Page 48 of Romeo vs Romeo

“He’s lucky you’re there for him,” I assured Roman.

He nodded, but it turned into a headshake halfway through. “I’m the lucky one. He’s…” And he smiled so brightly anduncontrollably that whatever words had been on the tip of his tongue became obsolete.

Roman and I discussed the upcoming Sunday brunch, and he promised to update the corkboard downstairs with Bradley. We had lined up events for our small rebellion like we were running a political campaign. Like Roman had said, it would be a blitzkrieg, or we would stand no chance.

When Roman stood to go, smiling shyly like a boy who was about to see his crush, my gaze darted to the many images of Thomas on my wall. “Oh, Roman?” I called softly after him, and he paused by the door. “Love him hard,” I said, resisting the temptation to give a speech. Those who would understand what it meant didn’t need more than three words I had spoken.

Roman said nothing, but the glint in his gray-green eyes told me he understood it perfectly.

Zain Rashid

The deliveries to Neon Nights doubled and tripled over the course of two weeks. As the October sky grew darker and more laden with clouds, and as autumn drizzle fogged our early mornings, my workload grew.

It wasn’t too bad.

I enjoyed the walk between Father’s store and Vivien’s bar. It was only a few streets away, and it never made sense to take the motorized cart out of the garage for what was a nice walk. Even if it meant hauling the crates of produce three times in a single morning with my trusted dolly.

On Friday morning, Father helped me pack the dolly high and urged me to take out the motor. I insisted I didn’t need it.He would expect me back sooner if I took it, and I liked catching a bit of an early break like this.

His calloused fingers pulled at his mustache after we had stacked the crates in front of the shop. A gust of cool wind picked up my jacket, and I yanked it back down, chills running up my spine. “Poor lady,” Father said. “And poor us when her orders dry up.”

For a moment, I was distracted by wondering if my father understood that the lady was a man. I wondered what he would make of that. For all the efforts he had made in learning the language and paying his fair share of taxes, I never knew how well my father had accepted the customs of his new home.

The worry that deepened the carved lines on my father’s face made fears worm their way into my heart.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “We have customers in all of Hudson Burrow.”

Father looked out for a heartbeat or two, his gaze a thousand miles long, and then looked at me. It was hard to miss the moment when he forced his worry away. “Of course we do, Zain. Of course we do. Don’t you worry about that.”

His words did nothing to soothe my anxiety.

“Off you go, boy,” Father said, tapping my shoulder before slipping back into the shop.

We worked six days per week. Father worked in the office behind the store, discussing orders with our supplier and our customers, and I worked at the cash register whenever I wasn’t delivering produce. Mother kept the books, and my little sister was getting into the habit of helping me with restocking the shelves or cleaning at the end of the day. But there were plenty of hours in the day when I could pick up a book from under the counter and read until I all but lost track of time. That was a joy you couldn’t buy with all the money in the world. That and a chance to stop by Neon Nights every morning to dropoff lettuce, tomatoes, onions, arugula, and all sorts of herbs for garnishing cocktails, plates, and dishes. The variety Neon Nights needed doubled since Tristan took over the kitchen and placed the orders himself.

I pushed the dolly down the street carefully as the crates rocked left and right. The last thing I wanted was to get there and have bruised tomatoes for the kitchen.

When I arrived, only Tristan and Bradley were inside, preparing the place to open in an hour. “Morning,” I called as I opened the door and dragged the dolly over the doorstep.

“There he is,” Bradley said lightly. I liked Bradley. He was always happy in the morning, no matter how cold or gloomy it was outside.

Tristan was rubbing his bleary eyes and mustered a smile. “Hey, Zain.”

“In a hurry again?” Bradley asked.

“Not really,” I said. It wasn’t exactly true, but Father didn’t need to know where all my minutes went. Especially when the streets were still deserted and all the work was finished. “Need help stacking these?” I asked Tristan.

His smile was brighter now. “Would you?”

I shrugged and got down to work, lifting two crates off the stack and carrying them through to where Tristan’s fridges stood along the wall. By the time we dusted our hands off, Bradley had mixed up a hot chocolate and set it on the bar. “You gotta have this now,” he said, his hands already busy polishing glasses.

“Thanks,” I said. Part of me that I could never completely shut down said that I shouldn’t use their kindness like this. Another part, however, desperately wanted hot chocolate on a chilly morning. “Are you preparing a party?” I asked.

Tristan returned from the kitchen with signed invoices and a pad on which he was noting something down.

Bradley replied, “You know it. Why don’t you come around for a drink?”

I didn’t need to think about it. “Gotta work late,” I said. “Besides, I don’t really drink.”

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