Page 27 of The Wrong Brother

I grab my backpack but turn after a few steps, watching her work. She’s long and willowy, her movements graceful. She looks cute as fuck in her little cutoffs and baggy old man cardigan. She pulls her hair up, knotting it on top of her head, before shrugging off her sweater. I want to kiss a path down the long line of her neck, slide my hands over her curves, hold her against me, and drink her in. What I need to do is shower before she catches me staring and wonders what the hell is wrong with me. Before I get undressed I check the schedule I have saved in the notes app. I only have to get to Nu‘uanu tonight and it’s in the back with its own entrance so I don’t have to rush or worry about disturbing anyone. I can hang out with Catherine for a little while. If she wants to, that is.

When I make it back to the kitchen, Catherine is busily stirring something on the stovetop. There are already two bowls on the countertop next to her and an empty cutting board.

“Something smells good!” I stand next to her, selecting a knife and slicing up the cabbage she left next to the cutting board.

“Let’s hope so. Would you toss kale into these chickpeas while I check the oven?”

I like the easy rhythm we have. Some of that is probably from the years of helping our mothers cook, our combined families spending more weekends together than not. She pulls a pan out of the oven with roasted chunks of sweet potato and thickly sliced red onion. I pull the skillet off of the heat before the kale gets too wilted and she moves around me, her hand on my back as she grabs a spatula. Every touch from her shoots through me like fireworks. She spoons brown rice into the bottom of our bowls, then divides the roasted vegetables and chickpea mix between them before adding the cabbage. She drizzles some kind of sauce over the top and I grab forks and seltzer water.

“Do you want to eat in the living room? We could watch something.”

I nod and we get comfortable on her couch. Catherine is scrolling through streaming options so I dig into my dinner.

“This is killah,” I rudely mumble with my mouth full, the combined textures and flavors delicious.

“Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. I would eat this all the time.” I’m watching her, not the tv, and hear as she starts and immediately pauses something.

“I’m so glad you like it.” She turns towards me, remote in hand. “We’ve reached the first major test of our relationship, Raff.” She blushes, I’m assuming from trying out the nickname. I don’t know how she feels about it but I’d like anything she calls me. “If you don’t like this, it could spell the end.”

She presses play and sits next to me as the opening sequence ofDirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agencybegins.

“I’ve been wanting to see this. I enjoyed the books,” I admit.

“I knew there were books, but I haven’t read them.”

“You should fix that. Why don’t you read that and recommend something you like for me to read.”

“Couple book club!” She puts out her hand and I slap her palm. There are a lot of things we’re doing that don’t have much to do with the appearance of a relationship for the engagement party. I’m worried that I’ll get too invested and the charade ending will eviscerate me. I know I should protect myself but I’m not capable. I want anything Catherine will give me, regardless of how much it will hurt later. The only silver lining is that it’s Catherine—I won’t lose her completely but I’ll have to go back to liking her from afar. It is possible that, at the very least, we’ll end with a closer friendship. I can hope.

We finish the episode and pause to clean up the dinner dishes. The show is absurd and strange and hilarious. I love it. Catherine washes the dishes so I clean off the stovetop, counters, and coffee table. She finishes up and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.

“You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.”

“You fed me, it was the least I could do.”

“Do you want to watch another one?”

“Definitely.”

She grabs the remote and then drops it again, crouching down in front of a basket tucked under the side table.

“I forgot! I made you something.”

“You made something? For me?”

“I thought you could put it on your backpack. Unless that’s dumb. Then feel free to pretend that you like it and shove it somewhere out of sight.” Her tone is light and joking but her face shows a glimmer of self-consciousness that I want to kiss away.

She hands me what looks like a fabric patch. It has a bold “H. F.” in the center in block letters. Around the outside are different types of flowers in vibrant colors: plumeria, hibiscus, pikake, and heliconia. All favorites of our moms, plentiful around both houses. At the bottom, in a small pretty font is “R & C.” She’s watching me study it, looking nervous.

“You made this?” I run my fingers over the delicate stitching.

She worries her lip with her teeth. “Do you like it? It’s for Hug Friends—like our own special club.”

I lay it carefully on the arm of the couch, smoothing it down with my hand before scooting closer to her and wrapping my arms around her.

“I love it. Thank you, Catherine.” All I want to do is turn my face and kiss her. I want to hold her and let the kiss deepen, tasting her and losing track of everything but how she feels. We don’t have an audience, though, and I’ve pushed that a bit tonight. Then there’s the patch. A beautiful, thoughtfully crafted reminder of what we are and what this is. Friends. I settle for a lingering hug before sitting back and holding both her hands, smoothing my thumbs over them. For a moment I think she’s going to lean forward, but I can see her think better of it and sit back.

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