back toward the sky, his fist rubbingagainst his forehead. He smokes half a cigarette and then walks back in.

“Sorry about that,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me this time. Before having to ask, he adds, “That was my younger brother, Huxley.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s seventeen and always in trouble. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

I study Ozzy’s demeanor trying to gauge his mood before speaking. If anything he looks tense and distracted. “Does he still live with your parents?”

“My dad, yeah. And my other two siblings,” he answers carefully as if chewing on his answer. The silence between every word he speaks tells me he would rather leave this subject alone. He can barely match my gaze and I squirm in my seat not quite knowing what to do or say.

Thankfully, our food arrives not long after, releasing us from the awkward tension his brother created between us.

Ozzy perks up. “This is called a Portuguese breakfast.” His usual amusement is back in his eyes while he takes his time to explain everything on my plate, from the linguica sausage to the shrimp cake and my stomach rumbles at the sight.

“Looks delicious,” I say before taking my first bite.

“If it’s not, don’t tell me. You’ll hurt my feelings,” he says with a wink and I snort out a laugh.

We spend the rest of the time eating and chatting, the heavy topic of his family seemingly forgotten. Soon enough, he springs back to the flirty Ozzy I’m used to, and eventually slides back into the booth beside me on his way back from the bathroom.

“Where to next?” he says after he pays for the bill. I told him that friends should split the bill but the look of disguston his face told me that was one thing he wasn’t going to budge on.

“Well, I kind of need to go home. I should really change out of these clothes,” I say while looking down at my wrinkled dress.

I don’t necessarily want this to be the last of our little day together but all good things come to an end. Ozzy pulls me to my feet and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Your place it is, then.”

I must be giving him a look because he asks jokingly, “What? I’m not invited?”

“No. I mean, yes.” I regroup, trying to keep my stuttering to a minimum. “It’s just, we’ve spent the day together. Are you sure you’re not sick of me yet?” I add a little laugh at the end, hoping my insecurities aren’t too glaring. I guess I’m just not used to peoplechoosingto spend time with me. Not like this anyway. Like I’m the most important part of his day.

His gaze sears into mine as he places his hand on the small of my back, pulling me into his hips. “Oh Jimbo,” his voice low and dark, “Not even close.”

20

JAMES

It must be around five when we get to my place. Walking up the stairs to my apartment with Ozzy trailing behind me feels like walking through an echo of a memory. Of when Zachary helped me move in, his petty remarks still stuck in the corners of the halls like some kind of permanent cobwebs.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so quick to remember the past.

But it’s just the way I am. And I don’t think I’ll ever change.

Today, I choose not to dwell on the memory. Especially when the present looks, smells,feelslike Ozzy. I simply acknowledge it and continue to climb up the steps.

When I unlock the door, he strolls in, looking around, hands on the back of his hips, and whistles. “Reminds me of my first apartment.”

I cross my arms, a side-smirk on my lips. “That sounds like an insult.”

Ozzy barks a laugh. “Not at all.” He plops himself onthe ratty couch looking almost more comfortable here than I am—despite having lived here for months now. “Everyone needs to start somewhere. You’re just paying your dues.”

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