Page 27 of My Irresistible Enemy

Gabe’s face went from gently encouraging to gently understanding, which was way, way worse. It always made me feel like I was about eight years old and being a crybaby about something. The fact that I basicallywasbeing a crybaby right now was beside the point.

“You’re absolutely committed to being in LA?” he said.

I sighed. “Gabe.”

“I know, I know.” He held his hands up. “You want to be an actor, you’re determined to make it. I know that’s how you feel. I was just wondering if maybe you’d…consider reconsidering.”

“What exactly am I supposed to reconsider? What do you want me to do, just give up and go home to Mom and Dad?”

“God no.” He shuddered.

“Good. For a second I thought you were even crazier than I am.”

Gabe laughed. “Trust me, I would never suggest that. I just meant…well, you could stay here, couldn’t you?”

“Here?”

My eyes took in the scene around us—the cobblestoned streets, the two-hundred-year-old buildings, everything painted a pretty pastel. Old-fashioned, fake gaslight-style street lamps spread golden pools of light over the petunias that spilled out of the sidewalk cafe’s planters. Above it all, some kind of shorebird cried a clear, keening note.

“What’s so bad about here?” Gabe asked.

“It’s just so—” I broke off. I didn’t want to sound like I was shitting on his life here with Brooklyn. They’d both chosen to move to Summersea. They were happy.

“Boring?” Brooklyn offered, raising an eyebrow.

“Small,” I countered.

Gabe snorted. “That means boring, in Aiden-speak.”

“It’s nice,” I said. “I don’t mean that I don’t like it here. But it’s just, when I left Mom and Dad’s house, I promised myself I’d never end up somewhere that claustrophobic and backwards ever again.”

“It’s not that bad here,” Gabe said.

“I’m sorry, were you not listening when I told you about that crazy guy I met on the ferry?” I asked. “The one who told me I was going to hell for being gay?”

“We don’t even know if he was local,” Gabe objected. “And he’s just one guy. Besides, you were kind of baiting him.”

“I was not!”

“So you justhadto write about getting rawed by your beer-drinking, golf-watching stepdad and his poker buddies while this guy was sitting right next to you?”

“Okay, first of all, Stepdad Greg prefers hard cider to beer, and he watches NASCAR, not golf.”

“My mistake.”

“And second of all, no one made that guy look.” I made a face. “Anyway, I don’t think this is a conversation I want to have with my brother.”

“Oh,nowyou have boundaries.” Gabe chuckled. “You didn’t have any before, when you were giving me passwords to your porn accounts.”

“I was doing that out of brotherly love, out of my concern that you should be able to fully explore your sexuality and blossom into your truest self.” I gave him a dirty look. “You’re just trying to make fun of me.”

He grinned. “Maybe. But you can’t do anything about it. You still owe me—oweus—for putting our marriage all over the internet without our knowledge. Which means I get to make fun of you, and whatever you put on the internet aboutyourself, for, oh, let’s just say the rest of your life.”

“Keep it up, and I’ll start telling all my subscribers I have a stepbrother fantasy too,” I threatened.

Gabe’s eyes widened. “Eww. You wouldn’t.”

“You have no idea the depths to which I will sink if it means making you deeply, deeply uncomfortable,” I said with a grin.

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