Page 24 of Strange Lad

“Maybe if I was fifteen, I’d fit in your clothes, but not now.”

He thinks about that as he’s plating out what he wants, almost like he’s trying to remember me at that age. “Nah. You were still taller than me. The sweats would still be floods.”

Peeking up at me through his lashes, he smiles sweetly, and damn if it isn’t adorable. I force out a chuckle, then dish out my food.

We eat in comfortable silence that remains charged in a way it has never been before. His pretty brown eyes scan over me more often than not, so I make it a point to eat like I’m in prison. The last thing I need is for him to comment on how I eat again.

I can still feel a layer of tar over my body from earlier, the grime of trauma hard to wash away.

“How was work?” he asks casually and I drop my fork full of noodles. “Shit, was that the wrong thing to ask?”

I gulp, force myself to breathe, and grab my fork again. “It was fine.”

“Is your car still there?”

“Yup.”

He hums. “After we eat, I can drive you to get it.”

“No need. I’ll ask Manuel to pull it into the shop, and I’ll walk there tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping. It honestly makes me feel good.”

Sighing, I flick my eyes at him, and he squirms in his seat. What is going on with him? “Just…let me stay with you. Okay?”

“I can do that too,” he says in a rush, returning to shoveling.

Jorge is not a pretty eater. He eats with his whole body.

People would probably pay money to watch it. I guess the only thing he does that can be mildly distracting is the soft groans between exceptionally good bites, like when he eatspopcorn with jalapenos. He loves that combination so much he practically orgasms.

There are no soft groans right now, even though I know for a fact helovesthose glass noodles he’s slurping in between his puffy lips.

Deciding to change the subject, I ask, “How's the recording going?”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Devon is amonster.He keeps insisting my tracks aren’t matching up because I sang them wrong. I might have to re-record themall.” His bottom lip juts out in a pout. “And Lex is riding our asses to meet the deadline. The guy is a control freak. I don’t know why we let him be our manager.”

I chuckle, shaking my head and grabbing the can of Coke. “The songs are for the new album?”

“Half an album. Still need Phoenix to get his ass in the studio to record, but he’s been too busy playing with Eli’s penis,” he says with a wave of his hand and a dash of hurt. “And then we still need to come up with the other half. I can only do so much creativeness before my brain just fizzles into mush. I’m not theonlytalent.”

There was a time when all I wanted was to play music with my brother.

It was honestly perfect. With me and my guitar, him and his drums, we would jam out often before he started up Dreadful with Jorge. He even promised I could join the band once I graduated. But that was a long time ago, and I haven’t touched my guitar in eight years. I doubt I even remember how to play it.

“You miss him.” It’s not a question.

“Of course I do. But I get it; he’s got a boyfriend. No one likes a third wheel.” Jorge shrugs again, but I can see the flash of pain in his eyes, the slight raise of his shoulders.

“Is being my friend making it harder to be his?” I ask because I know it has to. When I asked Jorge to keep our friendship between us, I didn’t think he’d actually do it. He tells my brothereverything.But Jorge kept his word and hasn’t told a soul because of me. He kept his promise.

“Yes and no. I’ll always be there for him, you know? But… never mind.”

“What? Say it.”

He sighs heavily. “He misses you, Oli. And it sucks that I can’t tell him anything.”

I hate it when he does this. It’s the only thing I dislike about Jorge. His loyalty makes him guilty, and I’ve made him a fucking liar.

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