Page 9 of Wallflower
“Food shouldn’t take long,” he says as he moves through the empty space with its vaulted ceilings and stacks of tables and chairs pushed up against the walls.
One side of the room is made up entirely of tall glass doors that open up onto a balcony looking over the vines. There’s a single long table set up on this side of the glass with a few chairs around it. Dylan walks straight to it, takes a seat, and kicks out another chair as an invitation for me to join him.
Dylan’s five years younger than me, and he was only thirteen when I was drafted to Tampa, so we didn’t always have a conventional brother relationship. But in those days, Mom and Dad were still around to bring him to games, and I came home every summer back then, so we were close enough.
He’s not as tall or broad as I am, his brown hair is a little lighter than mine, and his bright blue eyes are much warmer, but nobody would doubt that we’re related. Dylan was such a goofball as a kid, and he kind of reminded me of a puppy, but all that changed when he became a father. He was only twenty-three years old and not in a serious relationship with Izzy’s mother then or now, but raising his daughter full-time forced him to grow up damn quick.
I drop into the seat, stretch out my legs, and cross my arms over my chest. Dylan cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head.
“You sneaky son of a bitch. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
I shoot that eyebrow right back at him. “Why do you think?”
Dylan winces before passing a hand over his jaw. “Charlie.”
“Who said you can’t be smart and beautiful?”
“Fuck off. I’m smart enough to know that surprising her like this is going to be worse for you than giving her a little warning.”
“And I’m smart enough to know that this way, she didn’t have time to change the locks.”
He laughs, but it’s short and shallow. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“She would.”
He’s saved from pretending he disagrees when a server comes in bringing us breakfast. I fall on the plate the moment it hits the table.
“Slow down, bro.” Dylan watches me with horror that may actually be genuine. “That’s fine food you’re shoveling in right now. Savor it.Appreciateit.”
“Huh?” I glance at Dylan and then back at my half-demolished meal. “It’s eggs and sausage. Bit of toast. Some other stuff.” I poke at the things I don’t recognize. Whatever they are, it’s all delicious, and I scoop another forkful into my mouth.
Dylan uses his knife to give me a tour of the plate. “Poached eggs and house-made sujuk. Potato and corn fritters.Pumpkin hummus. Capsicum and chili chutney. Garlic labneh. Microherbs. Grilled sourdough baked fresh this morning.”
I follow along, wishing he’d shut up and let me eat, and he takes one look at me and rolls his eyes. “Next time I’ll get you a bib and a pail.”
“Sounds good,” I say around another mouthful of sausage. I meansujuk.
“But seriously.” Dylan spares me a sidelong look as he cuts into his breakfast. “What are you doing here? How long are you going to stay?”
I stick my hand in my pocket, pull out Izzy’s invitation to family game night, and smack it onto the table without a word. Dylan’s brows draw down as he picks it up, but after a cursory scan, he shakes his head with a small smile and sets it down again.
“She didn’t tell me she was doing that.”
“She didn’t?” A stab of disappointment takes me by surprise. Part of me thought the invitation might be from Dylan, too—maybe even Charlie—but it seemed that my niece was operating alone. “How’d she find my address?”
“No fucking clue. That kid runs circles around me, Chord. I’m terrified of what the next ten years are going to do to me.”
I smirk. Better him than me.
“How is the little punk? I miss her.”
“She’s great. Murdered kindergarten, but we knew she would. I’m talking to her mother about the possibility of getting her tested for giftedness, but I don’t know. Something about it feels weird.”
“In what way?”
“Shouldn’t a kid get a shot at a normal childhood? Izzy is bright—like, off-the-charts smart—but she’s a lot of other things too. I don’t want her to be defined by the one thing she happens to be good at and lose touch with everything else.”
I don’t notice my fork has stalled halfway to my open mouth until Dylan looks away with a sheepish grimace. I lower my hand and frown at the way my heart starts beating harder.
